I am enough

Emotional 𖤓

Here I sit, bowl of stew warming my left hand as I shovel with my right an assortment of mostly white vegetables recommended by Chinese medicine to fortify the lungs for the coming winter. I am preparing myself, like nature does, to return to the earth, to introspection, to letting die off those things that don't serve me well in favor of rebirth in the new year. And I've figured something out. I am enough.


It started, as do most of my musings, with words from one of my peeps, Suzanne, who through a series of events had developed the moniker, "I am enough." I don't think I asked enough questions to really understand what it meant to her, but the three words have rolled around my brain since last we lunched on the steps of the library at the local university. "I am enough," she declared with resolve.

It continued with a visit to an Oregon artist friend who lives in Ashland. Our visits are filled with food and friendship, and a touch of shared inspiration. We are always working on the next big writing project. "Maybe it's enough that I take photos and add poetry to them," I supposed. "Maybe there never was a book or anything bigger. Maybe what I do is enough." I said out loud what she had been chewing on all summer.

I even conjured up the courage to submit my photo-poetry pieces to a community college literary magazine, asserting the work is worthy of a category of its own. The editor accepted the submissions. I am enough.

And then this morning I cleared my calendar and actually have a day to write. A whole day uninterrupted. I went for a run, relaxed in yoga poses to counteract the pounding, had a good breakfast, finished some paper work and headed for the shower to begin my writing day. I "woke up" in the shower, well into the routine, finally coming into my body. I was hyperventilating--my predictable reaction to anxiety. Really? A perfect day and I'm hyperventilating. And then it hit me, "I am enough." There is a place deep inside that isn't so sure I am enough. That childlike place that rewrites history to prove it. And when I make time to write, that fear hampers my ability to catch my breath.

Yoga has taught me about breathing. It has taught me to send breath to places in my body that hurt on the inhale and release the pain and tension on the exhale. I'm pretty darn good at it after five or so years. And so I inhaled and sent my breath filled with "I am enough" to the catch in my lung. I exhaled and sent my breath filled with "I am not enough" out with it. Inhale and exhale. In goes enough, out goes not enough. Until the hyperventilating ceased.

It wasn't a huge surprise to rest my hands on the keyboard and find my fingers type my first words of the day, "I--a-m--e-n-o-u-g-h." No matter what I write. I am enough.