I used to think real life was boring and real love was a fanatical, sweep you off your feet, butterflies in your belly kind of thing. Today, some twenty years later, Love, Life, and the good Lord have taught be something entirely different.
First of all, we are all human. The idea of trying to be more than that, other than that, or better than that, is to argue with what is, which creates a perpetual internal war. And war is deadly. Without the actual tanks and guns and camo, it’s judgement, road rage, hatred, intolerance, and impatience. Worst off all, we live with this idea that we have to prove we are winning. War makes us lie and hide, because we buy into the idea that other people are at war with us, when all along we are only at war with ourselves, projecting our own self hatred onto the person in front of us.
We are best served here with a four letter word turned into a prayer, HELP
Perfection is the illusion that keeps us from becoming the thing we most want to become, authentic! We have cellulite (well, most of us. Ok fine, I do. I have cellulite and I’m very happy for you and your smooth legs). We drink coffee just to stay awake,because the night before we were bombarded by a thousand “WHAT IF” scenarios running around in our brain that refused to shut off. We are complex, rich with histories, traumas, victories, secrets, and doubts. At some point everyone of us had been mad at God or questioned wether God is even real. We go to the dry cleaners because they make perfection out of messes. (Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have a life dry cleaners, where you could drop off all your kinks and wrinkles, return hours later to discover a beautifully sorted out, perfectly polished life. It might work for a minute but long term, we’d end up stiff and boring.)
Our messes make us beautiful. Sure Picasso hangs in museums, but messy crazy beautiful art hangs on the front of refrigerators. It’s price tag? Priceless. We were never created to fit into a box, a mold of perfection. And yet, we lose ourselves trying to do just that.
On my last visit to the doctor, as she and I discussed my pregnancy, I said, “Doc, I’m pregnant everywhere, especially in my thighs and butt.” She stood up, in her scrubs, grey hair pulled back in a bun, wearing her pink converse sneakers, threw her butt out into the air and said, “Girl, you gotta work your donk. You and the Kardashian’s. Own it. The donk is back.” Yeah, I know. She rocks.
The idea that we need to be different sucks life out of us. The judgement that the person in front of us needs to be different, steals our peace. High and mighty is really Low and frustrated wearing a fancy mask.
In my family we are facing a “new normal”. My grandfather, with whom I am extremely close, has recently suffered a double stroke. You know, at first it took my breath away. Fear struck. Panic. And then, after a drive to Atlanta, where my husband seemed to make our car fly, I arrived at Papa’s bedside. He reached for my hand. When the room had mostly cleared out, I sat singing to him. All the hymns I knew. He fell sound asleep. Sitting there I realized, there was no need to be afraid or to panic or to try and change things. We were actually in a magical moment, touching real love, real life, and the good Lord was sitting right there in our midst. All was well. Different, yes, but well none the less.
We are blessed and highly favored to be given the opportunity to live. It’s a unique experience, that even angels in all their splendor will never understand. Life is like shimmering gold in a dirty creek bed. Everything beautiful and brilliant wrapped up in rain and sun and t-ball games and skinned knees.
What I know now is that supper on a tv tray next to your husband is a really amazing date night.
—sending you love wherever you are in the world, Tyler.