What I heard in your comments, and what I want to say back
I did not expect what happened in the comments on Tuesday.
I wrote about words. About the boy who called me Waddles the Duck when I was thirteen, and about the nail and the fence, and about how the holes stay even after the nail is pulled. I wrote it because it was sitting in me and it needed to come out. I wrote it for myself as much as for you.
And then you wrote back.
I read every single comment. I read them sitting right here in my chair, and I will be honest with you, I had to stop more than once. I sat with Patches on my lap and I read about the desk in the high school English class, and the white jeans in the store, and the student union at the university, and the father who used a word no father should ever say to his daughter, and the mother whose voice is only now, at seventy-eight, beginning to go faint. I read about a woman who lost her best friend to brain cancer at thirty-seven and is still carrying, all these years later, the beautiful thing a stranger said to her friend. And the ugly thing he said to her.
I want to say something to all of you, and I want to say it before too many days pass, because these things matter and you deserve to hear them quickly.
You Were So Brave
I do not say that lightly. I know what it costs to say these things. Most of you have carried these words for forty, fifty, sixty years. Some of you have never told anyone. And you came here and you typed them out into a comment box on a Tuesday morning, and you hit send, and that matters.
That is not a small thing. That is a very large thing dressed up as a small thing.
What I kept thinking, reading your stories, was: how many people are walking around like this? How many women in the grocery store and the doctor’s waiting room and the church pew are carrying something a thirteen-year-old boy said, or a mother said without thinking, or a stranger in a store said because she was miserable and decided to spread it around? All of us, it seems. Nearly all of us.
And we have been carrying these things quietly, because that is what we were told to do. Don’t be dramatic. You are too sensitive. He didn’t mean it. She didn’t know what she was saying. Let it go.
As if letting it go were as simple as opening your hand.
What Letting Go Actually Looks Like
I want to be honest with you here, because I do not think you need platitudes. You have had enough of those.
The holes do not close. I think we have to start there, with that truth, before anything useful can follow. The hole from Waddles the Duck is still in me. I am fifty-nine years old and it is still in me. I do not walk into rooms the same way I might have walked into them if that boy had never said a word. That is simply true.
But here is what I have also learned, and what I heard underneath some of your comments, even the hardest ones: the hole is not the whole story.
Letting go does not mean the hole disappears. It means you stop using the hole as your address. It means you stop forwarding your mail there.
Sandy, and I keep coming back to Sandy’s comment, told us that her sturdy legs (not a compliment, as she made perfectly clear) skied and hiked and kept up with three boys. She took the nail her mother hammered in and she planted something in that hole, and what grew there was strong and capable and entirely her own. She didn’t erase the hole. She grew right around it.
Joan, at seventy-eight, said something I have been thinking about ever since: There is such peace in acceptance at my age of what is and what can’t be changed. Now I’m just moving on. Not healed. Not pretending. Just moving. I find that more comforting than any promise of closure I have ever read.
And Ellen reminded us that the people who hammer in the hardest nails are almost always the ones who have the most holes of their own. That does not make what they did acceptable. But it does make it something other than about you. It was never about you.
The Fence Is Still Standing
Here is what I want to leave you with, and I mean it in the plainest, most unsentimental way I know how.
You are not the holes in your fence. You are the fence. And after everything, the cruel boys and the careless mothers and the strangers in stores who had no business saying a word, you are still standing. You are here. You came to a blog on a Tuesday morning and you read about a girl called Waddles the Duck and you thought, I have a story like that too. And you told it.
That is not a small life. That is an enormous one.
I do not know what you have planted in the holes over the years. Maybe not much yet. Maybe a great deal. Maybe you are just now, in your sixties and seventies, beginning to decide that what someone said to you at twenty does not get to determine what you wear to the pool this summer. Maybe, like Joan, you are just now letting the voice grow faint.
That is enough. That is more than enough.
There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind. C.S. Lewis said that, and I have clung to it in my own life more times than I can count. I am clinging to it for you right now.
Thank you for trusting me with your stories and for listening to mine. I do not take that lightly. Not for a single moment.
Tell me, friends, did any of the comments from Tuesday stay with you the way they stayed with me? I would love to hear what you are thinking.
I hope that you have a safe and wonderful 4th of July. I will be here tomorrow for Friday Favorites, and on Saturday for Weekend Meanderings.
If this post resonated with you, I hope you will follow along on Instagram, Pinterest, and Facebook.
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Thank you. Simply…THANK YOU
Mary, you are very welcome.
Have a wonderful and safe weekend.
Love what CS Lewis said. I’ll keep that in my head going forward. Ya know one good thing about these holes we carry is that not only are we stronger for them as you said, but I bet all of us are the ones who’ve actually made someones day by being kinder, smiling when someone needed it, a sad thing for us to have endured yes, but we can share kindness and teach our children how not to never say unkind words. Thank you Elizabeth, this has helped me by you sharing your story as well as the other ones that responded. Enjoy this 250th. Your blog keeps my mind off the horrible state of our country. May things be better soon.
edit: how to never say unkind words:0)
Elizabeth, I join Mary in thanking you for your compassion and understanding. There are many of us who are walking through our lives wounded by the words and actions of others. I’ve learned that everyone has a story. My heart broke for jd and I agree with Joan. Thank you for giving us the opportunity to share our stories with you, someone safe.
