Finding the Burden Stones

 

“We're born alone, we live alone, we die alone. Only through our love and friendship 

can we create the illusion for the moment that we're not alone.”  

Orson Welles

I was in early elementary school when I had one of the worst cases of the flu  I can recall.  I was running a high fever, was nauseous, had burning eyes, and could barely move.  I can remember Mom hovering over me while I lay with my eyes shut on the sofa, saying to me, “I would do anything to take this from you.  I wish it were me who was sick instead of you.” 

Although I was surrounded by loving family members, I alone had to suffer.  No one else could take it away from me, and no one else could feel that pain in that moment.  

Like Mom, over the years, I have offered a similar sentiment to my sick sons or to others going through difficult times, but I know that no words I provide to friends and family can take away the pain or transfer the heaviness to me.  As Orson Welles wrote, “We’re born alone, we live alone, we die alone.”

In 2020, as Mom lay on her hospital bed dying, she was not alone.  My sister, my niece, and I held her hands.  She was surrounded by love, but she alone went through that experience that all of us one day will encounter.  I couldn’t experience it with her or feel what she was feeling.

* * * * * * * * *

Fast forward to 2024.  I was in my car doing my usual—-dealing with semi-trucks on I-35 on the way to work and listening to an audiobook.  The book that day, The Covenant of Water, is a novel with a  setting of 1900 in south India, and within the first five minutes, my breath stopped.  I had to hit pause after hearing the narrator read, “A burden stone [was] a horizontal slab of rock at shoulder height held up by two vertical stone pillars sunk into the ground, a place for a traveler to set down a head load and catch their breath” (Ch. 2).  

It is true that this novel by Verghese has many motifs and symbols that perhaps only an English teacher would appreciate.  However, this sentence was not one that stood out to me because of my job.  I paused the audiobook because the need for a burden stone  seemed so relevant even outside of 1900 south India.  The need is true for all of us repeatedly in life.  The need is even more so in our current national and worldwide turbulence.

Verghese wrote that in this land “where most everything is transported [on their heads] along well-traveled footpaths, a rest station [like the burden stone was] a blessing” (Ch. 4).

* * * * * * * *

At least twelve months have passed since I listened to this audiobook, but the concept of a burden stone has rested in my soul.

So many of us carry heavy loads, burdens, guilt, shame, and unfulfilled longings.  The journey of life along footpaths that are only wide enough for one person at a time can be hard.  These burdens weigh on our souls, our hearts, our bodies, and definitely in our minds.  How fitting it is that Verghese was discussing a source of relief from the head load these travelers were carrying.

We all have a head load that needs to be offloaded for a short while.  We also probably have a heart load, a soul load, and a physical load that needs to be eased on heavy stones while we temporarily rest.

I found it significant as well that in the novel no one else comes along and carries that load after the characters have eased it onto the horizontal slab.  Instead, the traveler, once rested, picks up that load again and continues on.  That load is ours-–and ours alone.

* * * * * * * * * *

Life recently seems to be full of turmoil.  The news headlines daily add to my soul load, as my heart hurts for those whose lives are turned upside down.  It is hard to find a space to breathe between the “breaking news” alerts, the threat of war, and the stories of heartbreak.   For those of us with an abundance of empathy, our minds and hearts go to those frightened by changes in policies and by natural disasters.

While it is true that the load is ours alone, the trick in life is to find these rest spots, these burden stones that can ease the heaviness of the journey.  The trick is to ask how each of us can find an activity, a space, or a practice that allows us to temporarily ease the weight to find some peace.  For me at least, it is a temporary rest, and I must pick up the load again.  However, a temporary rest is a blessing, as Verghese wrote.

Perhaps faith is the answer for you.  Perhaps not.  However, regardless of faith, there are many practices that can provide a small moment of respite.  

Here are some of mine that I have discovered in the past few years:

• Creating small spots of joy in my house to serve as a focal point.  It may involve live plants, comfortable furniture and blankets, small lights, burning candles, or small items that help you relive a special moment or person.
• It may be sitting beside the lake, going for a drive with my dogs, walking a trail, or even going to a thrift store for a few minutes.
• It can be sitting in the sun in my baby pool, watching the squirrels hang upside down on my new bird feeder, seeing a female cardinal swoop in for a quick bite, or sitting in awe as I see a rabbit munch on a weed in my yard.
• Talking to friends briefly, or finding the comfort that only Kraft Macaroni and Cheese can sometimes provide.
• Dancing in my kitchen to music that makes my heart soar.
• Reading or writing or enjoying a favorite TV show.

