Present Over Perfect

The temperature’s dropping as the sun dips behind the
clouds. I feel like I’ve sat on every bench in this entire
camp, and at the same time, I feel like I never want to leave.
Tomorrow I’ll walk for coffee, maybe, early, in the cool of
the dewy morning. And then I’ll find another bench, maybe
an entirely new one, and my laptop and I will settle in for as
long as it takes.
I used to be afraid that I was hollow somehow, that I
only existed if someone could see me and hear me, like a
toddler playing peek-a-boo. My whole life was an elaborate
attempt at never having to be alone with myself. But the
invitations kept coming, grace upon grace, to leave things
behind, shed old skins, release long-held brokennesses, and
when I finally walked away from all those things, there I
was, alone with myself, and what I found astounded me: I
wasn’t afraid at all. More than that, instead of being afraid,
or hollow, or nothing at all, what I found was strength. I
found an unshakable core of love and passion and desire to
make the world better. I found focus and a sense of power
I’d never known.
This is the great anomaly of it: we cling to these
structures because we think they are what keep us safe—as
if we’re bugs who need exoskeletons, shells outside of
ourselves to protect us. But when you start to understand
how strong you are, you realize that you don’t need a shell
at all. The inside is strong and secure, and doesn’t need to
be shielded by all those other things—performance,
proving, busyness. There is nothing left to be shed, and at