A pocket full of stones…

 

If you’ve ever been around anyone churchy, chances are you’ve heard the poem Footprints. It’s all about a guy walking along a beach (his life). He looks back and during the good times there were two sets of footprints (God and him) and during the rough times he only sees one set of footprints. And this guy gets all and at God and demands to know why he would have left him alone during the hardest times in his life and God assures him that he never left, where there is only one set of footprints, that is God carrying him.

I grew up with this poem and I always thought it was a neat parable. But it got me to thinking, when I look back at the footprints of my life… where have I been? As a child, I collected rocks. Whenever we went to the beach I would spend most of the time looking down at the ground. The ones I wanted to keep I would give to my parents for safe-keeping. Well after twenty or thirty “special” rocks the weight would add up and my parents would start dumping them out when I wasn’t looking. In the same way I have collected rocks through my life. I have picked up pretty ones and not so pretty ones and now they are becoming heavy…

It just struck me how much the past really affects us. How much our childhood experiences taint us for good or bad. For example, a child that is hit so much he thinks its normal will likely grow up to hit out of anger. It’s sad but true. I was raised to be an over-achiever, a perfectionist. Not because my parents were horrible, but because they truly wanted the best out of me. They wanted me to “be all I could be”. I stood out so much in school for being smart. I never was a “nerd” but I was always set apart for my intelligence. Even in highschool, my teachers would make special arrangements for me and set me apart from others. Then I got to university and I became a number. No one cared about my circumstances or who I was. If I didn’t perform like “so” I reaped the consequences! I had such a difficult time staying motivated if no one told me I did a good job. I find it hard to be proud of myself for what I do on its own merit. I feel like if my achievements are unrecognized than I have not achieved anything at all. How pathetic… one more stone in my pocket.

All the stones I carry of broken friendships, fears, misunderstandings and disillusionments weigh me down. My pockets are literally bulging with these dirty, broken stones. If I look closer, I carry some pretty stones too. Like the friend I have an inappropriate attraction too and our memories of old times together. What a pretty memory. The pretty stones are the memories of being skinny and attractive, all the boys I’ve kissed and the juicy, precious moments of my past. Even the pretty ones weigh me down.

My footprints are far deeper than they need to be. When will I become smart enough to dump out my pockets? To empty this mass I have carried so voluntarily? Could my next set of footprints really be lighter? Could I be energized enough to run or skip? I would be much more likely to dance in the sand if I wasn’t so petrified of losing my precious cargo.

What do you carry with you?

*knock knock* Anyone in there?

Well I have definately done the blog thing before. Twice in fact. Never on this particular site but twice in my life I have sat down and started to write on a blog, thinking, “Hey what a great idea. I love to write”.  And each time the writing would continue for a few days, a few months, one of them I have kept for over a year.

But regardless, the urge and passion to write dissapates. People I know start to comment or have opinions on the things I write and slowly but surely I start to withdraw. I think it starts the first time someone I know personally gets offended by something I write. The he-said she-said starts and even though no offence was intended, I will apologize and be sure to watch what I write from now on. So I withdraw just a little bit more. And this continues on and on until my blog resembles a day planner of my life. It’s just where I went with who - oh and here’s a picture for good measure. 

Eventually that bores me to tears and I have no interest in continuing to write. I want to be able to EXPRESS with my writing. To pour my heart and soul and insecurites out on the page/screen. I want to re-read my post tomorrow and feel what I was feeling today. I don’t want every word I write to be analyzed. I don’t want you to sit here and analyze all the things I MIGHT have implied.

It’s not that I don’t value other opinions or perspectives, quite the opposite. I want to have people challenge me and test me in the way I hope that my writing might challenge or test someone else. I want to have my mind opened and my opinions broadened by other’s experiences. But do not come here to judge me. Do not come here to pick apart my words and find whatever negative may lie within them. Instead find hope, find vulnerability, find the passion that lies within my grammatical errors. Find me.

I do not care if another soul reads this. I do not care if I never tell another person it exists. But if a stranger or even a friend happens upon this one day, I hope they smile and look within themselves and start the search for who they are. Because that’s what this is. The very first step into my written journey of self-discovery.  Today I have discovered that I am both dark but lovely. Dark because I am not fully known or explored, sinful and hidden. Lovely because I am reaching and striving, willing to shine light upon my darkness and discover what lies beneath.