the Embracement...
Time taken on purifying, cleaning, dry brushing, shaving and moisturizing... polishing and doting
on ourselves is necessary for the spirit.
I lovingly take extra time today to be pleasing to the eye, the smell and touch. Painstakingly picking the perfect jeans that hit exactly right on my kick ass new heels...
the finishing touch.
As I sit on the floor and slide the first one on, I notice how pretty my toes look... freshly stone sanded and painted with his favorite color. Then as I wiggle and bend my leg under me in the most unnatural way to buckle those pesky side buckles, I secretly send love and gratitude out for my yoga practice and the ability to torque my leg in such a way without tearing any meniscus.
As I buckle the first side, I notice the buckle fits best a litttle tigher than the last time I wore these shoes, evident by the slightly worn hole I was passing up for a tighter fit.
Multiple flashing thoughts...
“Wow, my ankles are smaller.”
“Maybe they won’t look ‘thick’ anymore.”
...and here we go...
I jump on that train...
one thought after another...
trying to push my way through all these veils enshrouding me,
before I suffocate.
I remember where I was sitting even the physical sensations of when my father told me I had thick ankles...
and in this moment...
almost 30 years later...
My chest heavy.
Breath rapid.
Heart pulsing in my ears.
(and this isn’t the first time this has happened)
Even despite knowing I had beautiful calves....
My dad taught me that as well because they looked just like my mother’s...
I never wore dresses to “show them off” beacuse they were attached to my “thick ankles”.
My past hour of loving self care, doting and pampering myself vanished.
Well, maybe more like vanquished.
I was so proud to share myself outwardly today.
To feel... and be beautiful.
“Oh! Thaaaat’s it.
You are too prideful.
What gives you the right.
Don’t gloat and boast or talk highly of yourself.
It makes others uncomfortable.
It makes you appear conceited.
Your friends won’t like you.”
... and this is the train...
We hop on
and ride and ride....
Long after we KNOW we have missed our stop.
...and there is the memory now of that junior high friend who always made fun of my “frizzy” hair.
...and then it goes on and on.
By the time my date walks in, I am a puddle or tormented memories on the floor...
still...
yet...
with one shoe left to buckle.
You may have to give a valium by the time both feet are properly encased!
Then I notice my hand...the one strapping down that thick ankle. That hand that at 22 years old rested on a table to assist my Kindegarten student with her work... “Ms. Beach” as she lovingly...almost sympathetically stroked the back of my hand...”your hands look so old.”
I have thought my hands old ever since...
When did we stop teaching children to be kind?
And then my sister, as we grew to young adults grabs for my hand one day and almost wistfully told me of a fond memory she always had. The memory of me holding her hands... in protection and in love, in a chaotic home. That she always remembered how soft my hands felt to her.
...these hands were also strong and supportive for my beautiful child as I held and nurtured her.