I feel like I am emerging from the early years (the tumble dryer/thick fog more like) of motherhood. Just. I keep having to pop back into the cave. But I have at least found the way towards the light, back into the world.
When I picture myself emerging, my hair is tangled and unbrushed. I have holes in my clothes. And the sun is shining in my eyes. I am delicate and yet somehow so much stronger than when I went in.
And, in my hands, I am holding a large clump of earth. I have to carry it - it is what I dug up while I was in the cave. I know I must hold onto it because as I start to scrape at the mud, there is something exquisitely beautiful and shiny inside and I know I must share its luminosity and truth with others.
I don't know what it is yet but I carry it carefully.
And I start to stand up a little straighter, and a little straighter and I see so many others in their caves and I watch them, silently. I let them know that I understand.
And I don't have a choice about carrying this rock. I can't put it down.
The only thing I can do is follow the urges to describe each glimpse of what is under the mud as I slowly scrape at the surface.
And this is why I write. It is how I chip away at the rock.
I don't always feel that brave about sharing my words but somehow I just have to do it.
Who will read it? What will they think? Who am I to write? What's so interesting about my rock? Everyone else's rocks are so much more interesting. And on and on the voice goes...
I have to gather these questions and doubts carefully, like petals, and throw them into the wind because the call of the rock is stronger. Some days, only just.
What is your rock made of? How do you chip away at it? What stops you from sharing it?