The Imperfect Practice

She did try to be selfish for a whole day, she truly did. But in all honesty, she only managed a few hours.  It was glorious, and did wonders for her soul. She thought she should try to do it more often, but wondered how she would peel herself away from the unending turmoil and day-to-day tasks of her life? What matters is, she was selfish for a few hours. And it was good for her soul. 

Making selfish decisions did not come easily. The first dozen things she thought of doing all had some benefit to another - whether it was supporting a friend through a hard time, making money to support her family, or working to make her community better. But she had decided to have a selfish day...or as much of one as she could manage. As she planned her day, her thoughts continued to wander back to what others might think of her selfishness, and if she should give up and be less selfish... Her heart still needed healing, she knew that much. And she knew that if she didn't learn to be a little bit selfish sometimes, she would break under the weight of it all. So, while it was a stretch outside of her comfort zone to invest in herself and make decisions only in her own best interest, she knew that it was necessary.  Or else she would snap under the weight of it all. 

She couldn't remember the last time she made a truly selfish decision. She honestly couldn't think of the last time she did something that benefited only her own self. Even the things she chose to do in her free time were done to help others or for the greater good of her family.  That thought weighed on her, like a heavy, wet spring snow on a tree already adorned with bright green leaves. She bent under the weight of it - not that it was a bad thing, but on top of everything else... She knew she couldn't bear the weight of everything. That, of course, was common sense. But lately, she had a hard time bearing the weight of even more than one thing at once. There is always a lot to be sad about in the world - so much. But all her life, she'd been able to stand it enough to keep tears from springing to her eyes at the thought of the tragedies, waiting until the right time to mourn and cry.  But it all weighed on her in such a way that she felt she couldn't...

It felt heavy and thick on her hand.  It was odd, like a shoe a half size too big that still pinched a toe. She stared at it on her finger, remembering the first time she ever wore it...remembering when he had placed it on her hand. That moment seemed a whole lifetime ago - just barely a memory - even though only a few years had passed. She felt the weight of it. Had it gotten heavier? She knew the answer was no, but somehow it felt ten times heavier and twice as thick as the last time she had the cold metal wrapped around her finger. She wanted it to feel comfortable, she wanted it to feel...good. She stared in the mirror, hoping that if she stared long long enough, her feelings would change....  Her gaze drifted to her own face. There were new lines. She rubbed at the canyon between her eyebrows - when did it become so deep? She didn't love it, or the lines on either side of her mouth, but she didn't care to be flawless either. She knew the lines on her face were e...

The silence grew between them in the same way that the road stretched out ahead of them. It felt like there may never be an end. She was tired - tired of being the one to bridge the gap, tired of thinking of the right questions to ask, tired of feeling like she was doing all the work. She knew those thoughts weren't entirely true, but she was tired nonetheless. So she stared out the window in silence. She watched the scenery fly by under a quilt of clouds. She loved this kind of weather - low clouds, misting rain intermingled with bouts of actual rain, and darkness around the edges. The touch of humidity in the air comforted her soul. It reminded her of the northwest coast, where she desperately longed to be.  She let her thoughts drift to the sounds of the ocean - the rolling clack of the waves on a rocky shore, the sigh of the ocean mist expanding into the open air, the relief of cool, wet sand underfoot, the beauty of the Spanish moss dripping from the tree branches.... ...

She used to hate the rain, even though she couldn't tell you why. Maybe it was because her Grandmother hated it so, and she learned much of life from her Grandmother.  There came a day she finally learned the art of dancing in the rain, and it lived and grew in her heart and soul. How she learned, is another story. Nevertheless, each time she woke to find the sky cluttered with clouds and the air dampened, her love for the rain grew. It grew like a vine, twisting around her bones and into her ether, winding through the troughs of her thoughts, blossoming like a finely kept garden. What had started as a hopeless, tiny seed on dry, cracked earth had grown to be a part of her as much as her right hand.  Her soul ached for the rain. Her heart lovingly longed for it. She grew to need the rain. The inside of her was a desert, windblown and sun-beaten, bleached by the relentless heat of the sun. But that, is also another story. Perhaps many stories. The clouds were beaut...