Second Hand

​Sitting beneath the fig leaves covered by their partial shade. The springtime sun still beats down relentlessly making it seem hotter than it is. I just came from town still wearing the Izod Polo shirt my daughter bought for me second hand at a garage sale. Dressed the part of an educated middle class senior, I feel like such an imposter in my secondhand clothes. Pretending to be someone my fears tell me I am not. For years I could cover myself in a blanket of false bravado, when it came to conversation and fitting in with those I once thought were out of reach. But now fitting in feels more like a chore and something I’d rather avoid.
 
My bride blessed with a genuine innocence, worries little about sophisticated conversation or attire. Guided by pure emotion she gets along well with most anyone. While I struggle to do the same, feeling like I’m just wasting time of those around me. Many people have told me I have a gift for conversation and writing. But when listening to their praises it gives me pause. For deep in my head that abusive voice keeps screaming I am nothing.
 
But just as a bumble bee flies around my feet seemingly ill-equipped for its task. I do my best to push through such mental obstacles, if for nothing else but my own survival. So please, be mindful of the words you choose. For words are still a sharp dagger even when it’s elegantly adorned. It’s easy for me to sit here and think peaceful thoughts, with only the noise of a few passing cars. But when faced with traffic and the chores of life, seeing beyond the distractions is no easy task. You must be able to recognize the beauty within yourself. Then choose to accept and forgive those abusive voices that quietly overshadow your mind.