Brian had a serious talk with me two Saturdays ago. “I’m worried about you,” he said. He has never once uttered those words to me in 10+ years of togetherness. My husband is neither a worrier nor a man who makes casual commentary, so when he told me he feels I need more sleep, I could think of no other option than to get up from my desk and come to bed.
So that answers the question of where I’ve been, and why I haven’t been posting as much as a committed blogger should. As so many of us are every day, I’d hopped on a train I thought I had to ride and Brian gave me permission to get off. Sure, it’s meant less night writing (because no writing–no nothing–gets done by day with my two wildmen throwing stuff at me or wrestling each other into horrific squeals if I so much as open my laptop), less time on the gazillion projects I have working at any given time and less journal-y exploration of my Enoughness Project. But it’s also meant more rest, which leads to a more grounded me, a me who makes all-around healthier choices for myself because my nerves are firing smoothly enough to do that.
Somewhere in this earlier-to-bed journey—and I frankly should be in bed right now—I’ve discovered something. And it’s novel.
My enoughness doesn’t have anything to do with what I buy, or don’t. Cue the awe and wonderment. I know. Whaaaat?!
It actually turns out my value as a human being is unrelated to what I wear or own, or how I decorate my home, my face or my garden, or even what anyone else thinks of me, what I do, how I am, what my kids or husband are like, etc.
I was on vacation last week. We’ll call it “vacation” but, as a mom packing up daily life and relocating it to a little lived-in cottage on a slimy green lake, you’re more vacation facilitator than actual vacationer.
Anyway, I was there. And I was stepping around the kitchen in the old swimsuit coverup I wore every weekend in my mid-twenties frying fish tacos from the bluegill amassed by my husband and both of my wee sons that morning, and I thought, “Wow, I have so much to be thankful for. How could I have missed it?”
Something about the act of once again cooking fresh-caught fish—after a very long hiatus due to the fact we no longer live by the sea and Brian hesitates to spear fish in Lake Michigan—and preparing it in the style of the region of Mexico I inhabited before becoming a mom to sons who’d just brought me a bounty of fish as their dad had always done in our early days, all while wearing a scant garment that was my veritable weekend uniform during a time of youthfulness and major inner blossoming in a tropical desert…it transported me in some way I can’t explain. It shifted me to a new frequency. There I was in a stranger’s knick-knacky weekend home beside a body of murky though fish-rich water listening to jet skis zipping back and forth using a crappy rented skillet wearing an old white embroidered kaftan and looking at my ugly Charlie-smudged DIY pedicured toes feeling like a resplendent queen.
The trappings of this life are not really where it’s at when you’re searching for your worth in the world. I suppose nostalgia and fish tacos aren’t the answer, either. Gratitude, however, may be the key to experiencing my own personal enoughness. Noticing how good it feels when you don’t care what you’re supposed to look like, or live like, love like or act like and just allowing yourself to look, live, love and be as you are, how you are, who you are, it feels like, well, more than enough.