(a rather blunt and direct rendezvous with dear mind..)
So, I accept, I am not good enough!
Yes, I am not good enough a body you might usually be lusting after – none of the lanky legs and carrot waists and pear taut pink small breasts you might fantasize about, and keep exemplifying before me, making me feel like an undesirable, unfeminine piece of flesh.
Yes, I am not good enough a face you might dream of beholding – plastic perfect, fair white flawless, seductive eyes, sharpest nose, plumpest lips. Honestly? No, I am no possessor of all such good(s) enough, which you keep erecting before me, making me feel far less of a Goddess.
Yes, I am not good enough a brain who can solve, leave alone all arithmetic of life, even grocery bills, like the Einsteinian IQ geeks you keep propping up before me, making me like an Idiot and a lesser being!
Yes, I am not good enough a thinker or philosopher with the deepest mind, sharpest wit and sharper wink, who solves every existential question paper before time, who, I presume, you admire so avidly, making me feel so dumb and uninteresting.
Yes, I am not good enough a gifted genius, who can write the most profound poetry or paint the most realistic flesh and leaves or sing in the sweetest voice, from the tender age of whatever. No, I possess no such extraordinaire in me, like the creative genius and genii you chase, making me feel so useless and inadept.
Yes, I am not good enough an achiever, with international laurels on my brows and alumni seats in the hallowed halls of some Oxford, Cambridge, Harvard, Boston or Timbaktoo, like some apparently seen as ‘favored’ children of life, for whom alone you may prefer to reserve a seat right next to you in the theatre, making me feel I am just a lacklustre proletariat at the cineplex of life.
Yes, I am not even good enough a human, of the type who can ceaseless smile and silently sacrifice for all – or the sweetest thing on earth who can light up the room of your heart even without lighting a tiniest candle, like the unrealistic ones you keep worshipping, making me feel I am no Enchanting Sacred Priestess in my own way.
I accept, I am not good enough! – that is, if these are the qualifiers to be called good enough.
But qualifiers to what? To Life? To Love? To Joy? To Selfhood? To Dignity? Do I have to be “good enough”, more so in these enlisted ways, in order to be eligible to the unconditional oxygen supply to my lungs, or for the abundant beauty of this world to be granted to my eyes, or to find the warmth of a fireside and the quenching of a cool drink – or to celebrate myself and my life? – or for that matter if at all, even to be celebrated by others who know the real meaning of worthiness?
I accept, I am not good enough. I wear fatty chunks on various parts of my body. I openly sport freckles and greys and messy hair-dos and make-up less face and just comfy and no couture clothes. I am often confused to the core, trying to calculate the ifs and buts of life. I am no deep philosopher who you might only ‘sapiosex’ with, though albeit I am a sapiosexual myself. But for me, both the spirit and the flesh have their individual importance too, besides collaboration, and hence what may begin with ‘sapio’ may run down to (rather rise up to) just ‘sex’ too! And no, I am no seamless, hiccup-less, by default a natural demi-goddess in bed too, if that’s another of your qualifiers for ‘good enough’! No, I am no creative genius, and am merely toying around with scraps of ink and pastels, that too to mostly humour and catharsize myself. I am no sorted out saint or a Superwoman with no hang ups whatsoever. I am No Way the Best!
But, what the heck! So what if I am not the Best at anything? Am I not the Best version of Myself – the One and Only available copy of a book called ‘ME’ on the shelf?
And BTW – if I may add –
Perhaps these less-than-lanky legs and heavy waist needed to be exactly so, as they were meant to carry my unique journey’s weight through every roughest and smoothest roads of my life for almost past four decades and will continue to do so – and I am so proud of them for that!
Perhaps these embarrassing-for-many and less-then-pear-taut breasts deserve a bravery badge, and I really do not know how to call them ‘not good enough’, as they are still around, doing perfectly well, even after years of thoughtless groping and brazen abuses having scarred their softest heart like hell. I actually call my rather stretch-mark-wearing twins one hell of a Survivor!
This so called dullard head and duller IQ have been my friend (or, er..frenemy, but so what?) when almost everyone else had backed out from being around, hastily concluding that no good could ever come out of me. My less-then-admirable IQ helped me understand and assess the more valuable assets in life than a bloated head and IQ itself – perhaps the real value of a fuller plumper heart!
My less-than-a-philosopher mind is an Unique maze – at times astounding – at other times dysfunctional – but certainly I don’t find it the least uninteresting – I don’t know why you do – for it keeps me good company, when overseen by bit of a training, often pointing me more and more to the endless wonders and mysteries and lessons of life I am yet to understand. I am loving to learn befriending this ‘not good enough’ wonderful (and a bit messy) mind of mine more and more!
