For the first two weeks of August, there was no camp and no school and I had my girls to myself. I took this opportunity to sign the big girls up for semi-private swim lessons at a nearby pool.
It was when I was sitting on the side of that pool, and looking around, that I had a bit of an epiphany.
I saw these words, and I smiled. Over and over, they repeated themselves in my head: Depth varies. Depth varies. Depth varies.
The words, written in tiles by the side of the pool, referred to the depth of the water of course. But my trusty mind made that metaphorical leap and I found myself adopting this pair of words, and swiftly too, as something of a mantra. Because I have shallow waters and I have deep waters. I have both. I am both.
In the course of one week, I write a post on loss, on making play dates, on the importance of Date Night. In the course of one day, I ponder existential biggies, and watch the Real Housewives duke it out.
I am shallow. I am deep. I am both.
And, oddly, I am okay with this. Proud of it even.
Words. Wisdom. A future memoir on the redemptive power of embracing one’s inner contradictions?
Are you shallow or deep or both like I am? Does it seem possible to you that someone can really embody such a variance in existential depth? What more “shallow” things do you do/read/enjoy? What more “deep” ones? Ultimately, do you think this is yet another false dichotomy? Oh, and am I the only one who plans a dozen future books at a time?