The Weight of a Stone

There was a place deep inside of her that was bursting with truth. 

It was a seeping wound, constantly growing new cells of healing only to be ripped open anew. That place had a name, an address, a definite location in the pit of her stomach. If she chose to, she could delve her hands down and lift out that round heavy stone that dwelled inside of her—the way one digs their hands down in to a pumpkin and scoops out the seeds, digging their nails along the flesh of the inside. 

Instead, she held it inside of her. She woke with it, ate with it, spoke with it, bathed with it and slept with it. She cooked dinner with it, put bandaids on her children with it and wrote words with it.

Everything she did, she held the stone heavy in her stomach and guarded it like the soldiers at the tomb of Jesus. It was her cross and the thing that slowly killed her day and night. But it was also the thing that taught her true compassion and made her embrace the humanness of mankind. 

This burden had become the most beautiful and barbaric thing inside of her. And what does one do with a story like that kept hidden inside of them? They must tell it. In all of its sadness and brokenness and vulnerability, they must lay it down like flagstone and slowly construct a path to healing and truth.  It may be attacked by the dogs, gnawed on ruthlessly, but it is the only way to becoming whole.

"She wanted—what some people want throughout life—a grief that should deeply touch her, and thus humanize and make her capable of sympathy." -Nathaniel Hawthorne