Dear Jen and Gina,

For my birthday you gifted me a very generous shopping spree, and this past weekend I went shopping. I prepared for the trip. I wrote a blog about it. I thought about which location would be most nourishing. What timing would be most relaxing. And what exactly I needed and the feeling I wanted to have while wearing it. Anything can be sacred, I declared in my thinking about this most loving gift of clothes and of facing my fear of shopping.

I wrote that I would bring with me some tools of sufficiency, namely: an Open heart, Open mind, A sense of what I need, Willingness to ask for help, Humor, Reading with which to take a break, Gift card, My own bags for the goodies, and Acceptance & Love for whatever I see in the mirror.

Most of these came with me. A few Weapons of Scarcity tagged along too, at different times, but surprisingly, flow brought me back to my purpose: To find clothes I could feel good in, to do the work of life I set myself forth in. I laughed at myself balking at my departure, my three false starts. It’s not lost on me that this is trauma of the most privileged kind.

A nourishing conversation on the way to the store reminded me to breathe. I stayed sharp as I parked. I unpacked my shoulder bag to be light. I walked across the light – the sun was so bright – and into the store. I went right, circling the first pod of clothes, gathering anything that looked interesting, not being picky about sizes, guessing, lightly. I went left, made my way through several shelves and racks, found myself in Petites. Thank you, finally, somebody designing for this girl’s length. I am softening, excited almost. Is that ok? To be excited? Memories of days past float by. The obsessiveness of getting the right outfit all picked out at once, not being able to leave any part incomplete. Breath in, breath out. Feel my feet. What’s my purpose? Oh, yes. I am not here for outfits. I am here for pants, shorts, maybe a dress. That wrap over there? Been looking for something like that for a long time. Not exactly my size. Let’s try it anyway.

Arm is getting tired. Big load. One last section. Skim it the way I do when the content is light but interesting enough to soak in the glimmer. Find another possibility. Later it will get edited, but only by a thin degree. My palette is so practical. But I am practical. The color is in the texture. In the light of my eyes. Anything can be sacred.

I walk bravely up to the fitting rooms. Act like I do this all the time. This is fun, acting like I do this all the time. Ha! I find an open room. I get organized. I take off my clothes. Surprise. I am not disgusted. Hmmm… It’s almost strange. They are doing better lighting, I think. But still. I am not 20-something with my mother peering at me. I gave birth to a child. I am an adult. I look alright.

The clothes are organized. I pulled a lot and I am getting down to business. My phone rings. It’s my best friend. Ah! Is this part of my Sacred Shopping Trip? Yes. I cannot give up the call. We talk. I try on pants. It helps to talk to her. She needs a little support. I can give it to her and lightly evaluate how the cloth fits over my hips. This is easy! Yes! I can be helpful to my friend. I can shop too. The first few pants are too small, too long. Not right. I am not daunted. The next five (yes, five!) fit very well. I am surprised, grateful. She needs to go just as I start doing dresses, need my arms and head free. We hang up. Ah…

I hear lots of talking outside my little room. I leave and ask the attendant if I can grab a different size. She says Yes and I see how there is a long line waiting for a room. It occurs to me that I might feel badly about this, to take up a room, to be taking so long. That I might even rush. But I don’t. I am direct in my pursuit, but I take my time. I keep taking my time until the clothes are re-sorted by my preferences. And I am wondering all the time if I am doing good by my girls.

I walk out with more Yeses than Nos. I can hardly believe it. I handle a few gray areas – size and color and then join the long line that formed from the traffic from the fitting rooms. I check my email. I listen to the woman behind me interact with her kids. It is pleasant, they are from another state on vacation. She’s firm and friendly. I get to the cashier. I lay out my goods, we chat. She helps me find a better size for the wrap. I let her. I don’t worry that there is a line. I breathe. It’s ok. This is ok. I am feeding myself. I refrain from the justifying lines ticker taping across my front lobes: “She only shops every two years. That’s why there are so many clothes piled up here. That’s why she is taking up so much time. So much space.” I don’t go into my Too Much Story, the inversion of my Not Enough Story. I stand firm. We complete our business together. I thank her like she’s Shakti and gave me life.

When I leave I am relieved, grateful, excited. I did it. It wasn’t perfect. I wasn’t 100% present 100% of the time. I didn’t hear angels sing and I’m still not a size 2. I realized that sacred is not perfect like I had thought, or maybe even hoped. Maybe sacred had been the backdoor into my perfectionism all that time, a bit of spiritual materialism lurking. But the gig is up. Sacred is anything.

Thank you my dears, for the gift of these beautiful clothes. Thank you for the opportunity to learn about myself, to undo a kink in my chain, to discover the power of declaration, and to enjoy some sacred shopping.

Love,

Sacred Awareness