We are masterpieces in the making. Our soul’s contrast between light and dark provides a unique form that promises to be our most significant treasure and discovery.
My body. My physical body.
There are times it seems I could write about it forever; how it protects, projects, rejects and imprisons me. In those times, everything feels a blur as my mind travels bi-directionally to secure words, visions, or memories of what it felt like not to be separated from the self.
Childhood experiences were heart imprints cast in memory stone, like handprint keepsakes. Cartwheels. I remember doing cartwheels until I was dizzy and then again and again because it felt like flying. The first time I saw a gymnastics competition on television, I knew that’s what I would do, who I would be. It was to be only an imprint after all.
There are other experiences, snapshots in the family album that are skipped over while looking for only the cartwheel reminders. Frozen. I remember painting over my emotions with an invisibility cloak and successfully playing dead. Another imprint.
When my thoughts touch upon the imprints of my heart, it is with nostalgia but not sadness. I believe we are called to reconcile the perceptions of good and evil to keep everything in the same album, to understand the real source, strength and cohesiveness of our mold.
So many past choices were based on trying to break or outrun the imprints that hurt the most to endure or create. But endeavoring to run hills of my own making only meant I would create mountains to climb and then cliffs to dive, because deep down there is a knowing that destination precipice is too cold to live in forever. So there is always a fall that leads back to the original burials. The ruins.
It doesn’t take too long to dig before realizing that the creation of hills and mountains were really endeavors to follow the path of the first imprint, the one that remembered the sense of flying. The answer sits in the dirt with our hands, sifting through broken keepsakes until we can hold them in gratitude. Tears falls on the different colored pieces until our mind becomes a paintbrush that removes the invisibility cloak. The world is brighter but hurts our eyes.
No one cries a masterpiece in solitary confinement. There is always a soul that reminds us of the cartwheels, and we follow them because they are the imprint we’ve been unconsciously seeking since childhood. They find a way to encourage us to keep painting even when we don’t see them and they do this by wrapping us in the glow of their hearts to keep us warm.
Dreams lead back to childhood
Tears lead back to peace
Love leads back to freedom