Kip clearly has not been taught how to eat corn on the cob properly.
“Ahm awl done wiff my corn!” he proclaimed, handing me a mangled half-ear I’d boiled the night before for our picnic.
“All done? Really?” I was baffled. He should’ve eaten it in a line. I should’ve shown him how.
“Yep, Mommy,” he responded. “Ahm awl done wiff my corn. It was wiwwy good. Here you go.”
I studied the teeth-ravished maze in my hand. How on earth did he chart this course of mastication? Bite here. Turn 15 degrees. Nibble. Slide to the left. Bite all the way to the cob. Turn backward 90 degrees. Bite. Twist, lick, examine, give to mom. All done.
It was equal parts hilarious and mystifying and, the more I marveled at it, strikingly familiar. In my hand was my own farm-fresh mirror.
My life, present and past, must look something like Kip’s corn on the cob. Honestly, everyone’s course, when not presented through the artfully crafted vignettes of Facebook and cocktail party conversation, probably looks a little jagged. There’s usually not a ton of logic in anyone’s itinerary to the present moment. Back and forth, build on this, start over, jump to that, go way over here, head back there, miss that boat, catch that plane, try this, circle back to there.
And yet, despite really loving the idea of hoisting the sail and trusting the Universe to navigate for me, no matter how roundabout the voyage, I sometimes feel like my corncob *should* look a little neater.
It’s hard to connect the dots as to why, but holding that ear of corn, I started to judge myself for all my current misgivings. I should be, I should do, I should have, I should know…. “Should” = comparison. Shriek! That’s so oppressing!
Kip had no shame about how he ate his corn. In fact, he had no recognition there even might be another way to do it. He just did it his way. Just how he liked it. And when he was finished, he released it. Can it be that simple? That light and airy and pleasurable?
Donna, the magnificent energy healer, gave me a simple affirmation, which synchronistically coincided with my corncob-spawned descent into the icky comparison place:
“I forgive me.”
It feels ridiculously cheesy to say it aloud, or even in my head, but it’s surprisingly powerful. And freeing. Just say it, without even thinking about that from which you want freedom–no need drawing energy to it. I forgive me. No matter the path I’ve taken, not taken, am taking, am not taking, will or will not take, it’s all “wiwwy good.” I forgive me.
If I may…
Kip’s corncob oracle raised a few questions, the answers to which I’m still working out, but the resounding answer to all four questions is something like “You will soar.” If you’re so inclined, feel free to ask your darling self the same questions I’m pondering:
1. What if I didn’t buy into the messages I’ve long received about the importance of being perfect? (Society, for reals, why’re you so bitchy?)
2. What if I deleted the idea I’m “supposed” to do certain things the “right” way?
3. What if I just blithely cut my own path, gnarled and illogical as it might seem on the outside, without indulging the shame I sometimes feel for not looking like I have it all together?
4. What if I completely trusted that I successfully can approach my own life in my own way and that all will be really great, if not downright magical as a result?