Crystal balls and butterflies

A few weeks ago I was at my son's soccer game and one of the parents, who I know and adore, leaned over to me and whispered out of the side of his mouth, "Hey, I can't remember who told me but I heard that you're into all that medium-stuff. Is that true?" 

I said, "Yes." 

He said, "What is all that stuff? I went to a medium years ago as a joke and she was right ON and I never went again because that is just scary." 

We whispered about all "this stuff" for a good thirty minutes. 

At the end of the conversation he said something to the effect of, "I am so surprised that you do this because you don't fit the mold." In that moment a butterfly fluttered by. 

And there it was: THE MOLD.

It has taken me a long time to realize what took him two seconds to say. 

I don't fit the mold. 

Heck, I'm not really even sure what the mold is. 

Is it an old woman with long hair sitting in a dark room at a red table? Because if it is it may be time for me to cut my hair shorter.

Is it a young hippie wearing a boho skirt hugging a tree? Because if it is I missed this calling years ago. 

His mold is definitely different from my mold. And my mold looks nothing like yours. 

I am convinced that the only mold I can ever fit is the one I am presently in and by that I mean: MY BODY. 

My mold is 5 foot 4 and shrinking. Dyed grey hair. Green eyes (third eye included). Freckles. Irish-white skin that I just started loving a year ago (story for another day). Size 8 foot (in case you want to send me a pair of cowboy boots someday).

And, oh, I almost forgot: CRYSTAL BALLS  because honey if there's one thing I've learned it's that if you're going to show up in your own mold and do your own thing you just gotta have a pair of crystal balls and a really good sense of humor. Most of the world is simply NOT going to understand why you don't need to whisper out of the side of your mouth when you are wiling to celebrate who you are. 

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