Some things shouldn’t be analyzed to death. I can’t say that with a straight face. You know that. All I do is analyze everything over and over until there is no meat left on the bones and the bones have been boiled for broth.
For two years now, the lesson has been to trust myself. Ha! Ha ha ha!!! Me trust ME? Ridiculous. Not when I have this superpower to worry, to second guess, to question what every glance, every touch, every change in tone, every silence means.
How can I trust myself when I’ve got no wins in my pouch? Wouldn’t that be prima facie evidence of an inability to do things right? What’s your trust worth that has yet to be verified?
And then there are weeks like this one, of ambling about my hometown, one I chose, and reaping a harvest I sowed myself. It is no coincidence. No lucky streak.
I am inclined to postmortem the week. To beat a dead horse and then pick over the bones and gristle. But that would take the magic out what I experienced. Some things…some experiences…some feelings defy the clumsy craft of writing.
Some things are meant to just wash over you. You are meant to feel satiated, elated, bathed and reborn, and then merely to go on, a bit more intentional, covered in grace. You go back out into the world knowing you must have done something right along the way.
That is where I am today. This week has been a thing of beauty. From Tuesday to Tuesday, planned for months and then sketched in with more improptu gatherings, I found myself in mirrors. I don’t need to know what I look like. My wholeness is reflected in the way they shine when they look back at me. I have chosen well.