Pearls

pearl /pərl/ noun

1. a hard, lustrous spherical mass, typically white or bluish-gray, formed within the shell of a pearl oyster or other bivalve mollusk and highly prized as a gem.

2.a precious thing; the finest example of something

Here we go now...

I love Fiona Apple. Especially her early years. Lyrics and music that mirrored my sense of deep ache and passion; that gave voice to my emotions. One particular song has a line that's been playing in my mental soundtrack for the past few months is from her album Tidal:

But he washed me shore

And he took my pearl

And left an empty

Shell of me.

Sullen Girl, Fiona Apple

This image is breathtaking and terrifying to me.

I wrote out that song from memory today and when I double checked the lyrics I was amazed at how well I remembered each line. I can't seem to remember my husband's favorite pizza rolls but I recall song lyrics. 

After I wrote out the lyrics I followed with my own line:

Oh precious girl. Don't you know your worth is not found in the pearl?

Oysters can make multiple pearls. Pearls cannot make oysters. Oysters are brilliant and fascinating creatures. Pearls are not creatures but things created.

Lovely and still terrifying.

While organizing my kids' play room to make space for the presents they will surely acquire during Christmas I cried. So sad and confused, lonely and afraid. Afraid of being rejected, abandoned, and judged.

And those fears are valid. I have been rejected by my father. Abandoned by my mother. And judged by ones who had the opportunity to shelter me. As much as I hate to admit it... I'm grieving that. In years past I've tried to push the emotions under the rug or shove them down or worse: deny that they were valid and real.

My pearls. You can't have them.

I would look at the pearls that were created by the hardships and pretend that those were good enough. Because aren't they pretty? If I can just make those outside of me see pretty then I am pretty, right? If I can make the illusion that I am heidiva and full of laughter then they won't see the pain, right? If I show them the pearl they won't bother to look at the wounded oyster, right?

Right. 

Now that is my safe zone. Not as pretty and not so terrifying.

Sadly and truthfully: I've been living my life with my oyster shell half open, mostly shut. I'll let you in far enough to see the pretty pearls, but not so much that you will see the whole shebang. You may give me more grit and then I will have to make yet another pearl... And I don't have anymore room for more pearls, you understand? 

What I'm deeply afraid of and resist: being forced open.

And the pearls are not enough for me. It's not enough to have the pearls: I want life and the living that comes with it. I need to breathe in the open in order to be able to live. And be unafraid to just be whether or not I have any pearls. Brave enough to just let go of the pearls and be an oyster. Brazen enough to live the life I am purposed to live whether or not I get any other pearls. Secure enough to let people see the real me, oyster and all, audibly, and out loud.

You see, an oyster will be an oyster, with or without pearls.

The grit will come. And I am learning to live the life of an oyster with her shell open; filtering out the grit and choosing which grains are worth the pearl. Bit by bit, painstakingly, slow to the point that I don't think I can go any slower, I'm learning. Maybe no one including myself sees the progress quite yet: that doesn't negate that I am doing the work in learning to trust that I am safe, sound, and enough.

Beautiful, inside and out, without judgment.

Exposed

 I dreamt tomorrow will have a prettier face. I dreamt tomorrow would have better things to say. . . 'Cos that day, never should have taken place. . .

Poe, "That Day"

Y'all. My chest feels split open wide. Exposed. Vulnerable. And I cried so hard last night that I nearly vomited. The grief, the injustice, the unadulterated pain, the earth shattering agony: it broke me. 

My glass tower broke. And here I am, unsure of how I will face tomorrow. I don't know how I can or will. I'm broken and it feels like I'm sitting in the middle of it all, picking up the pieces knowing I can't put it back together. 

I'm broken yet not missing any pieces. Broken and whole, simultaneously.

And I'm scared. Scared of being poked or prodded. Scared I will be further broken. Scared that someone will take a piece of me and not give it back.

I want to hide.

