I explored a nature preserve today. The last time I was at this particular place it was the end of winter. It was cold, everything was the same color of brown, it may have been muddy as well. I walked a little bit but I think I was mostly concerned with staying warm, so I didn't venture off much.
Today was very different.
Flowering trees were showing off beautiful blooms of white, pink, and purple. Grass was growing everywhere, green blades were bursting through the slats of the boardwalk. I could hear birds singing and bees buzzing. The place was alive and inviting. I wandered around, following trails made through the meadow. I took pictures of dandelions, dirt, and wildflowers.
I came upon a tree with some scraggly looking branches, I took a few shots. Then I stopped and looked closely at it. It wasn't the most appealing tree around, if someone was writing a horror story they might include a tree like this in it. Spindly black branches just waiting for the right victim to get close enough. Then....snatch!
This got me to thinking about the personal work I've been doing lately. I'm digging for something but sometimes I'm afraid to get too close, too deep. If I find whatever it is down there, I might end up in the clutches of something scary. Why else would I have buried it so long ago?
But honestly, I know what I have to unearth. What old stories I have to confront. The old stories I tell myself.
I'm unworthy.
I'm disposable.
I'm small.
I'm insignificant.
But like the story one may write about sinister branches reaching out to grab an innocent passerby, my old stories are all made up.
They are lies.
They are bullshit.
Little by little, I am choosing to step out of this fiction. But to do that I know I have to confront it head on, face it and disown it once for all. See that person up there? She's done with self-hatred and dimming her light to stay safe. She's going to keep digging. She's not afraid of spindly branches or old lies. She's ready for whatever turns up in the dirt.
