Cursing Louder Than a Northern Gale

I was directed to write a love letter to myself by my wildly loving friend, J Clement Wall. My initial thought was “how romantic, a love letter to Leah”. But then I felt the unction of resistance, that inner speed bump, which slows down forward motion, and I knew that I wouldn’t write the letter because it required a generous portion of bigness toward one’s self that I was pretty sure I didn’t possess. So I put off the assignment indefinitely.

As it turns out, I have a stack of untouched assignments issued by homespun sages, and as much as I admire these gentle troubadours, I sometimes feel a bit of intimidation by their bright-eyed bullet lists containing the secrets of life from the lates and the greats. I’m cynical of their pastel outlooks, such Monet hearts, and then there’s mine, mucked up and muddy from all my fall downs, tramping along with my broken toe cursing louder than a northern gale, measuring myself against all that isn’t me and feeling the small of it.

It’s the familiar cycle of self abandonment

that I move in and out of

and it hurts more than the toe, or the stretch and yawn into each long day, because I’m not really here. I’m not anywhere. I’m tucked away within the folds of forgetfulness, waiting for the courage to fly back to myself.

So, I’ve decided to go ahead and write that love letter because I could really use one right now, and with Valentine’s Day nearing I figured what a perfect set up for me-mance.

Yes, this is for me.

So here goes.

My Dearest Self,
First I’d like to say that I feel I owe you an enormous apology. I’m sorry for abandoning you when you were a little girl and that you've had to struggle with this self-abandonment issue your entire life. I underestimated the powerful connection between you and you--that big U within. I left you fluttering like a baby moth, banging into the low glow of this shabby world, and injuring your delicate wings. My looking away cost you your ability to fly, and forced you to walk barefoot across the dirty asphalt of your childhood. I wish I could have remembered who you were back then, but the pain was real, and the darkness of the journey unexpected.

You were a real hero (although you didn’t realize it). No matter how many times you got knocked down, you found a way to get back onto your feet. You faced the unlovely with an open heart, and even forgave the ones with weapons. You remained kind, which is the best type of miracle of all, offering what little you had to those who had less. If only you had offered the same generous love to yourself. I see now that it was your mother’s gift for alchemy that helped to cultivate your richness of soul. She was also a hero, but like you, she never learned to spread her wings.

You still are my hero.

I need to tell you how much I love you, and even though I sometimes pick on you, and underestimate your talents, I never doubt your ability to do great loving things.

Since you were a child you’ve desired a slow-dance intimacy with life, seeking a love powerful enough to lift you into the heavens where the stars sparkle with joy at the sight of you. My wish for you is the redemption of this divine romance--that you lose your cynicism, and look within, where you will discover that the one who steals your breath away with each kiss is always present…always you.

I wish for you to uncover the treasure of unconditioned authenticity; the putting away of the measuring stick, the better and worse, and see that every inch of you is the perfect “enough”.

I wish for you to step out of the tiny--that box, which was designed by your fears, and realize the dreams that have been nesting in your heart, those golden eggs you’ve been tending for years, are about ready to hatch.

And finally, I wish for you to never forget who you really are…
that you were created from stardust and love
believe the rumors of your greatness--and how much I absolutely adore you.

Happy Valentine’s Day,

Love,
Leah

Eating Life Raw

Life is a messy thing, sometimes slapping me in the face with a wet hand (dripping with suspicious fluids), kissing me on the neck while I’m scrubbing grimy pots and pans, and ignoring me when I need attention the most. Sounds much like my husband, although he has never slapped me in the face.
Yes, life is a daily crap shoot with the odds being about even for fate to dole out grins or grimaces. Each day I rise to an inner dialog that goes something like this: “I have to get up. What for? Coffee. Yes, Coffee. Coffee and I have to go pee. Wasn’t there something I was looking forward to today? (Long mental silence) Nope. Arg!”
I then haul my vulnerable butt out of bed and let life have its way with me.
Television makes life seem too pretty. Like life is supposed to be served up on a fancy dinner cart, pushed room service style up to my bed. Silver domed lids protect each gourmet entrée, and crystal goblets wait, thirsty for the red wine that is currently soaking in an ice bath, and breathing with ease. The last time I breathed with ease I was being slapped on the ass by my mother’s gynecologist.
In reality, life is more like one of those survival shows. It must be pursued and hunted, like wild game in a dense forest. And once caught, you must wrestle the thing to the ground, choke the life out of it with your bare hands, and then tear it apart with your teeth…. and eat it raw.
Sounds disgusting, but it’s the truth. Life is real, not airbrushed, edited, or even made-over. Real life is having to drag your reluctant ass to a job that you hate. EVERY DAY. It’s being cornered by a neighbor’s piranha toothed Pit Bull while you frantically dial 911, or watching the transmission fall out of your car on the first day of your vacation. Actually those are minor compared to death, war, and famine.
Okay, I don’t want to sound too jaded so I’ll throw in some of the benefits of eating life raw; like falling in love, belly laughing with your best friend, and being bold enough to pursue your dreams. You might even learn how to love the unlovely, help the down trodden, or live like a king in Fiji.
I guess the sum of life is this. Life must be eaten raw….daily. And we must trust that whatever dose of shit, or roses, that life gives us, there is a deeper reason for it; a reason that will make sense to us. Someday. We also need to remember that flowers grow in war fields, and ghettos, as well as meticulously tended gardens, and every time it rains, the sun is boldly shining behind the clouds.
I don’t know if we signed up for this life, or if we were drafted; either way life must lived. So be sure eat up because there’s plenty of life to go around.