Not so unlike onions and other things with many layers.

I've been doing some thinking about the mysteries of the human soul.
There is a great depth and beauty to a soul... a life of history.
A great story to be told. One of pain, of beauty; of glories discovered and undiscovered alike.


How easily we take the people around us for granted.
Children long to be seen, to be praised.
"Look at me, look what I did!"
Longing to hear that what we have to offer is beautiful, every little bit of anything we ever do.
When we're young it all has meaning, it all has purpose--
it all comes down to praise.. a feast for the inner most parts of who we are.
A celebration that we are worthy. Simply because we are unique and made special.

Age comes, disillusionment. Praise is tirelessly welcomed but not as relentlessly given.
I grow tired of praising a child five hundred times for one line of color after another on a single sheet of paper.
But why? because it requires my attention? My effort split nine different ways at a time?
And if one is praised, they must all be praised. Again and again.

Then I applied it to adulthood.
I think I am bitter, to be quite honest.
I want so badly, and yet I'm so terrified, for the extremities of who I am to be revealed.
Not simply revealed... approved of. Dare I say praised? Simply because I am who I am.

And I can't help but know that we all want that.
To be known and loved for who we are.
ALL of who we are, not just tidbits of fleshy shallow that people can gawk at while picking apart like vultures.
I think we want them to know our quirkiest habits. Our most passionate hobbies.
To tell our life stories.
The terror and down side to all this is that to most people, we feel, our story or anything to do with it is an inconvenience.
Nothing special in comparison to someone else.
Maybe thats been confirmed in us.

I discovered recently that the words "Shut up!" coming from my family are particularly painful. I didn't fully realize their impact until mother and I were discussing it on a long drive. It was a painful yet eye opening sort of thing. The simplest phrase, coming from them or from anyone I love, confirms a fear in me... That I am too much. That I talk too much, or that what I have to say is simply not valid or valuable.

While that may not be what is meant... said enough times at all the right times and a heart can go sour pretty quickly.


I want the people I love, or dare to let in, to love enough of what I allow them to see to be intrigued enough to desire to know more. To want to be a part of that depth, and so that I might also be able to share in who they are. That, my friends, is the most precious and priceless treasure of community.

The problem, we have said, is confirmed fears that keep us locked away.
That have kept me mulling and thinking about the whole thing.
About the mysteries of the soul.


It's a complicated thing. That's all I've got to say about it for now.