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RACHAEL YAHNE CHRISTMAN

When Enough Is...Enough

Writer's picture: Rachael Yahne ChristmanRachael Yahne Christman

Exploring themes of 'enough-ness' in different cities, and different versions of ourselves.

woman in field life is enough good enough

Growing up here, I always thought there wasn’t enough. Not enough big, tall buildings, fancy restaurants, flashy and important events and people and fashion.

Now, decades later, the Pacific Northwest has changed my mind of what it means to be and have ‘enough’…

It’s enough to go for a jog before work in the morning. One needn’t also meditate strictly for 45 minutes. Or get a special organic dairy-free matcha for $12 from the same spot every weekday. Then go to the gym to lift or fit in a hybrid class of two seemingly opposite ideologies. And after, write in a gratitude journal. A jog - or even just thinking about the job, but choosing sleep instead, is enough for the morning to have been…pretty good. A success. Enough.


It’s enough for leaves to change and the temperature to drop to know that a season has transformed. It’s enough that seasons change at all, it’s enough that we change, that families grow and change. There’s no need to hold onto a forever summer. Forever youth. A few good wrinkles are enough to honor our aging, and aging is enough to know one is getting wiser. There’s no need to hide time’s marks in order to age well or beautifully or phenomenally. 


We can get old. We’re lucky to do so. It’s more than enough to have the time afforded to get old. 

A few extra pounds is fine, too; whatever size we are, that’s good enough. Especially if its cold out. Chill is good enough reason to sit inside eating comfort food more often. There is no perfect ideal weight a person has to be in order to wear leggings. In order to show their belly in a bathing suit at the lake. In order to be invited to any club; there are no clubs, anyway. Whatever weight, as long as one is able to move freely in the world and do as one pleases, hike on the weekend or do cartwheels in the park, whatever way that person chooses to enjoy this sweeping landscape, that’s enough. Whatever way one chooses to play, that’s good enough to call fitness.


It’s all good. Good enough to be considered good. Good enough. Good for them. Good for everyone they love. It’s all enough.


In LA, where the sun is rarely hiding and the people are all beautiful, I feel honored to own my long, lean limbs. Proud of my carved stomach and the way dresses hug my curves and toned muscles. I feel proud to live among the legions of gorgeous people who prioritized their physical health and put such effort - even in trends designated to look like no-effort, the yoga clothes and expensive sweats - before leaving the house. I love the pomp and circumstance.

And yet, because of some faulty wiring, I was certain that even a half pound on a day when I’d eaten a bit too much salt was so incredibly obvious to everyone, it was good enough reason to damn myself. A glimpse in the mirror, filtered through a faulty mental wiring system of body image, was proof enough to justify insulting, berating myself, my body, my habits, my needs for comfort. 


Ironically, in a smaller city, we have more than enough. The artists in town are enough to provide a good art scene. There’s enough local musicians, and libraries to occupy our time. There’s enough restaurants to feed every kind of hunger: for that of something new, something exotic, something comforting. 

Sure, everyone will leave town to try new cities, different foods. That’s reason enough; they won’t travel just to make sure the instagram feed is full of exotic travel (as exotic as a place can get, when it’s filled with other tourists clued in by the same influencers). Paris, Bali, Tulum. Those places are probably already outdated for Instagram, anyway.


Here…even though I’m the enemy… I’m the Californian taking up space in the clean, affordable city they’ve spent their whole lives supporting. Even though I’m the intruder, soaking up the land they like more private and less populated. Despite it, they are kind to me. They might make jokes at my license plate in the grocery store parking lot, and the clerk will bring up the rate of Californians (it’s always those darn Californians) moving here. 


Here, near the mountains and the pines. The little rivers and the big lakes. Here has loosened my grip, and my clothes. It’s easier to remember that no one here is searching for my egregious half pound. It’s easy to see that just the run, with no time at the gym (gasp), is more than enough movement for a Monday morning. My racing mind, in a constant race toward perfection, isn’t running so fast. Just fast enough to get through the day. 


Maybe because there is enough time and space and freedom to find perfection in what is natural. In the trees that lose all their leaves, get skinny in fall, emaciated in winter, then fatten up with new leaves by summer. Maybe because perfection isn’t made by effort, but by allowing. By acceptance. Here, right here and now is more than enough.

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