Learning to Fling

One of the greatest highs I’ve ever felt, and perhaps the best lesson ever presented to me (more about that later) — and I’m not sure if I should classify this particular high as chemical or emotional, but then again don’t those two things usually inhabit our lives like some spooky image of conjoined twins on a tarot deck? — was when my son would yell Mama, run across the room, and fling himself joyfully into my arms when I’d arrive to pick him up from preschool. He loved being there to play with children his own age but he loved me more. The other mothers shrouded their jealousy in whispered accusations of separation anxiety as their children begged to be allowed to stay just a little while longer. I wasn’t any kind of perfect mother worthy of their jealousy, (if you have half a day next Saturday I’ll serve you coffee and pastry and treat you to a list of almost everything I did wrong or executed poorly as a mother), but he knew I loved him. He still does. He doesn’t think I’m perfect but he knows I’d open a vein for him if it were needed. So that lesson I mentioned… Can we love ourselves this same way? Can we greet ourselves with that same unfettered joy every damn day? Can we revel in the fact that we’re still here, still trying, still willing to be in this thing called life, and perhaps more importantly trying to do it in a way that doesn’t harm ourselves or others? Can we look up when we notice our own imperfections — whether they’ve been pointed out to us or they’re part of our own self-destructive mantra — and still run towards ourselves with acceptance and love? Can we be willing to metaphorically open a vein for ourselves — not to escape this world — but to mine the ore of gratitude and wonder that we have been given the opportunity to be a unique being here, now in this lifetime? It’s a tall order but then again if a preschooler can do it maybe we can too.