All I've Got

Writing the five page essay last class was an unexpected but enjoyable assignment. I can’t remember what led me to write about God, but it felt like a topic worthy of introspection and seemed challenging enough. If I’m going to write five paragraphs about something, the last thing I want to do is bore myself writing about something of relative unimportance. That’s one thing that I recognize about myself – the compulsive need to do everything perfectly. It’s not always a good thing. There are just some tasks in life that aren’t worth the additional time that I spend on them. Like laundry, for example. Do the shirts really need to be hung according to color? Do the hangers really need to be spaced two finger widths apart? No. But I’m aware of this and have the rational capacity to maintain a measurement of embarrassment over admitting such things, whereas a truly neurotic person does not. At least, that’s what I tell myself in consolation. So as a compromise, I only take the time to perform such detail oriented tasks if I’m aware that I’m choosing to perform them and never perform them out of compulsiveness. This is an important distinction in my book. And since I have a need to manage myself in such ways, making “rules” and such, it ends up being a pretty big book. Sigh.
You can only escape your insanity for so long; it always finds you in the end.

I walk along the moist wedge of sand where the edge of the ocean rests.
Leaving footprints behind like a trail of breadcrumbs, I turn to look in my wake.
The water glides along the sand in thin sheets, smoothing over every mark that bore witness to my being there. The shoreline stretches endlessly in either direction, with no point of reference or indication that where I’m going is any different than where I’ve been. Rocks lay glistening in the sun, little pieces of the earth that serve as silent witnesses of my passing. They carry within them stories older than the ages, as old as the grains of sand and the salt in the sea. Their smooth curves and restful nature appeal to me and I stoop down to pick one up before water rushes to bury it beneath another fine layer of sand. It is sparkling white and about the size of an egg; and I marvel at how it fits perfectly into the palm of my hand. I look at the grey veins that are spread across its pitted surface and am convinced of its perfection. Uncertainty suddenly finds me – do I replace the rock where I found it, move it to a place where it can be admired by all, or take it home? Something similar to guilt forces me to remove it from my pocket and return it to its place in the sand. Everything in this life has its place, I suppose. Who am I to interfere with the journey that rock was on? My husband, who looks at me from afar, sees nothing but his wife silhouetted against the setting sun. She stands there with her head tilted slightly to one side and pulls something out of her pocket to place it in the sand. I turn and begin my walk back towards him. He knows better than to ask what I was doing. My explanations are usually met with raised eyebrows. “It’s a rock,” he would say, and I would quietly smile.