This was lovely.

And as we swam, or played, or talked, a feeling would come. It was almost like fear, in the way it filled me, rising in my chest. It was almost like tears, in how swiftly it came. But it was neither of those, buoyant where they were heavy, bright where they were dull. I had known contentment before, brief snatches of time in which I pursued solitary pleasure: skipping stones or dicing or dreaming. But in truth, it had been less a presence than an absence, a laying aside of dread: my father was not near, nor boys. I was not hungry, or tired, or sick.

This feeling was different. I found myself grinning until my cheeks hurt, my scalp prickling till I thought it might lift off my head. My tongue ran away from me, giddy with freedom. This and this and this, I said to him. I did not have to fear that I spoke too much. I did not have to worry that I was too slender or too slow. This and this and this! I taught him how to skip stones, and he taught me how to carve wood. I could feel every nerve in my body, every brush of air against my skin.

He played my mother's lyre, and I watched. When it was my turn to play, my fingers tangled in the strings and the teacher despaired of me. I did not care. "Play again," I told him. And he played until I could barely see his fingers in the dark.

I saw then how I had changed. I did not mind anymore that I lost when we raced and I lost when we swam out to the rocks and I lost when we tossed spears or skipped stones. For who can be ashamed to lose to such beauty? It was enough to watch him win, to see the soles of his feet flashing as they kicked up sand, or the rise and fall of his shoulders as he pulled through the salt. It was enough.

~ The Song of Achilles, Madeline Miller

Self-worth; it's not tied to anything external. Not your body, not your house, not your income, not your family, not your lineage, not the amount of money you have or don't have in your bank account, not the grades you got or didn't get, the schools you went to or didn't get into, the certificates you attained or failed to, the job or career you wanted or never managed to, the marriage you have or have not, the children you have or have not, the lovers you found or never did. None of that makes you.

What will be interred with your bones -- that's you.

You have value because you're human.
And that's enough.
Thank God for the life you've been given,
and the chance to knock on heaven's door.



We had a book club meeting tonight, when we started discussing vulnerability (our text was Brene Brown, so duh, haha). And we reflected.