Hard to believe there are any edges left around here. What with the new sobriety, the daily attempt at spiritual practice (some days merely trying not to swear every other sentence or hate on slow drivers), I feel like a worn out old flannel shirt, dirty and tossed way down under the wet rags and muddy socks of life. Edges, those things that keep my vanity and pride humming along, can serve a purpose –a toughness in defense of precious littles, a determination and will to go on stepping, even through the concrete confusion of grimly long days. But it’s the softness that catches me by surprise.
Attending meetings daily opens my eyes to the beauty of softness. The edges all gone as people admit their foibles, their struggles, their deep dark shame. And I can see and love them for the brokenness and openness and humility without farce or false poise. They help me get over all the fighting words and fake courage of hip parenting, huge vocabulary-ed striving (well, almost).
And something else.
Softer is happier. Softer is relaxed and rested (and also admittedly weepy). Softer can be me and can be, sometimes for a flicker, okay.
****
Is there a link between clinging to our pre-parent selves and alcohol abuse?
And on a lighter note, seems the people can’t get enough of the push presents..
Softer is so much more comfortable.
Softer is so much stronger and leaves me with fewer regrets…even as it is harder, sometimes, in a particular moment.
I find it challenging during hard times to overcome the inner curmudgeon everything has left me with. So I also appreciate softer. What a lovely post, lovely expression.
Julie
Using My Words
Mmm, and if you can only apply that softer to yourself as well, think of how far you’ll go. And again, I have to say as the adult daughter of a divorced and remarried, recovering alcoholic (she’ll have 16 years in May) mom, I admire what you are doing and how early you took this step.
Softer and oh, so much stronger.
It’s a beautiful, heartbreaking world when our eyes let us see that way, isn’t it?
This reminds me of a startling conversation–and realization–I had several years ago, when my older two were just two and four years old. Before continuing, it’s important to note that I wore the following to my first-ever ‘well baby’ check-up for the eldest: a 20 year old black leather motorcycle jacket, black knee boots and leggings. I was so edgy I would’ve had a cigarette sloughing off my mouth if they’d have let me.
I was fretting about ‘losing my edge’ to a neighbor–someone I would’ve described as edgy or artsy, at least, a painter who wore gorgeous vintage dresses and tie-dye scarves, someone who carried an old sewing basket for a purse and actually really owned that motorcycle I seemed ready to ride.
This woman had also been trying to get pregnant for years. She never did.
So I’m fretting about staying cool, staying current, while the little ones romp; she says, “How do they benefit from your edge?” In case I was going to try to whip out something clever, she answers: “They don’t really benefit from your edge. At all.”
God Damn.
That was the beginning of the long slow slide, softer. She actually asked me to define ‘edgy,’ to shake down how much of that was posing, how much simply anger.
I think it’s much much easier to carry that edge than to be funny, smart, interesting, and up-to-date with some love handles and compassion. But I’m trying and am happy to see the subject brought up here!
Soft is the new Cool.