Instead I stand, exposed, vulnerable. Instead I stubbornly live with what feels like gaping wounds. I cry and I no longer hide the tears.

 

Oh, God. Are people going to know me, see inside me now?

My prayer used to be for God to hide me. That no longer fits me, who I am becoming. Hiding is not me living authentically as me.

I want to hide. But I need to run, free. Not underground, not running for cover, but running to live.

I'm finding my voice. 

And my memories are reappearing. Things I had forgotten so long ago I am now remembering more clearly. Things my mother told me didn't happen that way... they did happen that way.  

Light will still shine in forgotten places.

And I meekly tell my husband what I theorize to be the reasons I stopped speaking, stopped remembering, feebly giving voice to my emotions and experiences. He patiently listens.

Still everything in me screams to run for cover. To go lay in bed. To give up. To crumple and die (figuratively).

Instead I stay. I get out of bed. I give more than what I think I have to give. I stand up and live.

Through the gaping hole, not inside it, is where I belong.

Turn you to the strong hold, ye prisoners of hope. . .

Zechariah 9:12 KJV

In the midst of the pain and torment: God is good. In the midst of my questions, my angry interrogations of Him, He is good. He was good then, He is good now. 

My strong hold, my safe place: it's not in hiding any longer. It is living unashamed in the great wide open.

And I cling to that. Somehow, someway, in this broken world filled with broken people, God is good. I'm allowed to be me. And that gives me hope.

I live.

And I am alive. Alive to go through the motions if that's all I've got right now. And this is better than not living, not feeling, and not experiencing.

Living is not easy. I wish it were. But it is worth the work, worth the effort, worth the pain and tears. 

It's worth it for the days with prettier faces.

And if you are still hiding: it's okay. Keep hiding until you are safe to come out. You are brave to still be living and I am so proud of you. You are so strong and I so admire you.

Feel free to reach out to me at ladyscholarheidiva@gmail.com or in the comment section on this blog. I hope to hear from you.

Everyday

I die daily.

1 Corinthians 15:31

The Apostle Paul said this in his letter to the Corinth church. In other versions it reads, "I face death daily." 

Me too, Paul. Me too.

I die daily to the desire to quit. I die daily to the nagging feeling in my gut telling me to stay in bed. I die daily to pushing everyone I know and need away. I die daily to going back into my clam shell. I die daily to the tapes in my head that replay arguments I've won and lost. I die daily to self talk that tells me I'm lazy and stupid and ugly. I die daily to the voice that tells me my life is not worth living. I die to what I am inclined to think and do and desire in the depression.

That's a lot of dying there. A lot of death. 

And with it comes my choice to live. To not just breathe and do but to just be and in that being to be me. I get to live. And see the sun and sea and grass and trees and clouds and... breathe.

For real. This is what I get to breathe and drink in.

I live and I run and I dance and I write. I read and I talk and I eat and I sleep and I dream. I raise babies and love my husband and deepen relationships.

And in that being I'm creating who I want to be. 

I want to be the mom who volunteers and lets the church's toddler class play (too) loudly. I want to be the wife who remembers her husband's favorite foods. I want to be the mom who lets her boy be wild and her girl be mild. I want to be the woman who is creative and engaging. I want to be the friend who washes the feet of those she loves. 

And in all fairness: I am that woman.

And everyday I choose. I either dwell and die in the past and the hurts and the depression or I die to the past and the hurts and the depression. Yes, they are still there: I don't deny their existence. That's why I face death daily (sometimes minute by minute). And I choose who and what dies within me. And I choose who and what lives within me.

And it's a fight to the death and a victory to the living. 

I fight death by living now. I choose it: intentionally, thoughtfully, willfully, thankfully, and prayerfully albeit not perfectly. And it feels like a fight to the death and then to the life.

I die (proverbially) so that I can live (in actuality). 

I live. 

And it's worth the fight to live.

Questions, comments, or feedback? Feel free to communicate via email at ladyscholarheidiva@gmail.com or right here on the blog.