I had a dream last night—more of a nightmare, really. I was auditioning to be an actor in my own book, the memoir I’m attempting to write, which of course, makes no sense. But such is the way our brains stitch our jumbled pieces together while we lay sleeping. My old college coach was running the audition like a volleyball drill, and although I was the one who wrote the book, he kept telling me I was reading it wrong; my expressions weren’t quite right; the intonations were slightly off. He would work with me and do his best to help me, but at the end of the day, I wasn’t exactly right. I just didn’t “have it.”
I woke up with tears pooling in the corners of my eyes and still haven’t entirely woken, though it’s now late in the afternoon. The feeling has lingered, dampening my day. Most days, I feel healthy, strong, proud of the woman I’ve worked so hard to become. But today, a simple, nonsensical dream invokes my broken, hurting parts—the parts that tell me that, hard as I may try, I will never be enough. I am destined for a life of average-ness, these parts remind me. And they speak with such authority, I’m meekly tempted to agree.
My sweet husband reassures me that I am above average in everything I do. That in all of our years together, the only average thing he has ever witnessed has been my feeble attempts at cooking fried chicken. I laugh through my tears and contest. Regarding fried chicken, I am highly deficient. The damn breading just won’t stick!
He wants me to see myself through his eyes, but he’s clearly biased, so I dismiss him as a flawed character witness.
I go on a walk to shake off my dream. It’s abnormally warm for this time of year, and I know I should savor the sun. But my gloomy haze follows me and dulls the sun’s rays.
Suddenly, a phrase emerges to the forefront of my mind, one I recently saw in bold letters on an advertisement: BE EXTRAORDINARY!
Extraordinary? Extra-ordinary?
What does this strange word mean? Does it imply being more average? Is it better than normal or simply a double-dose or the ordinary?
I wonder what I am striving for in wanting to be better than average? To whom am I comparing myself? If I consider myself to be “average,” would being extraordinary simply mean being more of myself, more fully me? If I don’t step up to fill my own shoes, who else would be remotely capable?
I have more questions than answers today, but suddenly, I notice the sensation of sun on my face. My muddled haze is gone, and my insides feel settled and not quite so aggravated. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to be extra of my ordinary self, to let go of the striving desperation and fall headlong into faith and trust.
I become aware of birds calling one to the other, and their uniquely “ordinary” calls lift my spirit from my own depths. They are only doing what they have been created to do, yet it is, of course…extraordinary.
