I fell apart last week. My spirit was crushed, my feelings were hurt, and my pride was shattered. It happened after a culmination of a few different situations involving written words, spoken words, and the absence of words . No big deal, but together they destroyed me for a bit. I was in a weak spot to begin with, and the final straw broke. I've got tough skin, a strong support system, faith that moves mountains, and all that; but that week shook me.
Sticks and stones will break your bones, but words will never hurt you? Nope. Actions speak louder than words? Sometimes. Words are powerful. The absence of words is also powerful. The effect of words is greater than we give credit to.
I hibernated in my house for a good three days. I learned to use power tools, and I built some stuff. I painted, cleaned, and reorganized. In the process of cleaning and reorganizing, I had ridiculous amounts of garbage and baggage to get rid of. I started filling garbage bags, and then I realized it would be more efficient to burn the old papers, etc.
I started a fire in the backyard fire pit. I tossed yesterdays junk mail, last weeks school papers, and today's empty cereal boxes into the flames. The flames were beautiful, red, and yellow; and watching a campfire has always been soothing to me. After a few minutes, the fire started to die, so I went inside, and I started to purge even more. I threw old stuffed animals, stained dishcloths, and broken toys in. I threw outgrown clothes in. Anything that was burnable, I set on fire. I even burnt things that had meaning to me.
I was worn down already, when a series of hurtful things happened to me. I was desperately trying to heal, but life kept throwing punches. So I started burning things.
As I threw an old purse that had belonged to my deceased, dearly beloved mother, onto the fire, I thought "What am I doing here? I am not helping my situation by burning things". I stopped dead in my tracks, and I suddenly realized that I was rioting. A teensy, tiny, backyard, personal riot. My hurt was being expressed and healed in the purging of my house, and in the burning of my baggage.
Sometimes it takes an individual experience to make the collective experience make sense.
In the end, my riot changed nothing. I smoked up the neighborhood, I have a two foot pile of ashes in my fire pit that I'm going to have to shovel out, and my kid is probably wondering where her stuffed unicorn went. It didn't take away my hurt, and it didn't resolve the situations that needed to be resolved. But it made me feel like I was doing something. My dad saw the smoke from across the road. There was evidence of action when I felt helpless. My emotions were consumed for a few moments in the heat of the flames, in the smoke, and in the ashes.
Words matter. Hurt feelings and crushed spirits are real. The human spirit needs encouragement, love, and support. Because sticks and stones will break your bones temporarily, but hurtful words and hateful thoughts can break your spirit forever.
As I said before, I have a strong support system and faith that will move mountains. Because of that, my riot stopped with the final toss of the annoying Mickey Mouse toy trombone. I rejoiced as I heard "Meeska, Mooska, Mouskateer" for the Very. Last. Time.
My hurt was small and temporary. The hurt of others is consuming, pervasive, and desperate. My small heartache and my temper tantrum makes my heart break for those that face hateful words, injust actions and intolerant minds every day of their lives.
Living life in communion with others requires us to, well, commune with others. If we want to change lives, if we want to change minds, if we want to change actions-we have to enter in.
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