I shall make this post brief or it won’t happen I’ve had a hard time writing my blog.  I feel almost queasy about writing a blog. It’s not because I don’t want to write one, but because there’s so much I’m thinking about, so much I’m feeling, so much I’m struggling to put into place that I feel, well…fraudish.

I talk about self-acceptance.

I talk about self-esteem.

I talk and talk and well, sometimes it’s just talk.

The truth is I’ve really wrestled with…me…lately. Wrestling with who I am and what I expect and what I deep down believe.

I’m so good at empowering others. I tell everyone else to be nice to themselves. To love yourself. To be kind to yourself. And then in the privacy of my own home–and mind–I beat the hell out of me. And it hurts. As well as being exhausting.

I’ve been so mad at myself for not writing more. For not going hungry more. And running more. For not slipping back into a tiny, tan, successful, glorious version of me…a version I’m not sure even, or ever, existed. But that’s what my tricky mind remembers and that’s what I must do to what…sell a book? Be loved? Be happy?

And so I’ve had endless conversations with myself, probably more than I should, probably more than what is safe and sane. But during one of these fierce conversations I had this ephihany—I’m going to get there.

It’s just going to be slow.

Maybe really slowly. Perhaps even painfully slowly. But maybe its okay to be a turtle. Maybe the slow crawl will get me the same results the sprint would. Maybe. And even if not, its where I am now.

Creeping along. Trying hard. Doing my best. And seeing a lot of the same scenery. I suppose one really gets to appreciate the scenery when you’re not racing, or breathless, or fighting a side ache.

I once enjoyed being  the sprinter. I felt smug, the clever hare bounding along, dashing over the heads of turtles, grinning as I shot from here to there. Well, that Jane’s gone. Don’t know if she’ll ever come back.

So I’ve spent the last nine days learning to love the turtle in me and say things like “good turtle”, “lovely turtle”, “just keep going, turtle.” You see, there’s not a lot of glamour in being a turtle but if I get to the end…and don’t give up…I’ll have the journey and the success.

And maybe peace of mind.

I’ve a special gift for one of my commentors. I’ll draw a name Wednesday night and post the winner’s name Thursday morning. It’s a fun package….you’ll like it. I want it. But it’s for one of you, so remember if you post a comment, check back on Thursday to see if you won!

Last Friday I cooked my first meal in my kitchen and last night my son Jake baked a cake.  The kitchen is ours.  The house is nearing completion.  Most of the work remaining is on the library (I converted the living room to a true library…dark paneling, floor to ceiling bookshelves and wonderful crown and base) and the mud hole which is my yard. 

I once had a beautiful garden but back hoes have cleared, scraped and reduced the side and back yard to mud.  The most painful part of the remodel was losing some of my beloved Japanese maples.  I was told they’d be saved but they weren’t.  In fact, there was no attempt to save which I didn’t find out until it was too late. 

I look forward to spring when I can begin replanting.  Hopefully I can establish a new garden and nurture and shape new trees and flowering shrubs and find a spot for a cutting garden.  I don’t have a really sunny lot, not with all the big cedars dotting my yard and the neighbors.  But I love trees, and am beginning to love the new house.  Cooking in the kitchen helped.  Making lasagna and chili and all the family favorites helps.  There’s been so much change in the past year that I find myself longing for things that are familiar.  Calming.  Comforting.

Which brings me to me.  And my personal house…my body/shape/self-esteem.  Whenever I mention my weight or my desire to get back in shape, I get some interesting emails.  People who criticize me for being shallow, or image obsessed.  People who don’t want me to care so much about getting my pre-baby body back.

But I have a right to feel comfortable in my own personal house.  I have a right to want to feel a certain way.  We all do.  And I won’t be bullied or shamed or chastised for saying I’m more comfortable smaller,  or leaner, or fitter.   Our lives as women are filled with demands and stresses and emotional responsibilities and psychological hurdles.  Being strong helps me handle the pressure.  Being fit helps me cope.  Mentally, emotionally, physically.   My father died at 43.  I’ll be 46 next month.  If me being lighter or leaner or stronger helps me feel better about my mortality, then allow me to celebrate my physical ideal because there’s no right weight.  There’s no right body shape.  There’s no one way to be. 

But there is a way not to be.  Unhappy.  Insecure.   Haunted by self-hatred.

We are each responsible for making sure we’re joyful.  Peaceful.  Positive.  It’s not a one shot thing.  It’s not a hit the goal and you’re done.  It’s a daily thing.  It’s a weekly thing.  It’s a life thing.

To work towards joy.  To work towards self-acceptance.  To aim for our personal best.

We’re not going to always succeed.  But we don’t fail if we don’t give up.

So take care of your personal house, that body that takes care of you.  Give it the good stuff.  Give it rest.  Give it love.  We don’t have forever.  But we don’t need forever if we live fully each day.