I Am Liking Myself
“It doesn’t matter what you do,” I will tell my children, “as long as you like yourself better than you like most other people.”
“It doesn’t matter what you do,” I will tell my children, “as long as you like yourself better than you like most other people.”
Four tablespoons, give or take, of pure, undiluted mayonnaise.
As bags are grabbed and knots are lost
And papers stowed away unread
The ship approaches final berth
The clouds behind, the sun ahead
Most people say that I shouldn’t let anything hold me back from doing great things. But I don’t have much desire to do great things. What are great things without the small things?
I stood ten feet away from Kate Stables in the front row of an audience that barely totaled twenty people, and yet This Is the Kit wasn’t playing for us. They didn’t even know we were there.
And I realized these are the first things: not medals or adventures, but the cinch of laces around a foot and reliable slide of mud and bitter perfume of sweat rising like smoke off shoulders.
The last time I knew who I was I had acne, four AP classes, and a Bible in my senior photos.
We stood on an extension of a natural butte, but under the topsoil was a thousand feet of trash.
Whenever I tell people about this hunting trip, about my family’s tradition for the past ten years, I share it with a blend of defiance, pride, and defensiveness.
A few days later I was back in Seattle and it felt like coming home, like jumping into your bed’s cold sheets and warming them as you fall asleep. I feel bad about that, for loving two places at once.