The Parts I Hate

 

 

I just read this lovely post by Elizabeth Gilbert. I won’t go into its particulars, as she covers the territory so beautifully and sweetly and funnily that I needn’t add a thing.

 

But can I just say a little something about timing? I happened upon this post yesterday morning. And I had just been going over some thoughts and feelings about myself that were, well, less than love-filled. And while I am constantly in awe of the way the universe brings hope my way (this time in the form of the Gilbert post), I am not surprised. Not anymore. Because once I started paying attention to the magic of this world, it began appearing more regularly. Or maybe it was always there, only I wasn’t. There, I mean.

 

Today I am present. In my skin and in my mind. And thanks to Elizabeth Gilbert, I get to see myself and the parts I ordinarily hate a little differently. With love.

 

I’ll take it.

Tea & Philosophy

 

 

This bit of wisdom was waiting for me with my cuppa yesterday: “Use soft words and hard arguments.” ~ English Proverb

 

I’m the type of gal who looks for inspiration around every corner and beneath every stone. I am often rewarded with more than I bargained for. More than once I’ve found myself crying – gratefully – in response to some little grace provided by the Universe. Just when I needed it. The medium of the message varies – radio, books, magazines, conversation, fortune cookies, tea bags – which keeps life interesting. And surprising.

 

I’m not sure how yesterday’s tea message applies right now, but I’ve got it in the back of my brain – just in case.

ThankYouVeryMuch

 

 

The other morning, Mister and I were smack-dab in the middle of our P90X workout when I realized that for a particular weight-lifting exercise, I was getting into an Elvis pose. That itty-bitty thought made me giggle, which made the workout a bit easier. (Laughter – it does a body good.)

 

Later that afternoon, I was standing in a grocery store check-out queue when I spotted a tabloid headline saying something to the effect that Elvis had been murdered. I was checking out the tabloid’s coffin photo of The King when I noticed a gentlemen in line beside me.

 

His clothes were nice but nondescript. The only interesting thing about his attire was the way his collar was turned up. He was a slight man, his full height barely reaching an inch or so above my shoulder. And he was elderly. But none of that was worth noting. What was worth a second look was the man’s hair: it was a full-on Elvis wig. And that thing wasn’t fancy, no sir. No spendy human hair there. It was made of plastic doll hair, pitch black and a little matted in spots. When I stole a peek at the sideburns, I could see the glue on his cheeks, holding them in place. More than one clerk addressed him by name, so he’s surely a regular. No one said a word about his get-up. Instead, he kept trying to talk football with someone. It was all I could do to keep my mouth shut and not say I’d watched the weekend’s games. But I didn’t open my pie-hole. I just let the old dude finish his shopping and take his leave.

 

Sometimes I have odd magnetic days like that. I’ll have something particular dancing around on my brain, and before you know it I’ll have run into that very thought in multiple manifestations out in the world. It’s just something that happens, and if there’s a greater meaning in it, I’ve yet to understand.

 

As for this week’s Elvis wave, all I can say to the Universe is ThankYou, ThankYouVeryMuch.