The gift of honoring myself

I am talking to my friend Bill about what is troubling me, he has had enough therapy in his life, I sometimes think, that his advice is usually spot on, and very insightful.  He is also a very intelligent and compassionate man so this helps too.  The problem for me is fear, I am scared sometimes of being in this new relationship.  It is hard when I have been hurt so badly not just by the fact that I put so much work into my marriage ultimately for nothing, but the manner in which he left, with little warning, with no outward signs of remorse, with no further contact whatsoever, cold, heartless and cruel.  The problem for me is that the Pirate is the first man I have met since the end of my marriage, who has a certain something intangible about him that I find extremely attractive.  I hold myself back because I don’t want to fall too hard, I tell Bill the ex husband hurt me and as I say it my voice cracks and the tears well up in my eyes, he hurt me badly I say, like no one ever has, and I cannot allow that to happen again.  I worry about the Pirate I tell Bill, I worry about protecting my heart, I struggle with trust.  We decide, we two that the best thing I can do really is give the Pirate a gift, the gift of trusting him not to be like the ex husband.  The gift of not holding one man’s sins against another.  The gift of allowing it to progress as it progresses, and of letting this man be who he is without my notion of what should be or could be or might be.  It is suddenly easy to face my fears when I look at it this way, it is the gift of honoring this man, the one that is right in front of me.

This is a gift of compassion.

Yesterday in the heat I painted the door to my studio purple.  When Morgan came home I ask her what she thinks and she said do the front door too.  I replace a light bulb that has been out for over three years (read I had asked the ex to do it but he never bothered too), hefting the heavy ladder by myself.  I handle it on my own feeling proud of my strength, taking pleasure in the muscles in my arms.  I hang the deep sound bamboo chimes, a tree of life, a copper sun, and elephants on the wall of the side porch.  I dye two shirts purple for my pirate costume, I clean the bathroom, I am hot and sweaty, but I wait until Morgan is here to move the ladder to the back porch roof.  I clean out a clogged gutter and sweep the shedding bark of the sycamore off the roof.  I feel this thing inside me, as though I treasure myself, nurture myself, and take care of myself.  It is a feeling of deep inner strength, of strength of spirit, of, once again, leaving behind the critical voice of one who clearly thought very little of me, or maybe himself.  And of the person who let him stand in judgment of me, who let him treat me like a servant, who let him dishonor me.

There is a point when you must honor yourself.

This is a gift of compassion.

Purple Door

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