enough.

CHAPTER 1 NOT ENOUGH MEET ENOUGH WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?!!!! GET A GRIP. GROW UP. GIVE UP. FORGET IT. IT’S TOO LATE. IF YOU HAD MORE TALENT OR MONEY OR BEAUTY. BESIDES, THERE IS NOT ENOUGH TO GO AROUND…… ***** We all learn to live in the lap of NOT ENOUGH—some version, at least. We host NOT ENOUGH in small ways, like comparing my thighs to their thighs. We host it in large ways like NOT writing or risking, singing or dancing, showing up, or speaking out. But what if.... what if, for one small, tiny pinprick light opening, we saw a different way? a different path? Something bigger and better and delightful and embracing? What if I am enough, have enough, and do enough? What if everything I seek lives within and around me all the time? Okay… most of the time? ***** I placed a bucket of chalk on my front sidewalk. I wrote, “Please write and draw,” and made a few colorful, shaded circles to get the ball rolling. The avalanche that followed over the months to come kept taking my breath away. After setting out the chalk on that first day, I walked back into the house to grab my laptop and re-emerged to plunk myself in a folding chair on our front porch. As I settled in to get some work done, I heard a young boy begging his parent to stop and chalk, pleading in a tone that only young humans seem to make. I stayed out of view, my chair strategically hidden behind a potted plant in the corner of the porch, as this adorable little human tugged the sleeve of their busy phone-distracted parent. This little one pleaded with their parent to stop so they could draw and color. I heard the surrendering, begrudging exhale as the parent eventually gave in. The boy plopped himself down and got to work. I went back to my email. After a few minutes, I heard the boy talking to himself as he colored and chalked: “Look at the blue,” “Nope, I need more, more, more over here.” The adult periodically joined in with sweet rhythmic acknowledgments: “Ooh, I love that color, how beautiful.” After a moment that seemed to stretch and expand the fabric of time, fifteen minutes that felt like an hour, I no longer heard any sounds. I sensed that my visitors had left, and the coast was clear. I felt safe enough to peek out from my foliage hideout. The sidewalk was empty, and I skipped down the steps to check out what he made. I imagined seeing a simple line drawing, the scribble of a cat or a dog that only a parent could pretend to recognize. What I saw dragged tears from a space deep inside myself that I had long since forgotten. On top of my original colored-chalk circles, this young child had added magnificently gorgeous, brightly colorful Saturn-like rings. I could barely comprehend how he got the angle and shading just right, but he turned my optimistic little orbs into magnificent planets surrounded by stars. What remained on my sidewalk was artwork that transported me to the feeling I had when I first saw real photographs of space—stunning, imaginative, expansive. This blessing, the sucker punch beauty of it all, hit me so hard and fast I could barely breathe. From somewhere inside me, very deep, very old, and very warm, I felt her sneak in, slowly at first, but then gradually expanding and finally enfolding me fully…..ENOUGH. She stretched out her octopus tendrils from the center of my heart and stroked my belly. I cried and cried. ***** This whole gift had emerged with the greatest of ease. Earlier that day, as I was cleaning off a shelf above a jumble of coats in our front closet, I stumbled across the kids’ sidewalk chalk. I grabbed a large, lidded glass jar gathering dust on the floor in our garage, waiting patiently to be filled with treats for a future party that might never come. I don’t know what compelled me, but I had decided to open up our front sidewalk to others. I had left my previous job to launch a new business. The concrete of my old routine had started to crack, and the fissures were making space for planting new seeds. Moment-savoring possibilities were beginning to sprout. I never imagined such a small gesture would birth such joy in my new daily routine. The little boy turning circles into planets had tossed a snowball that eventually became an avalanche. I left out the sidewalk chalk and added a phrase that I weekly rewrote: “Feel free to write, draw, or scribble.” Others joined in almost daily. I’d wake up every morning to new chalk artwork. Some drawings were scribbles from kids barely old enough to hold the chalk. Others were masterpieces from clearly talented artists. Some were professions of love for their partners, strong initials surrounded by big, optimistic hearts. Others were calls for social activism or inspirational statements about love, joy, or peace. I felt uplifted. In a world where we seek so desperately to belong that we end up “other” -ing people who don’t look like us, act like us, think like us, or vote like us, I found the chalk experience unifying and hopeful. I didn’t get to know people by their titles categories, or affiliations. I got to know them through the shared pictures in our hearts, the ones that made their way from their insides to my sidewalk. To this day, I have chats through chalk with people I never met. (Special shout out to Max and all your signed greetings. We haven’t met yet, but perhaps we shall before this book is published!) The chalk opened the door to many new adventures.