Hm. I can’t recall any terrible comments being made to me. Is that possible? Or worse, have I ever been the person saying them? I sincerely hope not…
Thank you for your kind and thoughtful words. They will erase the ugly words from the past.
My lesson from hurtful words was to always, always make people feel good. Not with platitudes or embellishments, but with just a simple positive word. Because we all know how one small positive word can carry us through and hopefully, if we get enough of them, replace the hurtful ones.
I lost my son at the same age as my best friend was when I lost her. Life will deal us all grief at some point in our lives because we love. But I will always choose love. Now, with a grandson named after our late son, we have love. The crazy corgis that we have because our son was in the process of finding his dream corgi when he passed -we have love; my involvement with LiveOnNY, the organ donation foundation-we have love. Always choose love. Thank you for your blog, it is a respite
Thank you, Elizabeth, for opening up this topic. I felt sad reading what people experienced yet inspired that they were brave enough to share. I never heard the story about the holes in the fence — it’s powerful. As many others have said, thank you for your wonderful blog. I have learned so much from you! Each day I look forward to what you have to say. And I’ve read many good books that were recommended by you that I otherwise would not have known about!
Anna,
Thank you! I appreciate your very kind comment and am happy that you find books to enjoy. I try my best to share things that I think we all would be interested in.
The story of the boy and the fence, it powerful and a gentle reminder to so many.
Have a lovely weekend.
Elizabeth,
Thank you for being here. I wanted to share on Tuesday, but didn’t want to clog up precious space. That’s a bit telling perhaps! I also think of the hundreds of people that don’t say anything outloud or in writing and just bottle it up and push it down deep to make it go away. Maybe that works for them. I just don’t think it’s ever possible to forget the pain and hurt that those oh so painful words really do cause. So to keep the focus on “There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind” is a far better use of energy for me. Thank you for bringing that back into focus for me.
B,
I could not agree more. So many bottle it up, push it away or it simmers just at the surface of their life and they use that hurt to wound other people. We are all walking with the scars left from careless, thoughtless and hurtful remarks.
There are far better things ahead and we have to remind ourselves of that.
Have a wonderful weekend.
I didn’t read Tuesday’s post until today. So I went back to read it and posted my own comment. We just don’t forget those shocking and or hurtful things people say. I’m shocked at the things strangers say to each other on social media.
“Somebody else’s attempt to hammer you back into a shape that is more convenient for them”. Your sentence from Tuesday resonated with me. What a great way to think of it. I’m also so sorry that boy had the power to change how you walk. Be proud of those hips and how they get you where you’re going. Thank you Elizabeth..you have a kind spirit.
Nanci, I just had this discussion with my husband this morning. Sadly there have always been mean and hateful people, as evidenced by the comments that people shared from 30, 40, and 50 plus years ago. Social media has amplified it and then it creates a “feeding frenzy.”
We never ever forget the hurts, time is balm but the scar is still there.
Have a wonderful and safe weekend Nanci.
Elizabeth, I debated whether to even write anymore and because I’m a few days behind in reading, you may not even see this. But that’s ok. I wanted to say I’ve had a feeling of a bit of lightness inside since I first wrote. Like opening up something and letting the bad stuff drain away. I’m one of the women who’ve never spoken about that incident to anyone else. What I wanted to add to my first text is a decision I made a number of years ago – part of my “moving on.” Every time I go out to a store or anywhere public, I look for another woman to say something nice and complimentary to. I tell a mother her child is beautiful. I tell a woman her hair is beautiful. Or someone else looks very elegant today or the color they’re wearing really suits them. At first it felt really strange to do but when I saw the look in her eyes, I knew they needed to hear what I said. Just like I need it sometimes also. At first they look surprised or even confused and then their eyes light up and they thank me. I know I did the right thing. I won’t stop doing this – doing this has been like an eraser for my past.
Thanks for your many fun and also very deep and thoughtful posts
Joan
Joan, thank you for sharing your original comment, I feel privileged that you found Pinecones & Acorns a place to share your story and pain. And I am happy that you circled back. I have reread so many of the comments and I feel great sadness for those that have carried these stories. There are so many cruel people in the world, they are wounded and unhappy and they project their pain on the rest of us. I am happy that you feel as if a little weight fell from your shoulder.
My mother taught me to do the same thing that you do, compliment, smile and make people feel a little spark of joy each day. I am often surprised that when you give a compliment to a stranger often they are taken aback, almost as if they have never been given one. And maybe they have not. Continue to spread joy and kindness, I know that I will.
Thank you again for sharing!