When life gets overwhelming, I recoil into a ball of
stress, my bedroom becoming my best friend. I don’t want
to talk to anyone, and so I very successfully don’t talk to anyone. My poor roommate. I
must seem like a ghost to her. Our
living space is small and yet I find a way to hideaway. Sorry, Lindsay.
With all the strife of life, it’s much easier to play groundhog.
Now you see me, now you don’t, until the shadow in my heart withdraws.
I’m scared.
My heart, felted with fear, abandonment, and hurt, is
what pushing me to hide. It's what has always pushed me to hide.
Robert Frost wrote A Drumlin Woodchuck, from the perspective of a groundhog who relates:
Robert Frost wrote A Drumlin Woodchuck, from the perspective of a groundhog who relates:
If I can with confidence say
That still for another day,
Or even another year,
I will be there for you, my
dear,^^
It will be because, though small
As measured against the All,
I have been so instinctively
thorough
About my crevice and burrow.
Mr. Frost would have done well to add this to the poem of my life:
Recoiled in her burrow, though overly thorough in guarding herself like
an art,
a woodchuck who craves
solitary days will never escape the lone maze of her heart.
A closed heart may receive nothing—no pain, no hurt, no disappointment. But it definitely receives no companionship, no kindness...and no love.
Which way of life would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck?
I think I know. And I can chuck. And I want to come out of this funk!
Measured against the All in our lives is Our Rock. And though we are small against the all, He is not. And I can with confidence say that, still for another day, He will be here for us—in Him I need to trust.
