Last week I made peace with my big ears. My pi-spectives are shaping up to be my lessons of self-acceptance, how I learned to love the physical attributes that once caused pain or hurt or frustration.
On a good day, if my hair is tall but not too tall, I’m about 5’0005” — short. Some of you (I’m certain!) have been referred to as ginger guy or freckly girl or stretch, I’m the short chick. And I’m not fine-boned either, so wouldn’t consider myself ‘petite’. There are benefits — I can weave my way through crowds, but rarely do I get a good view of the band. I fit into boys age 12 shorts and sneakers. But I always thought that each generation was supposed to be taller? I’m the shortest in my family by at least 2 inches.
And let’s face it, one’s height is harder to disguise than one’s ears. Of course I tried; high heels ruined my feet! But I have, again recently, like with my ears, learned to love being short.
Or as I prefer to call it — small
And I’m a hugger.
There is nothing like the warmth of a hug to convey connection, trust and just plain yumminess (OK that sounds weird!). I used to be a kisser, but I’ve had to stop that — NZ isn’t really a kissing country. It used to make me a little cranky that my preferred greeting was often received with shock/suspicion, but I’ve gotten over that now.
I realized something truly remarkable. Because I’m ‘small’, when I’m hugging a man, my head (and big ear!) is usually the exact height of his heart! So when drawn into an embrace of welcome or farewell, I spend a few extra seconds, listening to a heart. Like the lyric of an obscure Scottish poet (writing in French)
j’entend ton coeur.
I hear your heart.