for months now, she couldn’t sleep or write. for months now, she couldn’t think or eat. “do you want a drink? tell me what you’d like; what you’d love right now.” i’d love to fly.

for months now, she had been escaping.

running, not exercising.

touching herself, and not him.

not enough of him.  more than enough of her. she’s beautiful.

“i’ll start your shower. a shower always makes you feel better. alive.”

the water touches her little body. she smiles. her hands smile. her body smiles. she smiles.

” are you happy now? ”  yes. i’m sorry. let’s make love. after i write.

” i’ll get you some tea.”

she made love to him and paper. she was flying.

“…Seven days a week, we do our best. Seven days a week, we do our best. Seven days a week, we do our best.” Repeating these words, over and over again was almost a religious experience for me. It was all I could do not to cry because I realized, as each word left my lips, that these were the truest words that I had spoken in a very, very long time.

“What an idiot,” I tell myself when I make a simple mistake like leaving my work ID at home. “Loser,” I call myself when I realize yet again that I have made a gross miscalculation in balancing my checkbook. The insults I can hurl at myself know no end. But the truth is seven days a week, I do my best. As I danced the Souno and said these words, I was so grateful for the gift of kindness to myself.

excerpt from Veronica Chambers’ “The Joy of Doing Things Badly.