Kisses & Uppercuts

Not everyone knows what you’re made of.  Not everyone knows your strength, or can even define what strength really is.  Sometimes, not even yourself.   

Confession: I’ve spent the last twenty years swinging-out at everyone who’s said I couldn’t, or wouldn’t, because I’ve been struggling to write my own definition of strength.  In a ring where you can get a head butt, a kiss, and a hug from someone in the same round, it seems logical to come out a little dazed, a bit angry, and prone to do things less than reputable or sportsmanlike because it looks like we’re living in a world with no rules, where anything goes.   

You start to feel justified in withholding certain parts of yourself that make you feel weak and unleashing the parts of you that make you feel fierce, because all the sudden you start to question whether those that are supposed to be enforcing the rules are really watching; when you get blindsided it’s easy to lose faith in the processes you’re told to rely on.  So, I’d go home, and instead of tending to my wounds and doing the things I knew were required of me to heal, I’d refuse to acknowledge them.  Or, if they became undeniably existent, I’d pour salt on them and use it to fuel me for the next round. 

I wanted to feel invincible.  I wanted others to see I was invincible.  

So every time I felt underestimated, misunderstood, or disrespected even in the slightest degree, I became unhinged, if only silently.  I wanted them to hit me with their best shot to prove I could take it.  I wanted to make them feel my worth—you didn’t have to know my strength to feel it.  Basically, I wanted to bite off ears because I had a tiny voice.  So I did.  But as strong as I felt, I was actually growing weak.  Little cuts and bruises slowly mounted and overlapped until I became one large, undistinguishable wound that could not relish a kiss over an uppercut.  It all landed the same—it all hurt.  And at that degree of pain, you have to admit you’ve lost perspective.  And sadly, I have. 

So, my friends, I’m pulling myself from the ring.  Until I can recognize my opponent from those sitting in my corner, I’m taking off the gloves.  I’m not going to pretend I know what strength is, because I don’t.  But the faint outline of what I’m beginning to see suggests to me that strength is not at all what I’ve been claiming for myself or offering to others.  I think it’s a bit gentler, a bit more meek than what I’ve been practicing.   

  

It’s probably humble enough to tap out when need be.  Resolute enough to know every winner is going to take some on the chin; confident enough to know that that doesn’t change who he is.  It’s probably patient and honest enough to stay loyal to the forces and processes that are trying to mend and protect it.  I think it might exist outside of what others believe, and probably is solid enough to not be threatened by those who don’t see it.  I think it’s probably wise enough to receive care when wounds need more tending than what he can give.  Fair, even when others aren’t.  Honorable enough to touch gloves.   

I don’t know how yet fully, but I think strength has something to do with love.  Because I’m finding it hurts me the worst, but it builds me up the most.  So, I think I’m going to sit it out for a bit and let it redefine me.