The Journey Inward

I am holding my thin, fragile, candy coated shell in my hands right now. It is a bright and cheery green and very pleasing in its small, sweet way. It has served as a strong protector, a worthy barrier, a guard who kept pain and sadness and disappointment at bay.

The first crack appeared a decade or so ago, and it has spread to others, not due to neglect or violence or impact; rather, the shell splintered due to internal expansion. The core had grown over the years, sometimes slowly, sometimes in fits and spurts, but the outer membrane was able to contain it, hold it in.

Until it couldn’t any more. And it gave way. The inner bud had outgrown its captor and fought to be free. She was ready to be exposed, to stand in truth, to live in the Light. She was ready to continue her transformation openly, unapologetically.

That essence is not shiny or sweet or tempting, as the outer mask was. She is raw and greedy, sarcastic and irreverent, opinionated and curious, adventurous and creative. She doesn’t ever want to be candy coated again.

So what to do with this long utilized, sometimes revered and sometimes resented, polished hull I hold in my hands? Shall I discard it, recycle it, pass it on to my kids? Shall I save it “just in case “?

No. I will plant it. Dig a hole and lay its crushed remains within. Cover it with rich soil and nutritive compost. Water it with fresh, still water. Place it in the warm sun.

Why? you ask. What do I hope to gain? What do I owe it? What will it become?

I owe it more than words can convey. That shell’s covering was woven from kindness, comfort, love and survival. It was designed with good intentions and for optimal results. That it also consisted of fear, denial, and avoidance is just part of its genius, too. For it was those fibers that made it vulnerable and open to decay eventually. It was never destined to last, just to see the inner core through the hard times to full maturity.

As to what will grow, I guess we’ll see. That’s the exciting part. Maybe it will be fertilizer for vibrant flowers. Or maybe this is just its burial place beneath whatever I decide to plant next. Either way, I know this will be the last time my outer shell will touch my body.

I am taking a 30 day workshop in April. Each day I receive a mentor text, a note from the instructor and some prompts to respond to. I am to choose the one that resonates most and then begin drafting. This is today’s response.