When all is said and done, I lead a thin, sterile little life. It hurts to write these words, and it hurts to know they’re true. But they are.
My life – this precious thing – is wasting away by moments. I work, I eat, I sleep, I read newspapers and novels and I watch t.v. I shop for groceries and do housework. I play the piano – alone – and I knit. I don’t go out, because I don’t have anyone to go out with (Himself is very content with a quiet, solitary life) and I wouldn’t know where to go if I did.
I didn’t mean it to be this way – my plans were quite different, really. I was going to be … wonderful. I was going to be generous. wise. passionate. fun. loving. beloved. strong. I was going to make a difference – to someone, somewhere. I was going to be happy.
So what happened?
In a nutshell, I happened. I have known (in my heart of hearts I have known) that I am simply Not Good Enough. Not smart enough. Not friendly enough. Not wise or strong or fun enough. Not decisive enough. Not competent to be in charge. Not loving enough. Not worthy.
So instead I play it safe. I’m cautious about what I do, whom I let in to my life, what I choose to experience … and what I choose to avoid. I indulge my self-doubt with a rich diet of “I-couldn’t-do-THAT-s,” and ignore the fact that I am starving myself of life. And I AM starving – for richness, for passion, for depth and meaning and purpose. For, ultimately, some kind of connection with the world.
[Does this sound self-pitying? Yup. Al-right-y then, let’s add another loop in the “not good enough” chain. Hmmm, I think I’ll call this one “Too whiny.”]
Over the past year or so, though, I have finally started to understand what is meant by the saying “What you fear, you create.” I am angry that I have spent so much of my life feeding this gluttonous child of fear and doubt – this spiritual cannibal – who is both myself and not myself. But I also know it is time to let go, since my anger simply sustains the beast.
While I’m nowhere close to fear-free yet, I can at least now see my enemy/myself for who – and what – she is. And, you know what? She’s just not good enough. NOT. EVEN. CLOSE.
Instead, I am turning my attention to my thin, neglected waif of a life. She doesn’t deserve to be hungry and afraid. She hasn’t done anything wrong. Nothing at all, except that she doesn’t stand up for herself very well. And, what’s more, she has waited patiently for me to discover a simple, startling truth. When I am not afraid, I feel beautiful. I become beautiful. And we blossom.
