The drizzling rain outside from a passing tropical system will for sure help my flowers grow.
A couple years ago, Florida went through such a drought that the water in many shallow ponds dried up, leaving mud and a stench of dead fish.
The buzzards had a feast.
Heartbroken at the dried pond that once inspired poems, I prayed that Florida would get rain, and never be that dry again.
Pineapples. I picked one of the three I have been growing and noticed it is tiny and has, as of yet, no smell.
Either I picked it too soon, or perhaps, it did not get enough water. (It is on the side of the farm that has no irrigation.)
The rains did not come early enough to sustain it, I guess.
Anyway. Or as my Dad always says, “anyhow.”
Had a conversation with a fellow survivor yesterday, a person I will likely interview someday on my Youtube channel (which will be aimed at helping other survivors of sexual abuse.)
Conversations help us grow and understand the world around us, and understand ourselves.
I was telling this person how in every facet of my life, I often think that others think less of me because in my heart I tell myself I am not good enough at whatever it is I am trying to do.
This person blew my mind when they said I need to start my own channel and really get involved in sharing my own story, and also having conversations on healing, creative living, overcoming, PTSD, spirituality, and so forth.
As I see it, this endeavor would definitely not be one of those “hey I have all the answers” kind of things. Because I don’t.
This person shared with me their struggles with a variety of life elements and said they would for sure appreciate a channel dedicated to that.
I went away from that conversation, in the midst of a terrible approaching storm outside, realizing this:
If I am going to be able to bless others with kindness, I’d better start being kind to myself.
That means “speaking life” over myself.
The counselor I was seeing a few years back asked me if I would treat a small child the way I treat myself.
If someone compliments me, I am quick to brush it off. My spirit says to me “You ain’t all that, don’t believe it.” Growing up, one person in my family said “the world does not revolve around you, butt out” when I would try to join conversation.
So there was that.
I had aspirations of being a writer, and another person said “don’t give up your day job,” when I was in middle school.
(Well I did eventually write for a living, working for years, and still do, in the news industry.)
As an adult, daily I have to confront the lack of confidence and also the disdain I have for myself.
Why do we survivors hate ourselves?
That is a conversation for another day.
Being kind to myself is recognizing that God gave me unique gifts, that my artsy and creative side is not a curse, that whether I am wearing makeup, not wearing makeup, whether my shoes match my outfit or whether I am the only one in the room with cheap shoes, whether I am energetic or depressed, feeling fun or basically, drained, whether I succeed or fail at my attempt to face this day with a smile, whether I know much on a subject or little, it is OK.
Being kind to myself means that I give myself permission to relax and quit attacking myself, while also noting my struggles and things I need to work on.
It means my list of things I approve about myself grows.
And that approval is based solely on what God and myself think of me.
And not what I assume others are thinking.
There are days when I succeed at this, and as such, am nicer to others.
I have a cat at my elbow.
Happy Sunday, all.