what i know

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I know that I'm not alone in this, the comparing of myself to others. I know that because you've told me, and also because I do believe it is a hallmark of humanity --mostly female humanity-- but then again maybe the male set has their own version of comparison.

Anyway.

Yesterday afternoon found me in my parents' living room. (We sort of secretly commenced the Tri-State Drive of Crazy the other day and tucked ourselves in to my parents' place in Utah for the Thanksgiving Holiday. This trip was somewhat uneventful, in our repertoire of Tripping History, so it remained unblogged. Which wasn't so much a problem in itself except that now you have me writing a strange parenthetical that is far too long and far too run-on to be considered Good Writing. But now you know: Whimsy is blogging from the Great Land of Utah for the weekish -and change-. End parenthetical.)

So yesterday? I was sitting in my parents' living room while Bean amused herself by pretending that Chip's body was a jungle gym. Chip was trying to do some work on his computer while Bean rolled over his back again and again. The snow that had been falling off and on since Saturday night had gathering like white icing across the foliage. I was taking brief turns to watch Chip and Bean and then to read up on some of my favorite blogs (read: compare, compare, think, compare, laugh, compare). It made me tired to compare like that, to wonder how I might craft my writing to be more effortless, to pack more meaning in to short paragraphs (impossible), to encourage you to feel good - to share - to teach me how to be braver and stronger and more patient and above all to not be afraid to say This Is Who I Am.

But it was that last one that brought me up short. Because there are things I know for sure, and one of them is this: I may not always be eloquent, I may not say it using the right words every time, but I am not afraid to say that this is who I am. My voice may waver, shaking in the delivery, and I might even cry while I say it, but the words are here to read--- no matter who you are or how you decide to translate them--- the words are here. Sometimes I am grumpy. Sometimes I am short of patience. Sometimes I have too much to say. Sometimes I fumble for any words at all. But the words are here. I will not erase them or change them even if I look back and feel twinges of grief for things I've said before. They tell the story of who I was in that moment, even if it's terrible to behold.

I may not know a lot of things, but I know that I have tried, to the best of my ability, to be true to you dear reader. And that's comforting, even in the midst of comparison shopping for a better self.

Tell me something you know.