And point proven
This morning I woke up to a very cheery message. A friend of mine had delivered a baby girl. A tiny baby with curled fists and squished up toes and teeny nails. I haven't seen pictures but I imagine her to be pink and bald with chubby chipmunk cheeks.
A little baby. A little baby girl.
Around six years ago, I had visited this friend, Sara - I will call her, in Gurgaon. She was pregnant with her first baby then. (Who is also a beautiful little girl I have had the privilege of traveling with. She had once told me to stop singing her a lullaby.) Anyway, at that time Sara was pregnant and was wearing a loose t-shirt on which she had painted the phrase, "Unfold your own myth." (She is an artist and a beautiful person. I mean, she has the features of a goddess but there's a quiet, sing-song benevolence in her eyes and smile...like the first sunrise you wake up to after spending a night on a snowy mountaintop.)
We had hugged. I had spent a great time with her, celebrated a birthday there, etc. That phrase stayed in my head. "Unfold your own myth." I didn't quite understand what it meant.
But lately I had been thinking about what I believed about myself. One of the things was about consistency. That I am impatient, I lose interest in projects if there is no immediate pay-off, that I am attracted to the next shiny toy. But writing a post every day was me unfolding my myth.
I could be all those things - impatient, ad hoc, unreliable, easily distracted...and I could still be consistent. I could keep a promise I make to myself...my writer self. There are several writer selves. This writer self that I keep my promise to is quite sweet and humble. (The others are arrogant and wear their egoes like porcupine needles. But they protect this sweet and humble writer.)
Anyway, today I looked back at my blog and noticed that I have written every day. Every single day. Whether I published a post or not, I wrote.
That's one myth unfolded. On the day a little baby girl is born.
I think that's what daughters are (your own or anyone else's) - unfolder of myths.
A little baby. A little baby girl.
Around six years ago, I had visited this friend, Sara - I will call her, in Gurgaon. She was pregnant with her first baby then. (Who is also a beautiful little girl I have had the privilege of traveling with. She had once told me to stop singing her a lullaby.) Anyway, at that time Sara was pregnant and was wearing a loose t-shirt on which she had painted the phrase, "Unfold your own myth." (She is an artist and a beautiful person. I mean, she has the features of a goddess but there's a quiet, sing-song benevolence in her eyes and smile...like the first sunrise you wake up to after spending a night on a snowy mountaintop.)
We had hugged. I had spent a great time with her, celebrated a birthday there, etc. That phrase stayed in my head. "Unfold your own myth." I didn't quite understand what it meant.
But lately I had been thinking about what I believed about myself. One of the things was about consistency. That I am impatient, I lose interest in projects if there is no immediate pay-off, that I am attracted to the next shiny toy. But writing a post every day was me unfolding my myth.
I could be all those things - impatient, ad hoc, unreliable, easily distracted...and I could still be consistent. I could keep a promise I make to myself...my writer self. There are several writer selves. This writer self that I keep my promise to is quite sweet and humble. (The others are arrogant and wear their egoes like porcupine needles. But they protect this sweet and humble writer.)
Anyway, today I looked back at my blog and noticed that I have written every day. Every single day. Whether I published a post or not, I wrote.
That's one myth unfolded. On the day a little baby girl is born.
I think that's what daughters are (your own or anyone else's) - unfolder of myths.
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