I’ve been slowly pruning myself for years. I think we all do this, as we gain a sense of self, we begin to observe others’ selves, internalizing the things we are told are valuable, gross, lovely, weird. I remember at first it was bad to be weird. Sixth grader with the weird jeans? Nope, go to American Eagle and fit in! Your hair does that weird cowlick thing? Ugh, style it better! But then high school hit and it was like, cool to be weird and like, random! Like, so unique! But not TOO unique.
Enter.. adulthood? Or maybe the Societal Hum of the Importance of Normalcy’s Link to Success got a little too loud? I can’t pin point the timing, but somewhere along the line my pruning shears became quite sharp, and I slowly began to shave off bits of myself that felt like overgrowth. Too much oddness, too much emotional expression, too much caring. I wanted so badly to fit into the mold set out for me, to be seen as all the good things and none of the bad. To not rock the boat too much, just enough that it’s cute and quirky. To not let my ideas be too out there, just different enough to be ‘good.’ It was ultimately fear that motivated me to sharpen my shears. Fear of being over the top, of not being right, of disapproval. I could hear my fears stir from slumber in the subtle language of peers, misguided reprimands, my own inner critic, and that damn Societal Hum! Instead of my oddities being cultivated into twisting vines to adorn myself with, all of these sharp blades just snipped them at the roots. So I burned the underbrush and polished myself shiny. I cut back the wilderness and presented a well manicured garden. Sometimes I wonder how marvelous I would have looked if my vines had become overgrown. Instead of getting caught in that lovely what-if, I’ve decided to go in search of those roots, pull them to the surface and encourage them again. To vibe off of Mary Oliver’s idea of the three selves, I want to chew my life as a child well in my savage teeth. I think it is then that my third self can flourish, can continue hungering for eternity with the hope of grasping it. That self requires solitude at times, occasionally darkness, often nostalgia. She aches amid injustices large and small, and will absolutely cry for what seams like no reason. Allowing her what she requires is often frightening and uncomfortable. It means taking risks and waking the fears from their slumber. It means letting the madness of overgrowth bear fruit. So. If you see me being a little funky, a little absurd, a little twisted and covered in vines, just let me grow.
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