The view from the outside

It is cool and rainy today.  An August Monday disguised as a rainy November Sunday.  It's a sleepy sort of day that reminds me of bookbags, and rainboots and being 8 years old again, curled up next to the fire with a Laura Ingalls Wilder book.

For the third time in a week, something happened today where I thought I had been left out only to later realize it was a mistake and that I had been included the whole time.  I have to admit, even though I imagine myself strong and tough, this week I have found myself touching a vulnerable part of my heart--the part that feels really hurt not to be included in the game.  It surprises me how strongly it stung to feel, even momentarily, like I was on the outside looking in on my precious little tribe. 

Even now, thinking about it, I wonder why I, someone who feels so well loved and cared for,  am so in touch with the feeling of being left out.  As a child it was the theme of my school day angst--much to the bewilderment of my parents.  Is it the fact that Max will be starting a new school that has brought up all my own childhood anxieties?

I ask myself what I need to learn from it, as long as I am feeling it.  I  breathe in and think about all the people in my life who might be feeling like that right now.  I wonder if there is any innocent mistakes that I make that leave others feeling a little more lonely.  I remind myself that I need to be careful and vigilant to be inclusive and expansive and welcoming and not to treat my community as an exclusive club but rather to think of it like a mecca of connectedness.

And I smile a slighly bemused smile to learn that being included even now at the ripe old age of almost 38 I still long to be part of the gang and that my heart is still as tender as it was when I was 8.  I marvel at how being connected and included and wanted and not forgotten still is powerfully important to me.  And I find myself arguing with myself over whether this discovery is a good thing (self discovery, in touch with the tender inner part of our hearts) or a bad thing (I am too sensitive, not rational, childish).  My inner mother ends the debate by declaring it just is and reminds me that this sensitivity is usually a signal that I need to hold myself with a little bit of kindness and love for awhile.  That maybe I need to rest and drink tea.  And be thankful for the big loving and expansive community that does hold me and has me feeling loved, cherished and appreciated.