Mediocre. Less than. Not as good as I thought I was.
These are labels I've recently given myself.
The grounded spiritual being tells me all is okay, to live in this moment, to love.
And the wounded, restless stickler self-judge points out how I stumble.
I do my deeds, and I come up short again and again.
But I know, the fear of failure wakes me from my dreams.
So I push my boulder up this mountain.
All the while feeling my ship is lost in this life-sized ocean, racing towards the nearest ground, hoping The Lighthouse will save me from crashing.
But The Lighthouse is the crash.
And the crash is cracking me open.
And in the cracks, there I see myself.
Wild, and precious, and incurably human.