Your burden stones may be very different than mine.  That is how it should be.

Much has happened in my life in the past 8 years, and much of what I have undergone has been experienced alone.  

But, oh, I know I am not alone.  I am so thankful for the small moments of respite—-for an email from a student thanking me, for kind comments from colleagues in an end-of-year evaluation, for the unexpected phone call from a dear friend of mine, or for the moments spent sitting near friends (usually with food or a drink) and laughing.  

These moments of rest do not take away the burden, but these moments ease the load and help me keep walking the well-traveled footpaths of life.

* * * * * * * * *

Many times I write to share my journey, hoping that perhaps a few words will provide a burden stone for someone reading.

However, many times I write to reassure myself that I can keep going.  I write with an assurance that I sometimes don’t have.  I write with the hope that perhaps the positive spin at the end can provide a respite from not-so-positive thoughts that race through my head.  I write to provide a small burden stone for my head load.

I am reminded as I write this that I cannot carry the burden of the world on my shoulders.  I cannot fix problems or make everything in our country and world the way I would like it to run.

I also cannot take anyone’s burden away from them.  However, what I CAN do is walk beside others on their paths, pointing out possible burden stones along the way in case they didn’t see them.  Then, I can stand beside them silently while they catch their breath.  

So, for those traveling along with me, perhaps I can be like a Buc-ee’s billboard that appears mile after mile after mile along the interstate (or for my Florida friends who travel to NC—I can be a King Frog billboard).  Like these signs, I can remind you that a burden stone is a mile ahead, a rest is available, (and the bathrooms are clean)!   You can let down your burden and stretch your weary legs for just a short rest stop.

Keep your eyes out for the burden stones.  They are there.  You don’t have to carry this burden forever without respite.

And, as always, I am here.

The Picture that Changed My Life

 

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but one photograph changed my life.

In early August of 2004, I numbly walked out of the marriage counselor’s office, 

Completely cold, numb, and unseeing.

It was wholly and utterly over—the relationship/marriage of 20 years.

Done.

Broken.

Never to be repaired.

As a mother of two young sons, as a full-time associate pastor of a church that obviously didn’t like pastors in the midst of a divorce, and as a woman who could not afford the house she was in, I knew that it meant more than just a change in marital status.

Within 24 hours of that appointment,

I had been asked to leave a marriage,

I had been asked to resign from my job,

I had lost any income,

I had lost my home,

And I had lost my church which was the home of my only friends in a town that was a 24-hour drive away from family.

Most importantly, and all importantly, I knew this would mean the loss of my 24-hour-a-day, 7-days-a-week, 365-days-a-year contact with the two most important people in the world:  my sons.

It took only 24 hours to change every external aspect of my life.

AND only 24 hours to devastate all I knew of the world, all I knew about myself, and all my dreams and hopes for the future.

It wasn’t unexpected.

I knew it would probably come to that, but the reality is very different than the anticipated dread.

LIke most women, my identity came from my family and friends—and like many men, a big part of my identity also came from my job.

Now, the Kim I was . . . . was no longer there.

Who was I at age 35?  Who was this person who was

Restarting her life by moving from a 3200-sq.-ft. home with a pool to a 800-sq.-ft. rental home with skunks living under it,

LIving her life as a single woman half the time when the boys were with their dad,

Applying to 60+ jobs because the school year had already started, and

Going from a size 10 to a size 5.

I walked each day in a fog.

My heart was on a roller coaster, two days on a high when the boys were with me and two days of heavy grief when my 2.5-year-old and 6-year-old were away.

I tried SO hard to be happy when they were with me, trying to keep them safe and loved,

Trying to pretend Mom was the same as always, 

Even when she was a hollow shell,

A ghost,

A tender eggshell, a flicker of a candle—where just the slightest touch or whiff of air might destroy the life within.

* * * * * * *

In the start of October, as the fall season was upon us (even if the weather was still summer), 

I made the extraordinary effort to lift my 75-pound depressed legs and my 750-pound depressed body (even though I was a size 5 at the time) and gather my sons into my used Honda.

We drove to a pumpkin farm out in the country.

The boys loved the apple dunking, the hayride, and the scores of scarecrows and pumpkins.

