self-acceptance – Voice With A Purpose

A tender heart. A slightly suspicious sense of humor. There’s room for both.

Page one of Casey Edwards’s essay on ivory parchment framed with lavender, sage, gold flourishes, a paper hat, and a glitter lamp. A readable text version follows the parchment pages. — Page 1 of 2 · Tap the parchment to enlarge

Page two of Casey Edwards’s essay, including One Quiet Question and the porch-light closing, on matching lavender-and-gold parchment. A readable text version follows. — Page 2 of 2 · Tap the parchment to enlarge

Read the essay as text

If wisdom ever comes to live with me, I hope it understands the arrangements.

There will be pretty paper. There will probably be glitter in places where glitter has no practical reason to be. And occasionally, in the middle of a perfectly meaningful conversation, I will say something that makes us both lose our place.

Wisdom is welcome to pull up a chair.

It should probably check the seat first.

I have a tender heart and a slightly suspicious sense of humor. Both would like to be included.

I care deeply. I think about things long after the conversation ends. I want people to feel heard, and I want the things I make to carry a little warmth into somebody’s day.

I also want a glitter-filled lava lamp and the freedom to find certain situations absolutely ridiculous.

This feels like a reasonable combination.

There is something lovely about being around a person who lets you be your whole peculiar self. You can tell them what hurts. You can also send them something completely foolish with no explanation beyond, “I knew you would understand.”

And they do.

They understand the serious thing you said yesterday and the nonsense you are offering today. They have room for both.

I want to give myself that kind of welcome.

Sometimes I catch myself trying to make every word useful. Every creation meaningful. Every little moment worthy of being held up and examined for what it might teach us.

Meanwhile, some small, unruly part of me is in the back of the room making a paper hat.

I am beginning to think she has a point.

Perhaps I could make something simply because it delights me. Write a sentence because I enjoy the way it tumbles out. Follow an odd little idea around the corner and see what it has been up to.

The dishes would still be there afterward. They have always been remarkably loyal.

And I might come back to them having enjoyed a few minutes of my own company.

That matters to me.

I want to feel comfortable enough in my own skin for my humor to arrive without being carefully introduced. To laugh before checking whether everyone else thinks it is funny. To let a little silliness interrupt the endless committee meeting in my head.

Some days, that meeting could use an interruption.

Possibly a kazoo.

So, if you come sit with me, bring your heart. Bring whatever you have been carrying and whatever you are still trying to find words for.

And if you have a ridiculous story, an unreasonable affection for something sparkly, or a laugh that occasionally turns into a snort, you can bring that, too.

We will make room.

Wisdom can scoot over.

One Quiet Question

What little bit of your personality would you like to give more room to play?

There is room for your mischief alongside your heart.

The porch light is on. Someone may have added glitter.

The genie grants you a wish. What is it?

First, I would have questions.

Does the genie understand context? Are there hidden fees? Is this one of those situations where I wish for peace and suddenly become a decorative rock in someone’s garden?

Because I would like to remain a person. Preferably one with access to coffee and pretty stationery.

Once we settled the details, I think I would sit with the question for a while.

One wish is a lot of responsibility.

There are bills I could name. Places I would love to see. People I would give almost anything to sit beside again. And yes, the thought of waking up in a body that doesn’t immediately present me with a list of complaints is very tempting.

But I think my wish would sound something like this:

I wish to feel at home in my own life.

I would like to wake up and let the morning arrive before the worrying does.

To make plans with a little more confidence. To enjoy a good moment without quietly preparing for what might follow it. To sit in a chair because it is comfortable and the light is lovely, and stay there long enough to notice both.

I would like more room for curiosity.

What happens if I try this? Where does that little road go? Could I write something strange and wonderful just because it delights me?

I want to laugh so hard I lose the story I was telling.

I want to use the beautiful journal instead of saving it for thoughts I have decided are worthy of the paper.

I want to recognize myself in the life I am making—and feel welcome there.

The genie might scratch his head.

“That’s a complicated wish.”

“I know,” I would tell him. “Have a seat. I’ll put the kettle on.”

And while the water heated, I might open that journal.

There would be something satisfying about making a start before the magic arrived.

One Quiet Question

If you had one wish entirely for yourself, what would you finally ask for?

There is room for you here—and for the wishes you have barely let yourself say aloud. The porch light is on.

Tag: self-acceptance

Room for Your Mischief Alongside Your Heart

One Quiet Question

One Wish, With a Few Clarifications