The energy of the full moon this late November has promised to trip more than a few of us up, maybe even cause technological hiccups. I decided this day to embrace patience and compassion as the flow of choice riding into this strong energy. I embraced the thought, and the reality followed in small, but palpable ways.
I’m a little awkward entering a new phase of my life, but fading are the self-imposed shackles and perceived clouds of restriction. Stepping out in one’s new-found freedom is refreshing, and opportune.
I made reservations for Sean and me at a local establishment, using the last name given me at birth, newly divorced. When I didn’t see what I most looked forward to in the spread of sliced pies on the buffet table, I asked the server slicing the prime rib if I could request a serving of cheese cake, a signature dessert at the restaurant, and the main attraction in their lineup as far as I am concerned.
There was no one present to tell me that I couldn’t make a special request for myself. No thought police telling me how to think or act. No guilt telling me that I should not make such extra ordinary requests.
The server obliged, generously. The meal was relaxed, and even sharing the slice with Sean, I had to leave some behind. The staff had been so busy that I had to find someone to refill my coffee, and when they finally did, they wondered how I managed to get the cheese cake. “I made a special request,” I said with a genuine smile.
Should this really be questionable? Are we really so fearful that we can’t ask for what we want for fear of disapproval? Unfortunately, it is a lifelong reality for many. It has far too long been the reality for me.
I didn’t feel entitled to it, but I politely asked if it would be possible, because I contracted a special price for a lovely meal and had been looking forward to the cheesecake.
This tiny thing felt like a memory of so many pin-sized stabs into my psyche throughout decades – feeling guilty for asking for what I want or need, as if I don’t deserve to do so.
After our meal, Sean and I found ourselves wandering the aisles of the only store open this holiday, confronted with undeniable bargains and sporting content spirits. Once back home, we planted the meager substitutes we found for our lighted deer in front of the house, because the deer bit the dust after four seasons of nestling in snow under our 100-year-old silver maple. We had already decorated our Christmas tree the week before. The season lay unencumbered before us, promising joy and abundance.
I tried sneaking a stocking-stuffer past Sean at the checkout, saying it was for his niece, but once home my scheme unfolded and the plan was thwarted when he asked to see it. I gave in. Moments are fleeting.
With all the texts and phone calls of the day behind us, I find myself right were I planned to be when I decided to write my own reality months and months ago.
I pause to give guilt good circumspect, tilt my head for a thorough examination of the path I’ve just traversed and conclude: There is no space for guilt in gratitude. There is only room in my heart space for compassion, light, and love. The gratitude I desire to convey to those souls who lit my path and helped me wrap my head around this choice that I have – to remember who I am – is too intense and joyful for guilt.
I deserve to be who I am. I rescue the inner child from life’s gift of trauma and tell her, baby girl, I’ve got this. I’ve got you. I’m not going to let anyone or anything hurt you.
The past becomes the past, immutable. Self-acceptance is the boundary that protects.
I am so grateful to you, my friends and family, for being lights upon my path.
Connections are everything.