Do you make the time to be with yourself?
As you are. As your reality is. No pretense, no stories, no
excuses. You don’t need an excuse. Remember? You don’t need an excuse for
yourself. There’s a faint echo reminding us there is no need for apologies or
explanations to make it right. If we’re still making excuses, we’re still
avoiding the chance to meet ourselves again for the first time.
A few years ago, my friend and I started an affectionate
little tradition. Whenever one of us would say “Excuse me,” the other would say
teasingly and lovingly, “There’s no excuse for you.” It’s true, there isn’t. Why
does there have to be one, anyway?
Perhaps you can relate to this: I repeatedly make excuses
for how I feel, what I do and what I don’t do. What am I really saying? Two
things: I don’t have a right to feel, and in some cases, I don’t WANT to feel
or be associated with my actions because I would surely be struck by lightning
if I let go.
If you’re feeling silly, can you be so without apologizing?
If you’re angry, can you dwell in it and give yourself time to process? If you
are joyful, can you express it unhindered? If you are grieving, can you explore
the ache in your heart, trusting that you will not be consumed by it?
I leave you with a journal entry I scrawled out recently. Just
remember: there is no excuse for you, my love. You never needed one.
Love,
Tasia
My breath and the ache in my chest weigh me into the café booth—woven
teal against my back and soft blackened brown under my thighs. Morning sunlight
brushes the right side of my head, warming my scalp and the tip of my ear.
I realize this is the first moment in weeks—maybe months—where
I have taken the opportunity to sit with myself, feeling free in my own time.
It’s that independence not driven by: “I can do it on my own” but rather: “I
need to remember and get to know myself on my own terms.”
I imagine I’m sitting across from myself, sharing breakfast,
and when I look myself in the eyes I feel the lump build in my throat. I would
burst into tears and choke out a humble “I’m sorry.” I’m sorry I haven’t been
very attentive towards you.
My breakfast arrives: an elaborate vegetable omelet with a
side of potatoes dusted with herbs, and a golden brown biscuit. All completed
by fresh squeezed orange juice. The potatoes taste like camping: warm, fragrant
and woody. The orange juice is like a crisp fall day, served in the perfect
little serving size; just enough to send that shiver down my spine, awakening
my nervous system as tart citrus drips across my tongue.
The stress of the last week has finally begun to melt from
my shoulder blades and the pit in my stomach, though enough remains to remind
me of the work and intention still ahead. The decisions. And the discomfort—good
lord, what have I signed up for? Freedom, I guess. Nourishment, even when it
comes with a harsh side of bitter teas and spices. I am still angry; I feel
that dull twist and pull in my stomach, the black square weight nestled on my
chest. I’m not yet able to fully enjoy this new chapter while exhaustion still
pulls at my shoulders and fingers.
But it is a moment like this one that reminds me to dwell in
my reality as I currently stand in it. The fact that it is my reality at all is
Grace in and of itself. “I know that I am like the rain; there but for the
grace of you go I.”
