Loving yourself takes time.
I didn’t know not exactly, not until this moment.
I never believed brushing aside the possibility of happy.
Tomorrow, tomorrow and tomorrow I’ll embrace the quirks and eccentrities.
Funny time wasted. Not funny.
This end of April Sunday close to May, I stand at the fault line.
The compost pile is toppling from all the shit dumped over the years.
I don’t know about you, maybe you were born over-confident.
A chest puffer.
Never had to overthink it, actually liked spending time in your own company.
Didn’t fret about how you looked in a full length mirror, crap you never even owned one.
Happy, no worries. Happy, never mind the worries. Happy, because it feels better.
And maybe you weren’t born with a twelve pack but a Buddha belly and when you laughed it was honest from the gut, and your smile was fuchsia electric.
I’ve known people like that, really I have.
Well one that I can think of.
I wonder if Angelina Jolie is a brooder like me?
Angelina was the first perfect human that came to mind.
Let’s see, Buddha belly person is happy for realz, never asking, wanting or needing much of anything.
Seriously, just the jubilee of living and giving are enough.
I can’t speak for Angie but I wonder if she wears Crocs, doesn’t bother to shower or sits in the grass simply because she likes the way it feels against her unshaven, hairy-for-days legs.
I can’t help but wonder, curiosity careens through the wrinkles I now possess,
and the dirt under my fingernails from digging the earth.
I like how my back aches, moss green hands throb and sweat trickles down my neck.
I like that Jeff Buckley is blasting haunting, melodic melodies directly into my brain.
I like that this moment I am absolutely present just him and me, in fifty degrees that is neither scorching nor too cold uncomfortable but smack dab in the middle.
I like to use clichés, that make me happy no matter how incorrect or passe.
I like the physical task of creating something, something real.
That is the closest I’ve come to happy.
To loving myself.
On this end of April Sunday close to May, I stand at the fault line.
Grow your garden.