I’ve been thinking about the book I want to write someday.
The book would begin with my childhood. An idyllic childhood. Sheltered, too religious maybe, but one I remember as peaceful and happy, full of books and family, movies and roadtrips, love and laughter.
The book would describe how I was a marble during those years. Smooth, shiny, one solid piece rolling along nearly effortlessly.
Then the book would tell you about the first big crack in that smooth marble finish. And the second and the third and the fourth and the fifth crack. And how with that fifth crack the world grew very dark and joyless and godless.
The book would explain how those cracks were eventually filled with putty, temporary but good enough to last a while. And how I rolled along seamlessly for several years with that putty holding me together.
And then it would describe the shattering. The year long depression that pulverized me, the marble, scattering all my pieces to the wind.
And how if you imagine a soul as a city skyline, with each building being one piece of your identity, how that skyline would look if the city had been burned to the ground. How my soul had burned to the ground. How I had no skyline left.
And it would tell of the rebuild. Of a life given to me when I least expected it. Of the calendar on the wall of a cabin. Of Eden and her whisper of hope. Of a new narrative, surprising and liberating and immeasurable. And of love lost and life found and words that generously and attentively sewed each ripped seam and made them new, made them stronger.
Maybe I would call it, From Sheltered to Shattered to Wholehearted. Or something like that.
And I would write it for myself, my children and all the humans I love. Because I don’t ever want to forget. And because it only seems right to share what has been shared with me.
I know now that I will never again be whole. But I will be wholehearted.
And I am learning that there is more beauty in cracks filled with gold than in a bowl that has never been broken.