The Pick

There are times when I read something and before I've reached the end, it feels like my own story, as though the author has climbed into my mind and written my thoughts.

Those pieces are relatable and they resonate.

I was swept away by one such piece last week and I have chosen it for The Pick this week.

Stolen Treasure, by Galit, from These Little Waves, was truly gorgeous.

I look at him through red rimmed eyes. He wipes my cheek dry with one thumb and asks, Are you happy?

Yes. No. Sometimes.

Yes, when I’m focused.

No, when I falter.

Sometimes.

I love this back and forth...the "yes, but" thought process is presented beautifully.

We sit in the center of our bed like our three children often do. Our room is large but this space in it is small. Our toes touch. Our voices conspire.

He is loving mixed with worry. I am anxious laced with anger.

I love the above line...Galit beautifully marries complex emotions here.

Anger because he dared scratch beneath the surface of what I want seen. I am faltering.

When I’m focused, I see a straight path to my treasure. The obstacles along the way are simply tasks to complete.

But inevitably, I falter. I falter. It is my own undoing every single time. I steal my own confidence. My own vision. My own focus.

I hide these treasures somewhere deep inside until they are no longer visible. And I replace them with ugliness. Fear. Insecurity. Jealousy.

What makes you happy? He asks, leading me back.

The kids, you, writing, I list my gems one by one, keeping track on my fingers. I try to hide behind my words, but I can’t.

The line above echoes the earlier parallel that Galit draws between her children and her husband and herself. They sit on the bed, just as their children do. She counts on her fingers, as her children do.

I slump and put my counting hand down. I need a break. He smiles, because this he can fix.

We talk quietly. Share days. Make plans.

I tuck my children into bed again.

I take advantage of a hot shower and soft fleece.

I ignore my multiplying to do list and spend time with a friend.

Wine and laughter soothe my soul. I share my writing goals. They are big and seem far away.

I’m scared to try.

You’ll be great.

When I falter, kind words wash over me without making the tiniest of imprints.

This line is perfection. I love the idea of being impervious to the external world when she falters.

When I’m focused, I open the door, gently unroll each one, and welcome it in. Believe in it and allow it to restore me.

I have a choice to make, a task to complete. Let go of my stolen treasures and continue down this spiral or consciously stop. Refocus. Reclaim what is rightfully mine.

I come home and softly make my way through each sleeping room.

I breathe in the stillness at each stop and place one hand on each rhythmic heartbeat just for a moment. Careful not to wake, ready to summon the goodness back to me.

Galit never fails to choose her words perfectly, never wasting even one. "Summon the goodness back to me" is packed with rich meaning.

I tiptoe downstairs and melt into the large green chair. I wrap myself up in the sheer yellow blanket, open my laptop and begin to type.

Each tap of the keys is a claim: These treasures are mine. I see them. And I am taking them back.

My goal is still big and far away. I type my way towards it.

If I'm honest, I'm hard pressed to find anything about Galit's piece that doesn't work for me. Though I think she could lose this last line, as I think the piece is stronger without it, I do see that she's trying to tie things up by repeating the idea of her goals being "big and far away."

This piece will stay with me. By the time she climbed into the green chair and covered up with the sheer yellow blanket, she was me. I was her.

Lovely job, Galit. Your writing envelopes me and beckons me to reread.

Your writing is a gift to us all.