Growing yourself such that you don’t need to know what you’re going to say before you say it, don’t even care to know anymore. Becoming yourself in such a way that you trust whatever comes out, however and whenever it comes, trust that it is serving somehow, trust that it is enough.
Growing yourself such that you don’t have to say anything at all to know who you are. You can lavish the people around you with your care-filled, attentive silence, and at last they have some space to sing their own song in ways they’ve never sung it before, discover riffs they never knew they had in them, that never would have come out if you’d insisted on singing yourself. You are so yourself that you can sing yourself with silence.
Growing yourself such that you’re not looking for anyone to tell you who you are, and when they do, with praise or blame, you are so grown into yourself that you see they are telling you as much about themselves as they are about you.
Growing yourself such that you are not threatened by other people who have deeply grown into themselves, so yourself that their way of living love is not in conflict with the way you live it, that you no longer need affirmation or agreement or anything at all to abide in your own unique way.
Growing yourself such that you know you are not something you have to do or figure out, and certainly not something to hold on to. You are so yourself that you let it all pass through, so yourself that you are through.
Growing yourself such that you no longer loathe and deny the truth: that you do not, in fact, exist alone, original, untouched, that you are an ever-shifting mix of the people surrounding you and all the people surrounding them, and everyone who came before all of you. You are so yourself that you do not claim what you create, don’t clamor over the credit for that which has long been preparing itself to finally arrive in you.
Growing yourself such that you aren’t afraid of yourself anymore, so yourself that you’ve forgotten how afraid you were trained to be. You might remember your training sometimes, might remember it so well you actually begin believing you’re afraid again, but you are so yourself that, upon remembering, you are able to drop it and come back home, the way a hungry child drops her toy on the dirt outside when Mother calls her in for dinner.
Growing yourself such that the conversations you have become explorations instead of duels, unconditional and agenda-less investigations of this thing you both have in front of you, this thing that neither of you can see the whole of on your own. You are so yourself that you’re no longer interested in being right anymore, would much rather be wrong, in fact, see something you’ve never seen before than hemorrhage yourself in the endless, fruitless chore of defending yourself.
Something to grow into, you.