For the Love of Words: Fragile

I am learning to love myself through words.
I've loved words since I found my free will, and have since wielded them to reaffirm, confront, comprehend, or escape my emotions; yet I've yet to seek self-love through their hums and vibrations.

I recently received a package.  It contained a beautiful mug made by Allison Fretheim Ceramics.  I found her work via a witchy subscription box, another effort to reconnect with myself and beliefs.  I missed my first opportunity to own a piece of her art, but waited for the next series, and collected my handmade vessel.  It has moons, and dots as constellations surrounding it.  It will hold all my "potions" and potions, and each sip from it will help me find me.

I mention it, however, not just to share a beautiful piece of art, nor my love of the moon and all things celestial, but because of the box it came in.  You see, she puts care into all that she assembles, even the packaging.  The mug was snug and even wrapped with twine and flowers, like something only fitting of Amélie.  My name was written on the box, and the sides were stamped with a moon...and the word "fragile."

Fragile.

I have stared at this word for the last week.  I couldn't bring myself to toss the box in with the rest of my recycling.  There was something about the word...

I am fragile.  My joints ache and degrade like an elderly person.  Most of my body attacks itself and my remedy is to kill my white blood cells, which reversely makes it easier for me to get and stay sick.  I should've died when I was twelve.  Every day since has been sustained solely by modern medicine and my stubborn tenacity to live.  I know that I am strong; a word I once hated because it mostly means endurance...yet I've learned to wear "strong" as a badge of honor...but fragile...

Fragile I've seen as weak.  My sensitivity I've learned as a flaw.  The hardest part being that it wasn't a choice.  Fragile is a state.  This mug, my joints, even my emotions, are fragile by nature; but what I've realized this week, staring at this stamped word, is that their fragility doesn't make them any less powerful.

This mug may be fragile, but it literally helps nourish me.  It makes me feel connected, even just to those who have seen and admire the art sculpted into it.
Being fragile is not something I need to feel ashamed of.   It may limit me physically, but it doesn't diminish who I am and the light I wish to bring to this world.

Just as this mug, with its unique grooves and textures wouldn't compare if were it made of plastic or something more durable, I wouldn't be me without that which makes me fragile.  It doesn't make me weak, nor inadequate.  It is just part of my reflection.  And just as when I look into the mirror and I see my curly hair or how my smile touches my eyes, I will see this word and remember that it is a trait of the self that I love.

[the mug, the flowers and the word]

Good Morning Vietnam

Today I voyage to a new part of the world.

I am going on a vacation to Vietnam for two weeks.  I haven't left the country since I studied abroad five years ago; an experience that immediately shaped me into a seemingly new person.  It pruned the old me, and nourished the branches of myself I was most proud of.  I left feeling like I had a guest pass to other cultures.  Even this week, I met someone from Albania and was able to draw on my study abroad experience to connect with them.

I told them that when I was in Strasbourg, I heard the President of Albania speak at the Counself of Europe.  I recalled that his prestige isn't what I was most impressed by; instead it was his taste in rhetoric.  He chose to speak in English, rather than utilizing translators, so his message would be heard by the majority from his own voice.  This added credibility while demonstrating their country's desire to be an equal with the larger English-speaking ones, and the impact they would like to have.

I was able to recite this impression and connect my respect from this to the person I had just met.

Clearly, linguistics fascinate me.  To analyze them is to identify subtext and create a closer to connection to someone.  To care about them is to respect another person and their culture.  And I am terrified to travel to a country where I do not speak the language.  I don't know taboos to avoid, how to be respectful, how to say hello or ask for help.

In two weeks time I definitely will.  I am immersing myself in my fears, my yearnings, my wanderlust and my insatiable desire to learn.

This past week we all looked to the sky and stared in fascination at the sun and the moon.  We wish on stars and dream of inhabiting other planets.  

And yet there are universes in every individual, lightyears lengths of stories, galaxies of experiences we couldn't possibly imagine from the glimpses we've seen in media.  Even the nature possesses new worlds in their different ecosystems.

So as much as we gaze up at the sky with wonder and curiosity, I plan to bring the same awe to each new person I may meet. 

This trip will no doubt feed my love of language and learning other cultures.  I am excited to sprout new intellect and break down ignorance I didn't know I had.  I promise to write of my discoveries, and share the cultural spores that I collect.  We certainly need them to grow in this nation.