I used to go into a slight panic when I had to dress up to go out. An event to impress requires a dress. Or “slacks” that flatter and don’t make me look fatter. I’d pull something together eventually and think, “This is the only decent outfit I own.”
I have two closets with clothing in them. Some of the stuff is summer wear. Yea, some of it wouldn’t fit while I was pregnant, as well as afterwards. But do you really believe any other time it was the only outfit I had? Because I don’t.
I have notice this “only one” feeling has applied to my writing too. I’d write a really great piece and then not want to let it go unless it was the perfect place to publish. Because it’s the only good article I will ever write. I seem to feel desperate and clingy about my good life moments. Like it’ll never happen again.
Then I recognized this was a record skipping. Lack of abundance keeping me from a continuance to the more room. Permission to have. Permission to be. Permission to let go of a definition that no longer serves, if it ever did. Permission to know there’s more that will come after you’ve used that one.
Only when we live in the fear that we ‘don’t have’, do we hoard and over-indulge and still end up feeling empty and lacking. I used to think you’d discover I was the poor cheap untalented failure I secretly knew I was, these days I have indisputable proof that at least a couple of people feel differently. Including me. And that’s a mighty fine view to see.
I have come a long way. Even from I’m a Square Me in My Round LIfe, a post that shows I can hit some low notes and come through carrying the lessons I was meant to gather. (Plus there’s an actual picture of me featured in one of those “one outfits”. I recently finally got back to that same size, the one I was when I got pregnant.)