Maybe it is enough that you are not perfect, that despite your imperfections you have moved me through this life perfectly. Maybe it is enough that these are boys shoulders because I’ve had a lot to carry lately, a lot of heavy shit, but these arms and this body have proven they can carry anything. Maybe it is enough that these legs have walked me to the edge and back, that these hands have been a conduit for my wildest imaginations, that this stomach is gutsy, that this body is home.
Maybe this anxious heart is good enough. Maybe it deserves a place on my sleeve instead of kept in this closet of my chest like a secret. Maybe there is no shame in this erratic pulse, in these frozen hands, only questions, only answers, only truths. Maybe you were just telling me something I didn’t want to know – that I could only outrun what I was afraid of if I ran forever, that I had to slow down, turn around, and face the worst of it head on, that the only way out was through. Maybe I had to run out of gas before I could appreciate all the connective tissues through which mind and body are so intricately linked, before I could understand that what I really needed was less gasoline and more roots, that I couldn’t grow into anything until I grew into myself.
Maybe it is enough to feel everything wildly. Maybe it is enough to stop worrying about propriety and respectability and just scream at the top of my lungs every once in a while. Maybe I should have kicked this door open a long time ago instead of triple checking the locks. Maybe I was terrified of all this power you’d given me; maybe I felt like a girl trying to bottle the ocean; maybe I should have left my jar on the shore and gone out with the tides instead.
Maybe it is enough to breathe and be, breathe and accept, breathe and let go. Maybe it is enough to feel the sun on my neck, to smell the abundance of summer, to listen for the cardinals and the robins and the bluejays, to taste the tangerine tea, to see everything in front of me for exactly what it is.
Dear body, maybe thank you isn’t enough. Maybe settling into each moment is the best apology I can ever give you for all the ways I’ve tried to tear myself to shreds. Maybe I should season you with gratitude for enduring my worst. Maybe these are the feet at which I’m supposed to lay my godless devotion down.
Maybe it is enough, my dear.
Maybe it is all enough.