I’ve been going to bed with a headache.
Maybe it’s my new glasses?
I have a feeling that it’s not.
I look deep inside myself and see a little girl, curled up in a ball.
Waiting for strength, wisdom, and truth.
My mind is a bed of dirt.
My memories and experiences are artifacts.
Digging the trowel in is difficult, and I know it will bring some pain.
What I find in the loamy earth intrigues and saddens me.
All of these things over time have collected and formed who I am.
I touch each found item, marveling at the way it changed me.
Pain, love, beliefs, people.
And who am I?
I have a hutch where I go to gaze upon my life thus far.
All of the trinkets and pieces of myself others that have been laying forgotten in the soil.
It is the only way to heal and receive answers.
I am afraid. And curious.
Some days it is difficult to face what I find.
Accepting my story is an ongoing process.
I look at my collection of experiences, memories, pieces of my life.
Some of the items aren’t pleasant. I acknowledge them, and thank them for the growth they offered.
Every moment has its place. Every coincidence set in place before I could ever conceive it.
I am a conglomeration of time. Moments and years.
You cannot judge a book by it’s cover and you cannot measure a life’s worth by accomplishments made.