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Well, his ghost is.  I can’t go a day without being bothered by him. His face leers at me when I’m in the bathroom or washing dishes, disrupting my ho-hum calm. I’m walking out of my house and his car passes by — 20 times.
I can’t be alone for too long without his memory flooding in. Memories that somehow seem skewed. He’s always the good guy. He’s so attentive and so understanding. He’s always doing the right thing, making me feel like my perception was twisted up the whole time we were together. Did I get it all wrong? Was he really the perfect mate?
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Why parents can’t rest — ever.  I unrolled our new self-inflating camping pad and laid it out on the living room floor for my daughter to try. The bright lime green against our light pastel rug made it an inviting bed. She blew up the attached pillow and cozied up, a lazy haze settling over her deep blue eyes.
“I’m excited to go camping this weekend, mom!” I chuckled to myself. Just moments before she’d complained to me about camping. Will our tent be big enough (it’s new and we haven’t put it up yet)? Will it rain? Will our neighbors be loud? Will there be fun things to do? Her sharp, inquisitive mind was considering every angle. A Love Letter From Your Soul  Dear Human,
I know you doubt yourself often. I know your worries often pull you out of enjoying simple pleasures. You’ve always had this human thing right. Look at your quiet moments — those simple book-reading, song-listening, sunset-watching, chatting-with-friend moments. Remove the self-doubt and peer deeper. You were you, unabashedly and proudly, if I may say so. Only read this if you’re serious about change. If you’re not, read on. There’s plenty of other entertaining articles on Medium to keep your mind occupied.  My inner abuser wrote the subtitle.
She’s got a love for all things S&M. She’s unkind in a playful way (but actually means it). My inner abuser is genuinely nasty and overly dramatic about it. We all have an inner abuser. I know that’s a harsh word, but I’m talking about that harsh voice that uses abusive statements to get our attention. Statements that, if said to you by an outsider, you’d label as verbal or emotional abuse. I spent most of my life in a half-alive state. I was here and I wasn’t. Maybe you can resonate?  My story.
I used to think I couldn’t live my dreams. I used to think dreams were just fantasies that would never come to fruition. I was raised in a family that neither praised nor poo-pooed my dreams. Motherhood requires your full attention. Being a writer does too. Can writing and motherhood co-exist in a healthy way?  I think about writing all day.
As soon as I wake up and start scooping coffee into the filter, (Oh my that’s a sacred moment! The aroma! The sound!) the ideas start pouring in. My deep in thought self suddenly hears a faint, then not so faint, “Mommy, can you come to the bathroom with me?” My 8-year-old doesn’t like to pee alone. My idea trance has ended. That writer bubble has been burst. My un-caffeinated body stumbles toward that little girl voice, “Yes honey, on my way.” Redefining what it means to have breasts when you’re a mom  My seriousness on the yoga mat is real. When I start teaching a yoga class, a Zen master vibe takes me over. I begin to talk about the breath as a gateway to enlightenment. My whole demeanor shifts to that of a calm sage.
One such class, I began to demo a yoga pose, getting on all fours on my mat, cueing students to do the same. It was a hot summer day. I wore a lower cut, thin tank top with a sports bra. I placed myself so that my chest was facing the class. That inner judge has something to teach you; listen.  I’ve spent years working on loving myself more. It sounds silly when I write it out.
Working on self-love sounds like a job — a hard job you don’t get paid for. A job that shouldn’t be a job and shouldn’t be hard. Self-love is something that should be natural. Shouldn’t it? |
About MeSoul Writer. Single Mama. Life ponderer. Nature Lover. Therapist. Introvert. HSP & Empath. Life is my playground and each day a blank canvas. Archives
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