rejection letters. i just received a rejection letter in the mail. out of 88 plus applicants for 20 something spots, i was not chosen to write, not this time. and as i put down the letter-i was okay. no heart sinking tears dropped from my lids. partially exhausted from spending time in the library- my new home- but, more because i was proud i applied. setting my goal outside my arms outstretched and did it. even if no was not part of my perfectly sculpted plan. and part of me knew that i would get my turn, my yes. there was no devastation.
probably because me and rejection letters go way back. and every time i get one. i have got one. i get an acceptance soon after in my mailbox. harvard rejected me, but a few days later there sat my columbia acceptance- my first lesson in the bittersweetness of rejection and the importance of not being first in line. my first job interview out of grad school was a no, but the next one was a yes. when i got laid off (for the first time), i had the luck to have a new job in a week. when i got laid off (the second time), i was able to explore what being outside a cubicle and tied to computer could feel like. the gift of no, gave me the gift of what i really wanted. when applying to grad school for the 2nd time (similar to the first time) first letter: rejection from san francisco state and soon following a second letter: acceptance from usf.
see some people don't have rejection letters. they don't get them. they don't touch. they don't see them. and if they do they don't talk about them. others have a novel of no's. my rejection letters are proof i took a chance, i take chances. and maybe there is solace in knowing that there is letter making its way now, in a way i don't expect, to me, telling me it's my turn. and on that note, here is my piece on birth, or rebirth as it may seem. all my thanks as always!
Birth. Today as the world birthed a new day. It let the sun it held in its grasp of clouds-darkish and puffy and wind- fast quick and flipping over of things- go. The rain weeped for too long, they held onto it and let it go slowly first allowing it to peek through the companions of the clouds. And then standing on its own- sun gave birth to this new spring day. As the wind from the rolled down window breaths my face relaxed and the music plays. It slows it all down to a pace that is liveable. Sun beating on this car desperately needing to be cleaned, two tables in the back seat- new to me- old to someone else- yoga clothes still mildly sticky shape my body. I turn the mirror down to see my face and as I do I see in the reflection a man staring at me as I do my daily multiple a day check in- what we are facing in this mirror. I quickly feel self conscious. And look away. His bar towel sways back and forth in the movement of his diagonal cross against this street. He turns his face. Covered in sun. And looks at me.
Birthed today was the beginning of the rebirth. Not by choice. Not by accident. But as this new day delivers a new start, a new chance. Again. The flowers begin their outer movement blooming- they have already bloomed this season in confusion of seasons not behaving properly-but the stretch will again begin. And how much easier it is to walk when the sun welcomes you outside. The delivery of a seasonal disorder lamp no longer needed. Lightness I feel as I step and drive.
And this sunny day. Stops me. From the sadness that was. Its not just the sun. We have to practice. And I do know. I started off this morning. This monday morning pressing snooze twice but willing myself to leave the comfort of my bed. Starting with half a piece of toast with peanut butter, ¾ glass of water, and half a cup of coffee and outside to the yoga class. The sun welcomed me home. As I stretched and pulled and breathed and let go where I could and held what I can. Eating an apple in between locations to my therapist. Because seeing the sun. Seeing the light. The rebirthing. The getting another chance takes practice. And practice I do. How to believe in the growth of me. The sun. The spring. The men giving more notice. All help. But empty is this walk of life without the practice and standing on tip toes and falling over.
It takes practice to become who you are. It takes practice to let yourself be you. Practice that can't be read in books or provided in osmosis. Oh but you wish. It takes work. But the sun will push you along your way. And the eyes will smile at you slowly cheering you on. And the hum you hear in your head might not need to be shared. Not today. Maybe tomorrow. The birth of me. The reminder of it. Doesn't just happen on my birthday. But everyday.
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