The female owner doted on the boys, and she offered to take our first post-divorce picture of the three of us.  

I plastered on a smile, knowing that everyone must see my grief, my lost-ness, my hollowness.

I hugged my boys to me as we sat in front of a stack of pumpkins.

We got into the car and drove home.

Weeks later, I stood at Target, waiting to pay for the photos they had developed.

I shuffled through the images, smiling and remembering----

Until my breath caught, time stood still, and I couldn’t move—--with the photo of the three of us in my hand.

The boys were smiling.

I was smiling.

We looked happy.

I didn’t look broken.  I looked like any other mom sharing a single moment with her sons.

I continued to look at the picture over the next few days and weeks.

I stared at it for minutes at a time.

I cried more than I want to share over that picture.

It was a reminder that life would go on, I would go on, and the boys would go on.

Life would never look like I thought it would as a child, but that didn’t mean that it wasn’t a life worth of love and joy and hope.

I would go on loving my boys 100%, whether they were with me 24/7 or not.

They would know I loved them 100%, whether they were with me 24/7 or not.

I could smile and enjoy small moments without being false to my grief.

The picture was framed and sat above my kitchen sink for an additional 10 years.

When days were rough, as I washed dishes, I looked longingly at that picture and remembered another rough time in my life that I survived.

When days were happy, I looked at the image and counted up other moments that were caught in a mental photograph.

When I was all alone in the house, I looked at the photograph and knew I was not alone.

* * * * * * * * * *

Obviously, years have passed.

I have framed other pictures, other moments that live on photo paper and in my head.

Moments with both boys when they graduated,

Moments with Anthony at the tailgate tent,

Moments with friends who were a part of a season of my life.

Moments with my parents beside me.

Yes, there is a bittersweetness to the passing of time.

However, these memories and photographs remind me that there is always an opportunity for me to believe that life will get better,

That I will smile again,

That life can still be sweet and meaningful after two marriages, three significant deaths, and 56 years on this earth.

This picture saved my life.

It reminded me (and still reminds me) that no matter what is happening in my life—externally or internally—

Life is worth living, 

love is worth fighting for, 

and joy is just around the corner.

"Not Waving but Drowning": Be a Warm Blaze

 

 

The movies don’t portray real life.  
It doesn’t always rain during funerals
And people don’t get shot and keep jumping out of planes and chasing the bad guy.

I just recently discovered that the same is true of drownings.  Unfortunately, this type of misinformation can lead to death.  We picture the scene in Baywatch or any other lifeguard-type movie.  The people swimming get in over their heads, and once drowning, their arms go waving in the air, they scream for help, they splash and flail, and the muscle-bound lifeguard arrives just in time.

Drowning does not really look like this.  As a matter of fact, there is a physiological “Instinctive Drowning Response” in which:  

• “Except in rare circumstances, drowning people are physiologically unable to call out for help.”
• “Drowning people cannot wave for help . . . or [reach] out” for rescue equipment.  They actually cannot raise their arms out of the water.
• “From beginning to end of the Instinctive Drowning Response, these drowning people can only struggle on the surface of the water from 20 to 60 seconds before submersion occurs."

Source:  “Drowning Doesn’t Look like Drowning”

Drowning is often quiet and unnoticed.
There often are no signs other than silence.
Those who try to help find that help is not accepted as anticipated.
It is much more sudden than portrayed on the television.


* * * * * * * *

There is a reason I am writing about drowning.  Just a few weeks ago, at the end of my British Literature II class, I taught “Not Waving but Drowning” by Stevie Smith.  Each time I teach it, I realize how accurately it portrays the misunderstandings we have with mental health.  Perhaps Smith didn’t mean it as a metaphorical look at mental health, so  perhaps it is  because of my own life situations and my own struggle with mental wellness that these words speak to me:

Nobody heard him, the dead man,   
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought   
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he’s dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,   
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always   
(Still the dead one lay moaning)   
I was much too far out all my life   
And not waving but drowning.

If you will excuse my English teacher “lesson” here, I will point out a few important points.  This poem provides the points of view of two separate speakers/groups, each speaking their version of the truth.  

PEOPLE ON THE SHORE:  They see their friend out in the water waving.  They believe two things:  he is fooling around like normal and trying to get their attention.  They also believe he died because his heart gave way due to the cold temperature of the water.  

