I’ve only scratched the surface, understanding who I am. Some things I’ve settled on being done with, the unsettled traumas no longer unsettling me. I’m not settled, though, on all I’ve yet to see, what God made me for, possibility.
Before I went to the kitchen cabinet I remembered, I didn’t buy the cereal.
I woke up this morning and laid quietly anticipating my decided on Raisin Bran with banana swimming in creamy white milk.
I’d be on the second cup of dark coffee made the color of soft wheat with my half and half cream and a tiny bit of honey.
Raisin Bran is my favorite. It had been years since I had allowed my treat. After having just what I wanted for breakfast yesterday, I made up my mind to do it again.
Sigh, I took the other road, I bought the cardboard textured granola.
This is not unique to me, this deciding something less is better for me, deciding I’ll just stop here, only the small good things were meant to be mine.
It is not unique to me that under the layers of self-critique there resides untapped potential, joyous possibility.
It was good and better for me. My rebellion towards sugar only slightly compromised already today. It was good, the granola.
Many years ago, my diet was deprivation. I survived on lettuce laced with mustard and then blew it out by Thursday on keg party beer and Krystal burgers. The memories are not pleasant. I’d love to frame them funny, just not possible.
Now I allow what I want on occasion and I don’t diet harshly or with rigid expectations. I may be close to deciding the 15 pounds I’d like to lose, been talking about it for a few years, have settled, they might be the allowance of grace I need to give me.
Art, book, health, career…I’ve not achieved as much as others here. I’m heavy on the ideas and light on the sticking with them.
Not settling, just waiting and maybe accepting.
Yesterday, I got an email rejection in regards to a story I’ve written about my grandmother, edited three times and sent three separate places now.
What am I to do with these sweet words? I really don’t know. I have so many it’s crazy. How do you settle with them never going anywhere. Writing is hard. I’m not sure why I’ve not quit by now.
Last night after dinner I returned to the large canvas. My daughter had an idea for a painting she’d love over her bed.
Try, try again I did. Covered over covered layers and wiped the whole canvas one color. Again.
“Have I forgotten how to paint?” the familiar aching question.
I stayed at it, kept adding color and layers and I did not quit until I could snap a pic and send to my daughter.
“Beautiful”, was her reply and then that she knew I could sell it and that I should and it shouldn’t be hers for free.
But, it will be if she loves it in person. It will live in the home of she and her husband, their daughter. I won’t find another canvas and recreate it. No, this will be hers.
I don’t want her to settle.
I’m not settling on the small things any longer. I’m having toast with my cheesy scrambled eggs and dark chocolate with almonds in the evening with red wine.
Deprivation to me leans toward punishment. I do love to call myself out. Self-critique over my lack of writing progress is defeating. Pondering perfection based on the price haggled over for painting, so exhausting.
I’ll return to the easel now and I’ve jotted down new thoughts for the book idea. Both, more storytelling and less audience seeking.
And maybe for lunch, I’ll have a Peanut Butter and Jelly, just a half of sandwich on the crusty bread, crunchy peanut butter spread with sweet fig preserves.
I’m believing the wisdom of Psalms and beginning to want to know it full well. I’m choosing to savor everything and be satisfied in the truth that I have only barely begun to know the me made by God.
“I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well. My frame was not hidden from you, when I was being made in secret, intricately woven in the depths of the earth. Your eyes saw my unformed substance; in your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me, when as yet there was none of them.
How precious to me are your thoughts, O God! How vast is the sum of them!”
Psalms 139:14-17 ESV
There’s some freedom for me there. In the uncovering of my layers. There’s all sorts of unsettling of my thoughts, my days, my offerings to others.
May it be the same with you.