Some days I make more mistakes
Than on others
Fumbling and bumbling my way through tasks
And other forms of traffic.
Bitter, the self-recriminations
Waking me sometimes
And being all scratchy inside my head
Itchy and hot underneath the skin
I wonder if I can make it
And perhaps I’ve lost it?
And when will someone blow the whistle
Revealing me for the imposter I feel myself to be?
Underneath the titles
The public impressions, so carefully crafted.
And just then.
In that place of exquisite vulnerability
A child’s voice interrupts my reverie
Asking me to tie a shoe
To tell a story
A stranger unexpectedly asking for help
A friend wonders
If I will listen to her sadness.
Such interventions, the gift of angels
To return to myself
Coming back into my body
And a quiet mind
Knowing somehow that I am enough
And that clunky feelings
Are a secret invitation
And to grace.