THE MALE FRIEND:  His reality is much darker—and much colder.  He is out much further than his friends thought, but the truth is that he has been “much too far out” his whole life.  He has been “waving” his whole life, but no one has seen his desire to be helped.  The world has been too cold for him his entire life.  

This poem always makes me question myself, forcing me to ask if there are those around me who are desperately trying to survive—-people who are asking for help while I completely misinterpret their actions.

These words always remind me how cold the world can be to EACH of us at different times of our lives.  

Smith’s words challenge me to consider just how “too far out” some people are from the typical experience of others, that they are “out there” their entire lives, and they feel completely isolated.  

These lines force me to consider just how easy it is to get out past your limits and suddenly find yourself further out from shore than anticipated.

Her poem also suggests that MY truth is not THE truth.  I cannot truly know what someone goes through if I have not walked in his or her shoes.

* * * * * * * * *

Whether Stevie Smith knew the true facts of drowning, as mentioned before, I guess it doesn’t matter.  However, as she writes, our truth may not be THE truth.  Our assumptions may not be THE truth.  Our observations and guesses may not be THE truth either.

The English teacher in me cannot help but think of the truths of these drowning facts in terms of mental health crisis.  

1. Those in crisis may not be able to call out for help.
2. They may not be able to reach out even when we reach out to help.
3. It is critical to respond quickly.

* * * * * * * * *

Since May is Mental Health Awareness Month, I thought it was only fitting to put a few words together.  

Part of our confusion about the “waving” of others and their quiet “drowning” has to do with the stigma connected to mental health.   

When those of us who are doggy paddling to stay above the water speak up about our depression, anxiety, or emotional challenges,  we know that others will misunderstand and think we are “larking”  and cannot be taken seriously.   We are judged as being too sensitive, lacking spiritual faith in God, or just plain too weak.

This stigma happens in medical offices when patients are belittled and shamed when they express concerns, as it happened to me a few months ago.  I left the doctor’s office feeling crazy, even though I knew I wasn’t. The second a female admits anxiety, we become an instant target of narcissistic doctors who picture the “hysterical” female.  If I am honest, I am still shaken by his words and his attitude.  For many, this would be enough to keep quiet about the reality of their mental health.

Being honest about mental health may lead to issues at work and in relationships.  For males, admitting anything feels like a sign of weakness and a lack of masculinity.    

However, the more we stuff down the issues, the more the world feels “too cold” and the farther “out” we feel we are.

We take much less seriously the mental health of others than we do their physical health.  Most know the signs of heart attack, but very rarely do we know the challenges others face mentally and emotionally.

I myself used to speak as if I had all the answers.  Now I know my best response when someone tells me they are hurting, weary, and out of their depths is to say, “I cannot imagine how hard it is.  I am here for you.”  Just my presence may be enough.

* * * * * * * * *

Humans are not alone in minimizing mental health.  Even the English language minimizes the truth.

We talk about anxiety, as if being anxious over a test is the same as having anxiety.  
We share that we are depressed over our team losing, as if it is the same as true depression.  

One of the best ways the public recently has been educated are the pharmaceutical ads in which people hold the happy face sign in front of their real sad faces. These ads reveal that THEIR truth is not the same as what it appears to be.  

Unfortunately, even despite the ads, many still believe you cannot smile or laugh while being depressed.  Note that the poem says this guy “larked” and was jolly.   Numerous people were amazed to see me laughing and continuing with my job after Anthony died because THEIR truth didn’t allow for that to happen.  They believed I was completely “over” it—-when the truth is that I will never be over what happened.

The English language includes the phrase:  “committing suicide,” a phrase left over from the Middle Ages.  “Committing suicide” is the same phrasing as “committing a murder” or committing a crime.  

The subconscious suggestion to each of us (OUR truth) is that  “committing” involves a deliberate choice, a conscious movement forward.  It involves thought and premeditation.  It suggests a choice.  

Yet, THE truth may be that those who die by suicide often don’t feel there is a choice.  There are no alternatives.  Just as those who are drowning, they cannot reach out for help that is provided.  They cannot speak up about their desperation.  Desperation then can lead to very sudden consequences.

When we speak of “committing suicide,” it suggests a moral crime, a weakness, a lack of moral and mental fortitude.   The words suggest that the person just wasn’t strong enough or didn’t trust God enough.  

