ἀμετακίνητος

Suddenly, it doesn’t matter that it’s been almost two years. It doesn’t matter that you’re nowhere near the place or the people. It doesn’t matter that consciously, a voice in your head knows that you are in no danger. None of it matters, because in one instant you’re back there. Just as paralyzed, just as terrified, just as broken. The scar tissue tears afresh and the wound is new again.

Everything had been hot, feverish, sickly; spores growing in humid darkness; the stench of urine in city streets; pus squirting from infected sores; sweat and sandpaper and maggots writhing in steaming summer compost.

I’m willing to wait.

Willing to curb my anger and fear for the time it takes to find the whole story. Willing to research the origins and motivations of a hashtag before posting it. Willing to acknowledge that my knee-jerk reaction may be completely inappropriate. Willing to recognize when I need to apologize and when I need to stand firm.

I refuse the idea that any one people group or thought system has the ultimate say. Everyone carries their personal agendas, ideologies, and experiences, all which cloud our perceptions of the world and its events. No one person, regardless of their nature, environment, education, or suffering endured can claim to hold the keys of human existence. No one is done learning, no one is done growing.

Only fools believe they have all the answers.

People do not speak in PR-perfect soundbites, their behavior does not fit in 15 second news clips. It is unfair to boil lifetimes down to moments.

Such joy in touch and togetherness does not occur by accident, but is the product of years of trust, security, and care. From birth, we mirror our parents. It is their playfulness, their sweet contact, their encouragement, that gives us the wide eyes and outstretched arms to the world of exploration. We feel safe. Supported. Known.

Not all children had such an experience. Some offered up a pudgy infantile hand and were met with anger, ambivalence, or anxiety. Their cries eventually fell to silence when they realized no one was listening. Touch was betrayed and became a monster more terrifying than any mind could conjure.

How many have gone through their first heartbreak at the dirty hands of supposed caretakers? How many feel that the color and life was sucked out of existence before they could even write their own name?

There is not enough life to do everything I want. Not enough energy, not enough time, not enough money, not enough viable brain cells in my head to go around. I cannot be the doctor, the teacher, the politician, the active citizen, the lawyer, the mother, the free spirit, the captain and the passenger. The world is infinite in its problems requiring solutions and I am but one woman.

All I ask from this life is to be in the room where it happens. I cannot be everywhere at once, but you bet I will lend my voice, encouragement, and support to those carrying out what I believe. Whatever platform I do accrue in my short span on the timeline will not gather dust unused.

I won’t be the next president, the big name in social reform, the revolutionary author, the showstopping vocalist, the legendary diplomat, or flawless educator - or at least, not all at once. It would be impossibly arrogant for me to assume that I am the right person for any of those jobs, and I consider it my duty to lift up whoever takes those positions. It will not be me, the me who is easily tired, not as smart as most think, and struggles with small talk.

perfectionism is a disease.

it is perfectionism that never allows you to breathe and never gives you a moment’s rest. it will never tell you that you are enough. it will never be satisfied.

it is perfectionism that will paralyze you and steal your joy. it will terrify you into inaction because when you jump to fly, there is always the chance you may fall.