remembering… college, living alone in SF, working as a fashion consultant, volunteering nights in homeless shelters, walking to the front of a full hall to claim another award, no personal applause, standing tall, head held high, eyes quietly scanning the audience hoping to find that one face shining with pride… declined invitations to award dinner's, mailed dean's lists, top of class announcements, and a little girl standing shyly in the middle row singing holiday songs searching, always searching for proof that it mattered.Sweet little girl, you don't have to try.
You are already enough.
I am enough.
I have always been.
We (bumbling humans) are trying so hard to counter this erroneous belief that we are not. It's an epic, Don Quixote-worthy-battle with the great windmills of not quite, almost, and if only.
It's a lie.
I am, you are, we are, inherently, from our first breath to our last, ENOUGH.
e n o u g h
Like Cervantes' great windmill tilting hero, I don't need to paint life with grand sweeping, rosy-hued strokes of romanticised perfection. It never has been about being good enough. If completely honest it was about propping up the old crumbling windmill announcing that I wasn't…an outgrown story that I am no longer interested in battling with.
Now what does life look like when organized from that core truth?