This post is not at all about my hair, I promise. Except to say that I can remember my mom curling it with rags and an iron for holidays. She did this to me; trained it to misbehave like it does now, passed down this curse of curliness.
I’ve been looking through old photos the past couple days and, as often happens, I’m moved to write by something I find among them. My memory was tickled by images of platinum blonde hair and blue eyes, the cheesy baby-teeth grins, sun-touched skin, one of my brothers often with his hand in mine, a mind and body always moving and full of ideas; the daydreamer I am so obvious then.
I search in the mirror for that little girl now. I want to tell her that she has many gifts to offer and that fine things will unfold for her. She’ll need reminding one day that she’s a treasure, that she’s loved and cherised beyond words, that she’s smart and capable and that it’ll all be ok, no matter what happens.
Somewhere along our journey in life, many of us lose our resilience or forget that we are loved, that we’re not too much, that the world will carry and hold us and keep our hearts safe.
I don’t know what there is to bring back the feeling of being held in the most generous, open-handed of care as when we were children, but I believe that a part of our hearts spends a lifetime trying to get back to that beginning, back to that feeling of self-worth and total acceptance. And that joy; simple and uncomplicated.