Self-worth ... How is it defined?
Is it by how much money I make?
How many friends I have?
What I do for a living?
Will I find it in the kind of car I drive or clothes I wear?
Is it in my skin; my face, my body?
My race, religion, gender, sexuality?
Is my worth defined by what I eat - or don't eat?
By what others think and say about me?
By how much I give?
No matter how much I think I know the answer,
I always come back to the question:
What's my worth?
I am love. Why am I love? And what does that mean?
I trust. What do I trust? And what does that mean?
I believe. [this could go on forever ... and usually does]
While washing the piles of dishes left for dead in the kitchen, I was festering over a petty fictitious argument between me and my roommate. As it happens every so often, I was struck by guilt. I hate to even admit that. Guilt is a wasted, useless emotion. But it's multi-generational. It lives and breathes in me, on its own. It sneaks up on me ... like shame. Ooh, shame. A horrid dis-ease! Guilt and shame go hand-in-hand. Both are ingredients for a quick spiral down into the basins of my own private hell, where I am confronted with defining my self-worth.
Hell is not the place to ponder self-worth. It just isn't. And guilt is not the trip I want to be taking.
I guess it's important to be stripped down of all material possessions in order to return to love. I've lived without 'stuff' for so long, I'm used to it. I'm used to crunching and 'getting by' and living on the edge of death...the edge of poverty.
I may not have much money, but I'm not poor.
I may not have the medicine I want, but I am well.
I may be alone, but I'm not lonely.
So then, who am I?
What's my worth?