What I Weigh

Scale

Yesterday, as I was changing in my gym locker room, I caught out of the corner of my eye the scale that stands watch in the room. I smiled as I realized that it’s been well over a year since I weighed my self. In fact, I can’t remember when the last time was.

Two days after I turned 15, a boy at church made an unkind comment about my weight. I stopped eating for almost a year. Even after I started eating again, I spent a long time unlearning the harmful messages that I had internalized for years, that made it possible for one comment to finally break me.

On my 35th birthday, I threw my scale into a dumpster, and I bought my self and my family a dining room table that was exactly what I wanted, around which we could nurture our selves and laugh and cry and witness each other and accept each other.

In a few weeks, I turn 38. I now weigh two little girls who make me laugh all the time. I weigh 11 years of marriage. I weigh living in another country, where I found my self. I weigh reading books that make my brain light up. I weigh coffee in the white mug that fits perfectly in my hands in the mornings. I weigh walks in my neighborhood, stopping to take pictures of flowers. I weigh girl friends who love me and whom I love back. I weigh quotes from saints that I’ve copied down and pinned to a board that hangs above my desk. I weigh so many things, that I’ve put away in my being to keep for warmth and nourishment and happiness. I am full, and it is enough. Not too much, not too little. It is just right. I am just right.

 

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If This Isn’t Nice

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I’ve been experiencing some early midlife restlessness lately. The older I grow, the more choices I have made, and those necessarily limit the opportunities still available to me. It turns out that I’m not going to be the youngest person ever elected to Congress. (There’s still time to be the youngest person elected President, so stay tuned.)

However it also turns out that I do have a yoga practice. That was on the Person I Want to Be list that I made in my early 20s.

And tonight the girls and I ate dinner outside in the dark because it is the first warm night of the year. As we carried the candles outside, Maggie said, “This is the best day of my life.”

So there’s that.

Years pass and choices are made and possibilities change. Am I still becoming the person I wanted to be? Would I trade my four year old’s pronouncement, “This is the best day of my life,” for any other award?

If this isn’t nice, what is?

“If this isn’t nice, what is!”

What I’ve learned, from my earth-loving Unitarian Universalist church in San Diego (“this is our blue boat home”) and my own pantheistic leanings and from Kurt Vonnegut’s Uncle Alex: to wonder to my self, when I experience beautiful things, “If this isn’t nice, what is!

And that’s exactly what I was thinking when I took this picture.

Praise report

Some days are hard. You feel a little directionless and like you’re falling behind on EVERYTHING. Some days you come down with a stomach bug and will yourself to pull it together for your kid’s talent show at school. You don’t even have the energy to wash your hair, even though you realize {whisper} you haven’t washed it in several days.

And some days are great. Some days you wake up having had enough sleep and the sun is shining and you work all day uninterrupted and you GET SO DANG MUCH ACCOMPLISHED. #praisereport