Tag Archives: cosette’s tribe

Cursing Louder Than a Northern Gale

valentine2

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. Always believe the rumors of your greatness–and how much I absolutely adore you.

Happy Valentine’s Day,

Love,

Leah

Perfectionism Triggers Apocalyptic Meltdowns

The Booth

The Booth

I’m a perfectionist. I used to believe that the badge of a perfectionist should be worn on the outside of the jacket; after all, perfection is the highest rung on the behavioral ladder, the blue ribbon of attributes, and the ideal to strive for. At least that’s what I believed. Yeah, what a crock of steaming you know what. Perfectionism is a disease like alcoholism, Tourette’s and pink eye. It’s a maniacal malady, which manufactures mirages, and measures mankind. God that felt good. And you know what else feels fricken good—letting go of perfectionism. Firing the police of people pleasing, the Nazi of not good enough, the shaman of shame. That felt good too.

Living, and running the family business from this tiny trailer, is an exercise in imustbenuts, for my first nature is to produce an aesthetically pleasing environment. Well, that lasted for about a day. It’s like trying to keep a white tablecloth clean at a pie-eating contest. So I choose not to drive myself, or, Mike, insane trying to keep up with that expectation. If I’m going to keep my sanity I’m going to have to go with the cluttered flow, and stop judging myself, and Mike, for the mess.

I’m also an idealist, which I believe is prerequisite for becoming a perfectionist. I get an image in my head of what something SHOULD look like, and then I go for it. I have images for everything, including people and food, and when something does not live up to the image that I created in my sick little mind I become unhappy. At least I see this now. For years I hated myself for so many things, but mostly for not being quite up to par.

So I’m probably living in this tiny trailer so I’ll learn how to appreciate the important things in life like love, truth, joy, and gratitude—things with real value that won’t burn up should an apocalyptic event occur.

Living here isn’t so bad. I actually appreciate some things about it—if I allow myself. I love that when I sit at the booth sometimes the squirrels will sit on the privacy fence, which hugs the trailer, and look directly in my window at me. They’re so close that I could count their whiskers. I love the canopy of tropical vegetation, which shades the courtyard on hot afternoons and dapples the ground with buttery drips of sunshine, and the urgent cries of the hawk, which wake me each morning inspiring the notion that each day is important. I adore Deja, the landlord’s Rottweiler, who stops by for a snack and a nap, snuggled in beside Little Dog, at the base of the booth, warming my feet as I work. And then there are the numerous fruit trees, bowing low with juiciness. Boy, I could wax poetic over some of the things here…there’s Duck Duck, the guard duck, who acts like she doesn’t like me, but lately I’ve noticed her quack softening when I walk by, and the tree house, which I’ve yet to christen, but I’ve purchased some rope so I can hoist my laptop and coffee up, leaving my hands free to help me climb the steep stairway.

Then there’s the blessed privacy from the world. Sometimes I can hear it out there, rumbling beyond the jungle walls, but if I pretend a bit, it’s easy to convince myself that I live on a tropical island inhabited by me and Mike, and a few friendly natives.

Yes, if I don’t listen to the stories in my head created by my neurotic perfectionist alter ego, about how a woman of a certain age should have more and be more, I could find it easy to enjoy this very simple life style.

My mother used to say to me, “Leah, you wouldn’t know what was good for you if it landed on your nose.” Well, Ma, I think I’m learning.