As a result, “committing suicide” will never again be a part of my vocabulary.  It is so much more complicated than that.

Instead, perhaps I will use the phrase  Fredrick Backman used in his new novel  Friends.  He spoke  of someone who was  “murdered by reality.”  Instead of seeing a conscious choice, a self-murder, this suggests the horror reality can be to some.  

[One last side note:   What we know of drowning is that drowning does not look like anything.  It is not obvious.  Even if we see it and try to help, we may not be able to help.  They may not reach for the lifeline.  We can try, but it is not our fault if we don’t succeed.  We may not have been able to predict it—-or see the signs.  It may be quiet and silent.  And no amount of guilt or “what if’s” can change the reality.  And no answers may be found after the fact.]


* * * * * * * * * * * *

May is such a good time to remind ourselves that OUR truths are not THE  truths of others.
 

We each walk this life alone.  Whether we are surrounded by others or not, our truth is still only ours.  
We cannot 100% fully know another’s truth.  
We cannot 100% fully know another’s challenges.
We cannot “fix” others’ lives.  Our solutions cannot be their solutions.
We cannot “muscle” our way into others’ lives to save the day by telling them how they should act or live.

Instead, in this “cold” world that makes many of us feel isolated and scared,
The real need is to:  
Be kind.
Be loving.
Be present for others.
Listen.  
Bear witness.

Others need us to:
Open our ears.  
Close our mouths.  
Open our hearts.

In a world that is far “too cold,”
Be a warm blaze that draws others close,
A warm hand,
A closed mouth,
A presence that reminds others of possibilities.

Diamond-Shaped Magic

My tiny hands held the plastic wrapped in string.  
Hope and anticipation beat through my heart.
Believing in magic, in the impossible coming true,  
I began to run across the field.

This day of magic happened each year of my childhood.
The invitation (had there been one) might have read:
        The hosts:  The Wilsons
        The participants:  my church family, young and old
        When/Where:  spring, all day, outside in the field, in the open garage
        What:  food, open field, games, cheers and laughs, candy, and kites

I looked at my plastic kite on the ground.
It was a cheap plastic Gayla kite, probably from Eckerd’s or Publix—
Just a diamond-shaped sheet of plastic  with plastic braces
And a long attached piece of string wound around a small piece of plastic.
Seemingly Insignificant.
Small.
Easily broken.
Impotent.

But with a running start and a good breeze,
That  small, seemingly insignificant diamond
Rose,
And lifted,
And flew.

Pure magic.

It fluttered,
                            And skittered sideways.
And dove down
                                                        And higher
                                        Higher
    And rose up again
Then nosedived
            Lower
                            And lower
 and rose
                         and rose
And rose.

Its tiny diamond shape flew high in the bright blue sky,
Seemingly hovering among the clouds and the birds.

My eyes squinted, trying to catch sight of my kite nearing the sun.
Glimmering in the sky, this diamond was
Tethered to earth only by my tiny fingers, as the string twirled faster and faster from my handpiece.
It was impossible to stop the pull,
The invisible power of the wind pulling up and up,
Leading me to fear being lifted off the ground.

The impossible had happened.
And in that moment, I felt the largeness of the winds and nature
And the smallness of me.


Sometimes, on those spring days, I could run and pull my string,
Pulling the string harder and more taut,
the tiny, insignificant diamond fighting against the relentless, heartless wind.
It fluttered but then caught a new draft of wind to rise higher and higher.

But sometimes, on those spring days, I could run and pull my string,
Pulling the string harder and more taught,
the tiny, insignificant diamond fighting against the heartless wind,
It fluttered, and its uplift disappeared, the winds no longer supporting it,
And suddenly, that diamond dropped,
Nosedived,
Aimed straight at earth,
Bulleting into the dirt below.

Sometimes no matter my effort,
No matter my heart’s desire,
No matter how much I prayed, and wished, and ran, and pulled the string,
Sometimes, no matter what—--the diamond would not fly.
There was no glimmer.
The diamond nosedived and gave up the fight.  

* * * * * * * *

It was my earnest desire that I recreate this magic for my boys.
That they experience the power of the wind,
The strength of invisible forces around us,
The pure magic.
And with that, that they experience the disappointment that comes when efforts cannot bring about the desired results
But the thrill and joy when the struggle leads to glimmering objects in the sky.