My pen? It gives me vent – and nourishment for my soul – and though I may never come up with a profound Nobel winning piece you may adore, yet my poetry reflects my innermost authentic heart to myself, and that itself is so so much good enough for me. My pen and I are best friends to the core!
My paintbrush? It’s like a kind neighbor, knocking on my door occasionally with a meagre pea soup when I am down with a flu, who need not churn up gourmet food to be valued and cherished. The strokes may taste amateur and unpalletable to many, but they bring out the colors of my Soul and nourish my inmost appetite. I am all for my crooked canvas strokes!
And oh! Yes, may be, this shoulder bearing my pesky achievements, lowly laurels and apparently less-than-bourgeois university badges may not urge many to greedily rub shoulders with mine, but these lacklustre shoulders – oh what precious friends they are! – forever carrying my unseen, unheard baggage and proud badges of toughest classroom lessons I learnt in school of my life. Tell you a secret? Even besides the metaphor, I think I am a bit in stupid Love with my real oldie ‘sholdie’ for the broadness of (besides heart) the bones it wears!
No, I definitely don’t ceaselessly smile bright, or pretend to. I cry often. I cry a lot, even at a drop of a hat at times – and I love my real pearldrops. They’re at times shinier, more crystal clear and brighter than the brightest damsel smiles.
No, I don’t make relentless sacrifice for the world. My foremost world is very small in diameter – its first citizen being Me myself. So I ensure I meet my own needs first and only then turn to giving to the world – be it my time, energy, heart, hand or whatever else. For I am sly enough to know I cannot pour from an empty cup.
And lastly, about lighting up your world without having even to light a candle, just with my feather-light presence and vivacious smile? Well, sorry, but I love to be Real and show you, my Love, even my darkest shadowy sides, and my totally knee-tottering Real vulnerable presence. Perhaps, you, my Love, just need to use a real candle to help your eyes find the immense brightness and treasure even in that raw, shadowy but unpretentious side of mine.
My body, with all its fats and creases and warts and wrinkles and signs of sunkissed ripe age, is good enough for Me!
My looks, however plain Jane, no-diva, far-from-picture-perfect, at times ruffled, at times rustic, but all times Real, are good enough for Me!
My brains, howmuchever weird and toasted, grilled and roasted, at times leading astray, at times busily counting penguin feet at bedtime, yet often quick to decipher a wonder here, a magic there all around me, are good enough for Me!
My gifts, however underused, rusting, un-achieving, underrated, overrated, crooked, clumsy, babyish, still learning while erring, are good enough for Me!
My story and the humble halls I walk, of all success and failures alike, are just perfect and good enough for Me!
To know that I AM Good enough, I DO NOT need to make it to some Premium Life (pun-intended) membership right now, nor to flaunt the neatest, fastest, fascinating catwalk on the ramp of life, figuring out my every itenary at the perfect ticktock of the Social Clock, nor need to whine and feel miserable and write myself off, if I see co-walkers zoom past me with more finesse and faster speed than I, or with a greater clarity and control from a much early age, chalk out, sort out, all the blueprint and architecture and mastery of how to “be” and “do-s” at their lives! After all, I AM not my co-walkers. It’s my story, my diary, my canvas, my colors, my hands, my eyes, my feet, my own gumboots, for God’s sake! And well, if all of these components are just mine and just about me, then – what the heck! I AM Good Enough for ME!
I AM Good Enough – as a human, as a woman, as a Divine expression of the Sacred Feminine – and the Masculine too, (which, btw, at times flippantly gets slammed as the ‘tom boy’ – but I Love that boy inside the girl in me too!) – I AM a Sacred Priestess, a wildchild of Mother Earth, a Beloved of Life, Whole and Complete, and yet paradoxically, working out my Unique Expression of that Perfection ever so increasingly, through all the sunshine and mud-patches of this journey with this whatever ‘ME’!
I AM Good Enough as ‘ME’!
I am Perfectly Beautiful as ‘ME’!
I am a Unique One Piece Wonder of Life, and my only calling to such an incomparable gift from above is to Just Happily Be ‘ME’! – while simply working at becoming a better expression of ‘ME’, at the most.
So, there, mister mind, I rest my case.
Take care, dear mind (and overthink a bit less!)
Author & © : Nivedita Dey, 2017
Image courtesy & © : [featuring three contemporary women artistes with a subaltern and non-stereotypical take on Selfhood – Helena Wierzbicki from Buenos Aires, the Iraqi artiste Wassama Al Agha and the Polish painter Emilii Wilk] © individual artistes & Source websites