Dignity Floats

Never allow yourself to be treated in a way that you know to be wrong.

People will slither into the crevices of your privacy in ways that you didn't see coming, through the tiniest slits in your being. They will ask questions of you when you are vulnerable and latch onto your forced answers like an ant latches onto a fallen bread crumb. Aha, there it is - hold on tight, little humpback. Yes, ants and people alike will do that. Latch on, hatch on, question answer, what's that you say, Case letter A? But no, I'm Rachel, not Case A or Case B. I live and I laugh, I write and I muse, I eat and I pray. I am here, I am dear, and I know this much is true.

As the always brilliant Ms. Winfrey states, what I know to be true is this. I have been up and I have been down, as have many of us. I have carried the weight, and the lack thereof, of adulthood... at times well, at others less well. The ups and downs of the strife of life and just that: phases of waves of strength and weakness. I know this much is true. And here I sit, stand, and lay down and out in a lower tidal wave, wading my way out slowly but surely. My floaties still work, my umbrella still stands, the waves are strong but so is my soul. The sand is dark and wet under my still pedicured toes and on it I trod on, toward the shore of Fifth Avenue and 27th streets. The sand there is firmer and drier, and the waves don't roll, they stop on Madison.

Here I sit, here I pivot, here I lean and jump over the puddles, small and fierce, determined and tired. I can jump and run, but I need a floatie at the end of the journey, as do we all. For isn't that the journey, the roll tide of life, the sand beneath my feet, and the green grass that flows underneath the flight of the beautiful white heron of my soul. That is the journey, my friends, the unstraight and unnarrow, the fleeting moment of existence that we call life. We drift up and down, and we do our best.

I know this much and I know this much is true: I do my best, I cannot do more.  The heron flies above me, in the aisles of the grocery store, at the beach, in the trenches and twirls of my mind. She flies gracefully, stroking my hair and cheek, squeezing my sometimes fleshier than others, pulkies, and pasting my cheeks. Her wrinkly elegantly ballet slippers manicured hand holds mine in hers, her rings now gracing the fingers of my own hand instead of hers. They are beautiful rings, yet I long to take them off and put them back on the darker, older fingers of the now flying white heron,

Never let anyone treat you in a way you know is not right. "You always have your breath." the blonde banged dove waxes. "You always have your dignity." the brunette wise woman reminds herself.

That is right. Never ever let anyone compromise your dignity.

The sand is hot and the waves are strong, the concrete jungle is angry and the train cars packed. But your dignity lives on, your breath maintains.

Be still, be true, hold onto you.

Love,
Rachel