Talk to Me

I had a long talk tonight with my mom. One of the pleasures throughout my teenage years was plopping myself on a stool in the kitchen, resting my elbows on the counter and telling my tales to my mother. She was often in the kitchen, busy, resourceful and putting together something magically delicious. Always doing something. But in the kitchen she was semi-stationary moving efficiently between the stove, refrigerator and sink. Here as Mom utilized her gifts to feed her large family, you could ensare her and bend her ear. And she always seemed to welcome my tales.

We had one conversation that reoccurred over and over again. It had to do with the "thorn in my side" and a great insecurity in my life. It seemed to be the topic that engulfed me throughout those painful, tentative, high-growth years. I couldn't leave it alone. I couldn't unattend to it. This thorn hurt me again and again and I attributed all the misery and trouble in my life to this thorn.

It so preoccupied my thoughts that it seemed to overshadow every part of my life. Every day. Its meaning and impact on my life was long, textured, layered and unavoidable it seemed. It never made me happy.

I wish I could tell you that I look back on those days with nostalgia and that I've learned wisdom through the experience of my years. I would be lying.

The thorn is still here. And I still let it hurt me. My hope today is that is someday I can help someone else avoid the same kind of hurt. The same kind of long-drawn out, textured, layered stuff that I've contemplated for too many years.

Time's a-wasting.