Mundane actions, profound ideas.

The carved leg of the table sits heavy. Like she owns the place. Every time I sweep the floor, I struggle to move the table. She refuses to budge. But she moves when two people make the effort. When four hands hold her gently and lift her up, she moves—up and away from the floor, but only momentarily. If she's dragged, she scars the floorboard. So a friend and I lift her up, move along for a few paces and set her down. We had to be delicate.

For a split second, I stopped what I was doing and thought. This kind of momentary epiphany is perhaps why all my housework take a million years to get done. 🙄 It struck me suddenly that this was about delicacy, and a lesson in treating myself with care too. Some days my fingers and toes burn and tingle, but I don't treat it with care—I move through it in a methodic, almost mechanic way, and some days I simply shrug and wish it away.

I had to treat myself with care, and others with care too. I was in fact, like those carved table legs—capable of scarring and causing pain to others. Capable of letting others be the way they are. Capable of comforting, and adapting to that one friend who's still healing.

I went a step further and assigned a role to this table. What if the table were a reticent friend? I could haphazardly lift her up and walk a few paces, I could unceremoniously drag her on the wooden floor and scratch it.

I decided I'd set this reticent friend down. It dawned on me then, that instead of moving or dragging her, prying her open or nudging her to have a say, I could wait. It was totally fine if my friend wanted to build walls and stay put. It was okay for me to detach. If you're going through something or want to be there for someone, own all parts of yourself and accept all parts of the other person. Just like the carved leg of the big table—sit strongly, stay put. Wait. 

But through it all, don't forget to treat yourself with care, and allow another the space for the same.