what breaks does not shatter

I write the words slow, the way that I used to in pages, pink pen pressed hard against the fake parchment paper of the Harry Potter journal. I am trying to learn that sometimes just because the words can come quickly doesn’t mean they’re the right ones, so I type slower than normal into the blank screen.

I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed while I do this. I’m sitting with journals scattered around me, the old stories of my young self, the evidence of a thousand nights of anguish softened now by time and the half-finished tea by my bed. I’m rereading, because when you move away from home, when you get married, there is this exquisite sadness of leaving your room. There is this old self who you think will slink away, a shadow you couldn’t sew on tightly enough, and she’ll keep pace through the house, while you sleep and wake in a strange, new home.

It hits me this way, when I am looking for my self among the things I am choosing to leave behind, that I have been preaching a story with my life that I do not believe enough. Isn’t that funny? This young self – stirrup pants and crooked front teeth in sixth grade in the hallway when the boy didn’t like her back, or the self in the ill-fitting American Eagle jeans at the mailbox with three crisp rejection letters, or the self in college who lay on her back one winter night after falling on the ice and spilling hot chocolate down her coat not once, but twice -

this is the self who has been preaching the truth to me, and I have not been listening.

And this is the truth she is speaking: even what breaks does not shatter.

I can revive at a moment’s notice the stories, the humid June air or the night that I pressed my address written in sharpie on an index card and said “write to me”, thinking it was the beginning of something. I can sit on that bed and I can relive the bar and the dress and the anger I wore so badly, draped over me like the sheets I pretended were wedding gowns years before. I can tell you the song that was playing in my head the days after I didn’t get in or the day I realized the friendship had changed, I can have the conversation over and over again in the safe aftermath of my car, crumple my fist against the steering wheel and make my heart swell again with everything that went wrong, everything that hurt, everything I remember about being broken.

But this is the living proof – for the me that can remember the breaking is not, herself, broken.

No, she is alive, and gloriously alive, and she is sitting typing deliberately on her bed, pressing these words into her heart. Not everything that breaks shatters. And even just the breathing, in, and out, of those words, those pressed deliberate words, starts  to build up this wearied heart. And the worry, that I can’t do this, can’t leave this home this room these old journals, that I can’t go off and be brave -

the worry quiets.

It is all too easy for me to hold on to the memories of being broken, the familiar pieces of hurt, the way that he said or she looked. It’s too easy for me to see myself as not complete, or still recovering, to imagine myself frail or small or unable, incapable. It’s easy to say that to myself when I am weary-hearted and the mountains keep rising up before me, and I think, I’m still broken, that still hurts me.

But my younger self has been the living reply.

I am widened by the months and years of work running my fingers along the frayed edges of her couch cushions, trying to put words to the counseling questions, to make a space where I hear my own self.

I am widened by the quietest moment in the morning when he only kisses me hello, no words, catches me up in his arms and in that gesture promises forever, promises us, in this, promises that he is the kind of man who will keep his promises.

I am widened and changed and made bolder and braver by writing out into the spaces where you see me, pink penning these words over us both: we are not shattered. we are alive.

Maybe it’s the beginning of brave – a belief that you have, all along, been braver than you know.

Love,
hilary

 

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6 thoughts on “what breaks does not shatter

  1. Pingback: what breaks does not shatter | make way for DONERIE

  2. So much hope and truth in this! I remember going through some journals some time last year, weeks after my heart got broken, and I read several pages I wrote five years ago when my heart got broken. Reading about my younger self told me that I turned out okay after, and like what you said, “We are not shattered.” :)

    And I love this line: “Maybe it’s the beginning of brave – a belief that you have, all along, been braver than you know.”

    Thank you again, Hilary. Your words are a blessing. :)

  3. Love this, thank you for sharing, Hilary!!! I can see where I have been broken and am broken because of recent heartache, but you’re right, I haven’t remained broken from before and I won’t now. Thank you for that reminder!!! Blessings on your new life!!!!

  4. I have all my old journals, too, here. And C wanted to read them, and so we’ve been reading them aloud, together. It is strange, and at times I want to skip a couple pages, say no, you can’t read that, but he LOVES it. Loves getting to know the me who wrote in 3rd grade about how I didn’t really have any friends, and all the years since. It’s both embarrassing and freeing, somehow. Maybe Preston will want to read your old journals?

    • Haha, I, too have my old journals. LOADS of them!!!! I never comment on others’ comments, but this made me cringe, as well as go, “how romantic!!!” Cringe because, ugh, there’s some pretty intense things there that are only between me and God!!!! But seriously, that kind of intimacy is soooo romantic!!!!!

      • The good news is that most of my God-conversations are in different journals that my chronicling-life entries. And so far, we’re just reading the life ones, not the prayer ones. We’ll see when (if?) we get to the prayer ones.

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