It was quiet time, when all through the house, the kids were napping, or at least, in their rooms being quiet. Yet, I was compelled to check on my oldest. I opened the door to his room, and to my horror, he had completely destroyed one of their favorite books. Obliterated. Gone. Shredded. Pieces of it were everywhere.
I bawled, probably because I’m a writer, and I LOVE books. And probably because it was that time of the month, and I was way over emotional already, maybe. Then I ransacked his room. I took out his tent and all his toys, and made him stuff all the little pieces in a trash bag.
A week later, that trash bag was still sitting by the door. I can’t bring myself to throw it away. The other day I tried taking out the pieces and seeing if maybe, just maybe I could somehow tape it all back together. Nope. Yet the bag still sits there. Today, I was struck with why? Why am I holding on to this mutilated book? I can’t fix it, but I can’t bring myself to throw it away either.
Then a thought occurred to me. Isn’t that how we are with life? We hold onto broken pieces unable to fix them, but we won’t let go of them. We are unable to move on, the broken pieces clutter up our lives, our kitchen floor, because we won’t let go.
I think it’s easier to bury them and think, Oh, I’ve let it go, but it’s burning a hole through my gut, my heart, my life. But then I’ve become callused, jaded, no? So I had to stop and ask myself. Am I holding on to broken pieces? Aside from the plastic bag sitting next to the trash can in my kitchen, that’s been there for a MONTH now. Ha! Must. Let. Go!
Are you holding on to broken pieces? How do you let go? Because I don’t think ignoring it is helping me. Ha!