I’m awkward. I’m quite different than the differences you all have from one another. I’ve always been the third person walking slightly behind the rest because we don’t all fit together on the sidewalk. And I try to ignore it because I was scolded to always be one of you. To dress right and speak right was to be right. Somehow, no matter how hard I tried I always leaned a bit to the left and I never quite matched your mold. I’m learning—slowly—over the last twenty something years to be ok with that. Sometimes that means putting your puzzle piece of a soul next to your peers and realizing you’re completely irregular. I’m irregular and perfect. I know I know.
But some days it’s hard. Sometimes those irregularities haunt me. Sometimes they threaten the people around me. I forget—because I’m so stuck in my own head—to love you.. to be intentional with you. And then I fail. I find myself constantly in this place of falling off the tippy top and having to grit my teeth and bear it: The long, stiffening, aching, painstaking, climb there—and apparently it makes me better. I know I know.
I’m not any shape of a cookie cutter you’ve ever seen. Every one of us is different from the rest and why is that so damn hard sometimes? I’m sorry I said “damn”… I know that doesn’t match my petite and polite persona but sometimes you just have to use the words that speak the loudest thoughts you’re feeling. I know, sometimes..everyday, someone is feeling the same feeling I’m feeling and that’s what makes us all the same. It makes us human… you and me… the same species.
I should have known. Why don’t we all stop kidding ourselves and bring our egos down to our toes and think of people instead of person? I am one person. That is huge and that is microscopic all in the same sentence. It is completely impossible to be me at the same time as it is the simplest thing in the universe. I am me. No matter how hard I try not to be I still am.
Fearfulness and wonderfulness were involved in the creation of me. Each shape of human was made in the image of perfection, no matter the imperfections that stain them. We hold the opportunity to reflect, magnify the perfection that we were made, molded to embody. I know I know. Why can’t I know always?