I am hesitant to explore what’s lurking within me, mainly because I know what I’ll find.
I know what I will have to confront and most days I decline the inner invitation to have a peek. I don’t trust the sender, my True Self. I don’t feel ready to see what she wants to show me…yet.
I’d rather wait for the perfect time.
But I keep thinking about that perfect time. What will it look like? When will I know it has arrived?
I envision a time when we’re no longer wading through a global pandemic. Yes, I’d like to wait until that passes before I take a long look at what’s underneath the lid of my soul.
I’d also like to wait until my kids are grown up and coincidentally my stress levels are down. At the very least I’d like to wait until every child in my house can read and write on their own, a time when I’m not needed as much or breastfeeding at night. Perhaps they can even scramble their eggs or make dinner for themselves and I can retreat in solitude without interruption tapping on my door.
I’d like to wait until I am completely confident and bursting with energy when I’m getting the recommended 8 hours of sleep each night, and when my husband and I are rocking our marriage and dates are a regular thing on the calendar again.
Oh, and I’d also like to wait until I don’t have any cobwebs hanging out in the corners of my heart when everything inside me is cloaked in truth and light, and I’m harboring no shame or secrets.
I’d like to wait until I feel finally free, finally truly myself.
We all have a legitimate list of reasons why we aren’t ready to ________________ (you fill in the blank).
Alas, in solemn awareness the absurdity hits me. If I must wait until I meet my criteria for readiness, until every last detail is aligned, life feels manageable, and I feel peace, I will never do a thing.
I’ll never leap over the ledge or even tiptoe over the line. I’ll never agree to the magnetic pull I sense towards a metamorphosis. I’ll never play with the idea. I’ll never peel back the layers of old, worn-out identities and move beyond what I’ve always thought was me.
Most of us realize the perfect time will never come, but for some reason we can’t stop looking out on the horizon for it’s arrival.
Perfect time. It’s an elegant phrase we throw out in hopes to frame our passivity in a positive light. It’s a convenient place for us to hide when we want to ignore the pervasive, pestering thoughts that bring us messages from the world beyond.
We assume the perfect time is just around the corner and then, finally, we will have everything we need, including plenty of esteem, encouragement, and ease for the journey ahead.
But as we all eventually learn one way or another, the perfect time doesn’t come down the road; rather it is created when we fully accept our perplexing and paradoxical reality.
I am not where we want to be (will I ever be?), or the woman I hope to become, I know am a stream of inconsistent, irregular longings, all types of pain, frustration, and fatigue envelops me daily, and yet if I can sense it…
The perfect time lands softly within me.
Not because I measure up or all of my circumstances line up, but because I am alive and breathing and this might be enough to start down the path.