I tried to share this diamond-shaped experience with my sons.
The three of us spent several days in the pursuit of this special  magic.

Perhaps it is because the winds of Texas are not as consistent as the winds of Florida.
Perhaps it is because there were only 3 of us and not a huge family of people who loved me who added to the magic,
Perhaps it is because I was an adult,
Or perhaps because XBox and Nickelodeon had made this type of magic less glittery,
But I was never able to recreate this love of the diamond in my boys.
My hope is I taught them some of its truths in different ways.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * 

However, now that my boys are grown,
My heart’s desire is to recreate this magic for myself.

It is not just a magic available to children.  Adults, too, can find it if we look.
I may not run the fields again with a piece of plastic, but perhaps I can
Believe in the impossible again.
Believe that insignificant nothings can rise and float and
fight against larger powers, unseen forces that batter against me—
Believe that with determination and just the right types of winds, I can fly.

Believe that despite former nosedives, this easily broken "thing" can rediscover her secret power-----
Skittering, diving, but ultimately rising in the sky,
Soaring above,

The dream of a little girl
Who holds the string below.

 

 


.

Stripping Off the Layers

I have often covered up—-hidden behind layers.  

Perhaps it started when I was maybe 5 and one of my grandmothers held my arm and commented, “My goodness, Kim.  You have some hairy arms.  Lots and lots of hair.”

From that moment on, when I visited her in Homestead, Florida, I wore long sleeves, even though it was always hot in her unair-conditioned house near the Keys.

I was willing to sweat and be uncomfortable rather than be reminded by her that I had hairy arms.

* * * * * *

I was in fifth grade, hearing the teachers tell us to sit “Indian style” or “criss-cross, applesauce” on the floor, and although I just couldn’t find that position comfortable at all, I sat that way just long enough to get past the teachers’ attention before I flipped my legs opposite—in a weird W shape-–because that was the only way I could sit long.

I was willing to be uncomfortable just to appear to sit like everyone else.

* * * * * * * *

I was a teenager through young womanhood, hearing from the man I loved just how thin my arms were, like “bird wings,” the objects of jokes told to me and to others.

Those comments from someone I loved kept me in sleeved shirts for over a decade, even though I lived in Florida.  Sleeveless shirts were not an option.

* * * * * * * * * * *

I guess it is easy to see that I did a lot of things to hide my physical awkwardness, my physical features, my different way of seeing the world, and my unique way of handling situations.

I was never normal.  

I knew that without a doubt.  

I sat weird, I read grade levels above my peers, I was a perfectionist, I was a little adult, and I was left-handed.  

I didn’t react like others, and I always felt socially inept.

I always felt a bit like an outsider.  I guess I sort of still do.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

One of the gifts given to me this past year was a diagnosis of neurodivergence.  

What makes this label a gift?

I finally have the realization that, YES, I am different.  However, I am beginning to be proud of this.

Proud that this neurodivergence leads to raw transparency, to a desire to fight for justice, to a huge heart, and to the ability to think in very divergent ways.  I see patterns, and I often can predict possible outcomes before others.

This atypical brain wiring has led to my success at work—and honestly, some of my difficulties.  

It has also led to some of my dearest relationships—and honestly, has also probably led to the end of dozens and dozens of others.

I fight like a bear for those I love, and for the first time, I am learning to fight like a bear for someone else important to me—ME.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

So, this is just a warning.

I am stripping off layers.

Perhaps not down to my skivvies at a strip bar, but the layers are coming off.

I plan to hide nothing.

I am shedding all the coverings most of us hide beneath.

My hairy arms will be bared.

My skinny arms and W-sitting position will be my norm.

No more quiet walking in “clothes” that cover me from head to toe.

I plan to show off my wrinkles, stretch marks, and cellulite.

I plan to expose my heart, my weaknesses, and my mental and emotional challenges.

I plan to share my desires, my dreams, and my passions—

And even my quirks, eccentricities, frustrations, and fears.

No more pretending.

Anyone I trust will see

My beating heart,

My brain’s cycling and cycling,

My blood’s passion,

My loves.

I will not stroll along.

I plan to run through life as only streakers do.

Without fear of judgment,

Wind ruffling my hair,

Running free of the worries of what others will think.

And in this new transparent state

I run free,

Completely bare,

Arms spread open,

A smile fully expressed.

No shame.

No holding back.

No hiding.

No weight holding me down.

Me.

Only me.