Free Yourself. Simple words, right? How come so many of us cannot seem to do what we know is right for our beings? How come we stay trapped in the grips of others? Allowing ourselves to become so consumed, so diligent in following, and so righteous in what we know will not serve us well in the end…
I have always struggled with you. There have been ups and there have been downs. I can remember, like it was yesterday, running around in one of the Easter dresses a family member fashioned up for me. Hearing you calling for me “Find the eggs! Your getting warm!” absolutely overcome with happiness that I was independent and ventured off from one of my best childhood friends. I was determined to find my own Easter eggs. She could have her own too; you’ve always said I was good at sharing for being an only child.
I have one picture of all of us together. One lone picture that proves that we were a family at one time. You know, the kind you get done at the mall or Wal-Mart with the ridiculous looking backdrop and the photographer who takes a million pictures and only has one good one that your satisfied with. I have carried this picture with me many places and have always liked it, because unlike the others. All three of us are in it. There is no malice, no discomfort shown, no beer cans or cigarettes. Just smiles, and what appears to be a middle class family doing all they can to love each other and grow together; chasing that American Dream I suppose.
Dreams seem to have a way of bursting into flames right before your eyes, turning to ash in the palm of your hand. Even though it burns, you don’t put it down, you hold it and search for your glue, too young to realize that glue can’t put this back together. The alcohol soaked seams won’t hold the stitches of honesty and understanding. It seems impossible to piece back together what we all once thought was possible to obtain. You cannot build a house with cocaine and weed, nor with alcohol and distress. You cannot glue glass back together once it has been broken into pieces; you’d be better off saving them for a mosaic later in life if it could survive that long.
Imagining myself as a little girl, carrying along her Easter basket, dressed in a frilly white dress with a matching hat and socks and those shiny white shoes. I have carried these pieces of my mosaic. Carried them far and carried them with pride, for I knew that one day I would understand what broke the glass that made up my life. One day, I would long to understand the meaning of all of those jagged edges, those ones that make you bleed love and understanding, the ones that make you bleed hate, bleed distrust and imagination. Imagination. Imagine. Image. The pictures of what my life was, what it is, and what one day it will work itself out to be.
One day….still working on that.