roots

When you are young, you believe everything is biodegradable. Let that experience, that mistake, that heartbreak go out the window. No need to give it a second thought, let alone a second chance. It won't have a life of its own, you think. But it does. The people you try to forget, the places you abandon, the projects you leave unfinished go on to live a life without you. They don't break down, even though you do. They don't return to the ground, they just return to your door and ask where you've been, what you've been up to, what or whom else you've replaced. There is a place for these stubborn plastics of your past; it's right here in your present.

And so you begin to have a conversation. You begin to have the conversation if you're smart, that is. Because it is so easy to ignore their calls, make excuses, change the subject, shut the door. It is too easy to slip silently into a past that's pure fiction. But these tales, like the nails of the dead, keep growing. They will outgrow the box you've placed them in, under your bed. They will wake you up when they've had enough of being hidden. They will demand you answer their questions. Sometimes you have to swallow the answers before you can open your mouth.

The words may be like glue, getting stuck to your tongue, but keep talking. Keep talking and don't forget to ask your own questions. Own your questions. Own your questions so that you can begin to own your past. What was once an intruder, a mold out of control, a zombie with intentions, becomes a friend. Better yet, a teacher. It becomes a vital bridge to the person you never outgrow. You are still that person and you deserve to be heard.

So listen. Speak, be heard, and then listen. You may be growing older, but your heart can be reborn. There may be rain, but it's only here to nurture your roots. Let it happen.