I squirm inside the notion of imperfectly showing up for those whom I need. Banking on their love, the ever-moving embankment of grace; perhaps they don’t stick around for my little favors, maybe it’s enough that I show up at all. What an alien concept, a strange and simple idea. My life pulled tight and thin like canvas over a plethora of things to which I can dole out my adoration. Suddenly it’s not possible for me to be everything that I once was, not to everything at least. I make my choices, I choose to spill the most over the one that my heart pulls towards. And I take no remorse in that, that’s how it always would have been. What I didn’t expect was the daily reminder, the ingrained checklist, of all the other things I might be failing.
But I work so hard to put my love into the world. Even dialed down, it’s poured in great quantities. My racing heart learns to accept that I’m not required to gut myself like a fish and spill my life force upon the earth. And yet I don’t know how to make an acquaintance of the idea that perhaps I am worth loving, all together independently, of what I have to offer. This foreign and burgeoning concept; even when I show up imperfectly, others are glad that I’m here. I needn’t fret over what I haven’t bestowed, perhaps they’re happy I came at all. Maybe there is some part of me that must learn how to accept the love from others I so readily give.