After an brief summer break from the blogging world I’m excited to share a fantastic piece written by Lari Burgos–who followers of the Sunday Scribble Challenge may better recognize under the name Larisanjou.
I’m sure you will enjoy the post as much as I did. And hey, don’t forget to check out her site today!
(More specifically this post, women–as a gentle reminder we should ALL be paying a bit more attention to our funbags.)
There are unavoidable moments when ice-cold shock wakes us up from our complacency. Our priorities become clearer and more urgent than ever. When the impossible seems within reach, thanks to our desperate, unyielding hope. It turns us upside-down, dispels the cobwebs and shines renewed clarity on our inner truth, the unshakeable purpose of our being, our raison d’être.
I’m one week out from greeting my thirty-first year of existence.
One year ago
I was in Spain with my F, laughing into the sky, and saying good-bye to my twenties. Turning 30, that mystical, perfectly round number. That age, as it’s widely considered, to be the “end” of my prime. When we’re supposed to have it all together, and to part the seas for the younger, more viable women, that moment when we reach our social expiration date. One week before greeting my thirty-first year, I can say I’m just getting started. Time flows, and I’m following it right along.
Stark text, black-and-white. My father’s near-fatal car accident. An ocean away, there was nothing to do but feel, go to work, and continue living. And he survived.
My mom’s first visit to France. The energizing scent of travel hung around us as I joyously tugged her suitcase full of American goodies past that envelope by the door. As an afterthought, I opened the banal envelope that contained a bombshell: my deportation order. Stomach turned to lead, heart rushed up to my throat. My immediate thought: Oh, hell no. I’m not going anywhere. And I didn’t. All thanks to an overwhelming support system, whose reach extended further than I realized at the time.
There is always pressure.
The kind we artificially manufacture within ourselves, and the kind that is universal and ever-present, underlying everything we do in our “normal” lives.
My pressure emanates from within, a tactile reminder of my need to love, to express myself, to write. The love for my dearest people, for all humanity, is frantic to escape from me, in the best way I know how. I write.
The lump in my left breast compels me to release that love that desperately overflows from my heart, that my ego is often too afraid to reveal. It inspires fear, and yet defiantly releases me from that same dread.
Fear is our torch in the darkness. It’s our intimate friend, because it illuminates that which we treasure most.
Because behind the fear, there is nothing but love and acceptance.
I want to give joy and laughter to my loved ones.
I want to nourish people with my food.
I want to love my husband-to-be, my darling F, until the end of time.
Pressure boils within from this unwanted interloper, pushing my own raison d’être to the forefront.
Strip the fear away, and what does it mean?
To me, it means careful attention to each word, each gesture, each meal, each moment that becomes vibrant with urgency. Each moment I share with my students, my friends, my loves. When words fail, it comes out in song, in a smile, in food prepared with intention, in carnal desire for my F. Love finds any way it can to escape from my heart, despite my cowardly attempts to hold it back. What will people think if I go around, writing, loving, and speaking all willy-nilly? Normal people might find it strange.
But despite it all, in the face of fear, I have this undying urge.
What do you choose to do in these moments?