It’s hard to stand out here night after night, naked and alone, feeling like an idiot, and wondering if the world would hate me if it ever took notice of me.
I cringe sometimes at the content of these posts thinking how trite or self-centered they are. I think of how boring they would be to read all in a row (not that anyone besides my mother would ever be so motivated) because of how often I repeat myself, or simply because of how it’s all about me. I hate this blog sometimes. Sometimes, I am full of so much shame or have so much judgment for what I’ve posted here that I actually hate myself along with it.
But that’s kind of the whole point of it too.
This is the messy truth of my human life. And it’s good enough. It. Is. Good. Enough.
I want us to talk more about the things we hide from each other. I want us to hide less. I want it to be okay to be a flawed human being who is boring, self-centered, insecure and neurotic. I want to know the person on the road to transformation rather than just the person who has already transformed. Give me Pema Chodron at the start of her path, and let me see her get from there to the middle of it. Let me in on the struggles, on the battles with doubt and uncertainty. Let me see the terror that keeps you up all night, the petty trivialities that piss you off, or the shallow, ridiculous things that bring you joy. Give me the human being looking for god who hasn’t found her yet, seeking a meaning not yet discovered. Give me that, please, so that I don’t feel so incredibly alone in all of this.
I want this. Somehow, my personal experiment has become about me wanting this. And maybe, just maybe, it’s also become about me stepping forward to fill a space where I saw a void. I feel shame for even thinking such a thing. I am nobody special, after all. I have no qualifications. Nothing that would make me a person whose journey is worth witnessing. These are the kinds of things I say to myself. But the truth is, I am also exactly the kind of person whose stories I want to hear. I want the point of view of the person who has yet to arrive.
I am an ordinary person trying to live an extraordinary life. I am a person who is trying. And I am trying to be honest about all of it, for the sake of my own heart which I am attempting to rescue. It hurts. It hurts to stand out here night after night, naked and alone, often feeling like an idiot, convinced at times that the world would despise me if it ever took notice of me. That’s the truth. I do it anyway. Out of stubborness. Out of hope. Out of desperation. Out of fear. Mostly, it’s hope. That too is hard for me to admit.