“Children,” intoned my father, “should be seen and not heard.”
“You can’t talk unless I call on you,” sighed my exasperated teacher.
“You’re just a lot to deal with,” explained my as-of-moments-before-ex boyfriend, in a voice that made it obvious he had a clear and winning case.
“Can you tone it down? Take it back? Less is more. You’re over the top. Too loud. Too big. Too… much.”
How do I be less me? But I learned. The helpful voices taught me the proper size I should be and the amount of world I was allowed to inhabit. I thought something was wrong with me because it made me sad and angry. But the binding of my soul took hold, and gradually it assumed the required shape.
“You’re thinking too small,” said the Smart Lady. I literally didn’t understand. I don’t do what you’re asking of me. I waved my Fourth of July sparkler furiously in her face. “No! No! See this? You can’t dim this!” She took me by the hand and led me to the powder kegs. “Light them.” I unfolded and fireworks eclipsed the stars.
My exquisite friend Briana says, “I won’t dim my light because you’re afraid to shine.” My alien, elfin friend Misha commandeered an entire industrial complex and part of the Los Angeles river with purple blossoms that whispered a quarter of a mile message, “As if nothing magical had happened.” They’re right.
Magic is what happens when we refuse to accept the boundaries other people ask of us because of their own discomfort. What if… what if “right sized” is filling up the sky?