She is teaching me to be kinder. I once saw Michelle spend more than 20 minutes on a short email to a total jerk who deserved some serious “back off asshole” energy sent his way. That is what I would’ve done, of course. Not Michelle. Nope. I watched her spend nearly a half an hour to word it so, in her words, “he would not feel any shame or judgment.”
I mean, seriously—I have some distance to travel to be walking in her shoes.
She is teaching me to soften up*. My DNA is such that I tend to throw my whole self down the stairs when a simple step, pause, step would get me to the bottom just as well. And the bonus? No bruises.
She is teaching me to giggle. I’m not quite there yet. I can laugh and shake, but the giggle—that loose easy, rolling from the back of your throat giggle? Still working on it.
She is teaching me how to get my pretty on. Which, as you all know, has nothing to do with lighting, make-up or hairspray and everything to do with posture, breath and thoughts I think.
She is kind.
She is gentle.
She always finds the fun (and the funny).
She is pretty.
She has a radiance that is good to be around.
When she dances? She goes to that wild, frenzied, no-holds barred place. Intense, hair shaking, soul on fire—and I love that most of all.
*the note on my mirror was written to me from Michelle. Funny how this morning the hearts that Stef gifted to me that hang in the window popped into view . . .