It’s Friday, and I’m meeting up with the community of Five Minute Friday at the Gypsy Mama for some free writing fun. Here are the rules: follow the prompt, no extreme editing, write for five minutes flat and encourage the person who linked up just before you. Would you like to join?
Today’s word is GRACEFUL.
I wanted to be an ice skater, a gymnast, a diver. I wanted to dance across floor, spin through air, twirl across mats, fly with abandon. I wanted to be seen as beautiful. Set apart with my long flowing hair or my bun or my ponytail with all its clips holding the fly-aways.
I watch my girls spin and jump and balance and look to find our eyes, our smiles. They show us their beauty, look for grace.
I loved to dance, but didn’t find my way to it until high school, and then after a few short years, that part of my life felt over — save some moves at wedding receptions and a few (sad) attempts at swing dancing with my husband.
Graceful always meant her. Not me.
And I usually still think this way.
Look how she handles those kids’ out-of-control emotions with such patience and ease.
Look how she opens up her home with a smile on her face and without the residue of sweaty running-around to get things looking right.
Look how she manages to transition so smoothly from summer to fall and keep her family life moving and feed the hurting and manage a run in the mornings.
Graceful is her. Not me.
For gracefulness implies elegance without even trying, beautiful ease.
But these are the assessments of the outside. I don’t know how she struggles within. I don’t know the effort required for her to do this thing or that thing which flows from my life, which spins from my feet.
What if graceful means, too, full of grace?
Full of love and favor that is given freely.
Given out, not just as a descriptor for her and her who seem to have it figured out, but for me, the one who knows her own struggle, who knows the trying and chooses to receive the love that is hers.