Square pegs and Round holes.
I find myself sitting on my porch. I admire
the grey tiles, that which I chose when we moved into this house, there where I
came to a halt. There are only two steps leading down the porch and I need to
sit on the top step as my legs are too long to fit comfortably on the ground if
I had to position myself on the lower step. Kind of like life really. Sometimes
we do not have a choice if we want to be comfortable.
We have two porches, but when I come to breathe, I
always choose the smaller porch. It fits better, it has straight lines, it is
in the shape of a square and it feels safe here in the morning when I sit alone
with my thoughts and listen to my music. A safe space to let my thoughts run
over and over in my head, like my music; notes and rhythms that I like, just
me, and I realize how absolutely childishly scared I had become for the
unknown, the uncomfortable and choices, and this at such a ripe age.
For half a century I have always chosen “safe” and
in the process I lost myself.
Over time I started to fit into the lines that
made those around me happy; my people, who I chose, those in my circle. A
circle that now, as I sit here, stood fast squarely around me. And it dawns
upon me: Circles don’t hurt, it has soft lines and it can expand. The corners
of a square do; it is rigid and cuts if you let your fingers run over the sharp
lines.
I swallow my coffee and realize that my circle had
taken on the square shape, with the first bitter swallow I took, when the
unforgiven was forgiven, when my boundaries were forced into the shape of
someone else’s, so that they would feel comfortable. With that first swallow
where I had to digest, I had to let go, I had to reshape so that I could
function in my circle. At that point my circle was slowly taking on the shape
of a square, forced by the center point of my circle, of our circle. A circle
that was not mine, it was a square from the beginning and it was never mine. I
chose to climb into the box and got lost in the dark warmth thereof. I was the
one who chose to walk the straight lines of the square while my soul wanted to
run the bent lines of a circle, where there was more space for creative
freedom, less hard boundaries. I let myself be curbed by the rounding’s of another’s
very clear straight lines, just to feel safe.
One does feel safe, always, until you do not
follow the lines and touch the sharp edges, but what is left behind? A soul
that sits still, only able to breathe, to fit in, because if that soul does not
sit still, the box may break apart and someone might get hurt, but wounds heal.
The epiphany: I can break the square, I can punch
holes in someone’s idea of their rigid safe space. I chose this, although I
blamed the rigid walls. I climbed in and I can climb out. Fingers will bleed
and wounds will be part of the process, but wounds heal.
It is however difficult to stand blade in hand, to
decide if the loss of blood is necessary and how long one can hold your breath
while you are suffocating. Should you bore holes in fingers? For me to breathe?
Should I sit still in fear? Or, should I allow wounds to heal?
Wounds have healed and our lives are not square
anymore. There is a safe fluid space where we can pull up our square walls of
protection when needed and we run free in our own rounded lines whenever we
need some space.
Ina Brink
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