Loving and Letting Go

The WordPress prompt for today is “lovingly”. (I’ve never tried a daily prompt before, so I checked their page out.)

 

The first thing that I thought of was a baby lizard I found when I was a munchkin. I carried the lizard around for hours until my grandmother convinced me to let it go back where I found it.

I wanted to take care of it. I wanted to keep the lizard safe and happy.

“If you love it,” she said, “let it go”.

It’s funny to me that my child brain understood that.

How did I understand that?

There was so much pain and fear going on in my life as a child – but I understood love.

I wanted that little lizard to be happy, so I put it back on the fence where I found it, hoping it made it back to its family and lived happily and safely.

I was a little sad to let it go, but I was confident that it would be better off in its lizard world, not my human one.

 

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This prompt brought a few animal memories back to me.

I never realized how much I wanted a baby animal to keep and play mom to. I was always dreaming of finding a bird egg and keeping it, hatching it, and raising the little bird in its own little habitat I’d create for him/her.

I never wanted to be a mom to an actual human baby. As a child, I wanted a fluffy little bird, duck, lizard, owl, kitten, or something wild that I’d find outside and keep. I had this overwhelming urge to find and protect every little animal I came into contact with.

Of course, if you take me to a shelter now, I have the same reaction. Maybe a bit more psycho. I want to take all the dogs home!!!

 

I find it interesting that my small, child self understood love on such a pure level. I remember the feeling it evoked. Love was something beautiful and perfect. It was a balm, a safety that couldn’t be contested. And I always equivocated it with animals.

 

(wrote this sometime early February)

Something True

Truth?

My dog’s big brown eyes staring up at me as I tell him I love him.

 

Truth is getting lost in a song I can feel.

 

Stories are true.

Stories are truth even if they’re wrapped up in some lies.

Make believe. Fairy tales for the soul. Grotesque and painful but beautiful and pure. Painful dredges through the muck so you can build a home and lay on the living room floor like a child again, safe, comfortable, content, and happy to just be there.

Truth is the stories we tell.

The stories we get lost in. The stories we survive inside.

The ones that break us. The ones that build us.

The ones that allow us to find the ugliness behind the bright lights. The beauty in the deepest holes filled with the heaviest atmosphere.

 

Truth is getting lost and finding yourself.

 

Truth is truth.

It can be hidden, denied, disguised, discarded.

But truth can never be broken.

 

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This is post #3 in Rara’s #Somethingist challenge. For my original post (which explains things), click here. And then join the challenge!