A poem

Happy face spiders

Are not big enough to be scary but

Why must they grin so mockingly?

Arachnid Theridion grallator, “Bob”,

I hope we can coexist with a minimum of awkwardness and

Invasion of personal space

To find out

I bought these ranunculus (ranunculuses?) at New Seasons the other day.  Though I love looking at the flowers on my way in and out of the market I don't often allow myself to spend money on such frivolities.  I'm pretty sure that's the Holly in me...very practical.  All the same, there is something to be gained from loosening one's iron grip on practicality, on safety, on the way things have always been.  In ten days I'm going to fly to Hawaii, pitch a tent, and sleep in the rainforest.  I'm going to sit in a room with multiple strangers and meditate for hours at a time.  I'm going to refrain from communicating with anyone, no speaking, gesturing, reading or even writing.  I'm going to find out who I am when I don't have to be me. 

Admittedly I'm a little scared.  There are a lot of moving parts to this trip, even before I get to the camping in the rainforest part.  Once I'm there, I have no idea if I will love it, hate it, or something in between.  It rains a lot in the rainforest and can get kind of chilly so there may be nights when I'm downright miserable.  During meditation my legs could fall asleep or my knees could decide they've had enough or my brain might not want to calm down or I might get super lonely or I might be really hungry (no dinner is a thing too) or I might just get fed up, decide this experience is not for me, and catch a ride back into town.  I might. 

So why do this to myself?  Why fly thousands of miles to sit in the middle of the rainforest and potentially make myself really uncomfortable?  To find out.  To try.  To see what happens.  To have an adventure.  And, as I think about it, to lay the groundwork for something bigger.  Because even though I'm not quite ready yet, the Peace Corps is still very much on the table.  I'd like to know, before I commit to two years abroad, that I can handle some discomfort without quitting, even if for only ten days.  I'm pretty sure I can.  Something tells me some of the other Holly traits I've inherited (grit, determination, dare I say moxie?) will serve me just as well as good old-fashioned practicality. 

Aren't those lovely flowers though?

xo,
C

Gah! Fix it!

As a result of the accident, I went to a chiropractor. He had me go to a digital imaging place and have a bajillion x-rays done (on my insurance company's dime, which is a-OK with me). He could find no real internal injuries due to the accident, but you know what he did tell me? My posture sucks. Like, really sucks. So much that my neck, which is supposed to have a curve in it, is almost completely straight. My head is misaligned forward, my right femur is a full 4mm higher than my left (a big deal apparently), one of my vertebrae is bigger on one side than the other, and basically I am falling apart from the inside out. Woo hoo!

So I felt broken and crappy for a while, and pissed at my bones. You read that right, I was angry with my own skeleton. I was so distraught at my raft of physical imperfections that it bummed me out for the rest of the day. As I was driving home I started to tear up (I've been rather emotional lately) and then suddenly, something felt familiar. The panic, the tensing of my shoulders, the crying, the wanting to quit (for I was at that very moment thinking of how I should just get into bed and stay there for the rest of my life) felt exactly how I used to feel when I was taking chemistry and I just didn't understand a concept or why the results I was getting on a lab weren't in line with the expected projections. It felt just like I felt when I received my Marylhurst writing assessment with results that were good but not the lavish praise I was expecting. And it occurred to me that these three things are the same for me, that they all feed into this fear of not being good enough, the single biggest demon that has haunted my steps since day one.

I may talk a big game about the beauty of imperfection and wave around my super-cool tattoo, but when it comes down to it, recognizing imperfection in myself makes me uncomfortable as hell. It makes me feel unsafe, as if any moment I might be discovered and ridiculed or punished for not being good enough. It makes me take up the charge, again, of "I will! somehow! find a boyfriend!" as if someone else liking me enough to hang out with me will somehow fill in that deep well of inadequacy. As if someone else thinking I'm perfect would ever be enough to override my own fears. I think we all know me well enough by now to know that isn't true.

What then? Upon reflection, my few options become abundantly clear. I can continue to expect perfection of myself and freak out when I realize I'm not perfect. I can continue to expect perfection of myself and find some magical way to actually BE perfect. I can try to stop expecting perfection of myself. Ha. Would that I were perfect enough to not expect perfection ;)

But...yeah, I guess I should try that.

xo,
C