Hearts on the Wall

For the first time since we set up camp in North East, Tennessee two days ago, I washed my face. It was the smoke that eventually made my dirty face unbearable. Hours and hours of my husband, Shelby’s, prize-worthy campfires, filling my pores and sticking to the leftover sweat from yesterday’s hike. “I’m just admiring my fire,” Shelby said when I noticed his far off look and asked what was on his mind. It’s true he could construct a campfire to be admired, and for thousands of years, as long as men have ignited and contained fires, this was a skill to be boasted. I kissed his lips 3 times as is our custom and left him to his admiration for the nearby bathhouse.

The Pickett State Park bathhouse was a simple unadorned oasis. I wondered then if I would be as enthusiastic about such a nominal bathroom if I had visited sooner and was not as desperate for its sanctuary. I basked in my ritual, thoroughly passing through each step with intentional relaxation until I felt new.

Finally satisfied with my cleanliness I moved from the long, communal vanity around the painted cinder block partition to change out of my smoke-stained sweater and canvas pants and into a fresh set of camp chic garments: my trusty, worn in dark wash levis, a basic crew neck tee and a red, plaid long-sleeved shirt that would only be worn until the Tennessee September sun reminded us that she was still not ready to let go of Summer. I changed quickly in contrast to my cleansing ritual because no matter the liberation, in some places, Puritan modesty remains the law of the land.

Once the panic of covering myself had passed I stood tszujing my sleeves and admiring the only artwork on the wall. I reckoned some young girls must have spent a Halloween weekend here because the word “BOO!” was written in sharpie along the modesty divider. Another young woman professed her love and I wondered if Sarah still heart’s Luke, or if perhaps he had broken it. I whispered a little prayer for Sarah.

I haphazardly packed my campfire soaked clothes and moved around the partition to collect the absurd amount of skincare products I foolishly thought I would use on a weekend camping trip. Thinking myself alone I was surprised when I almost collided with a young girl. How long had she been here? Was she here even before me? I didn’t hear the heavy metal door open or close, had she heard me talking to myself or praying for Sarah?? When my shock and the embarrassment of talking to myself subsided the first thing I noticed were her funky pink glasses that were slightly too big for her cherub face. She couldn’t have been older than seven or eight and I could almost hear her mother’s logic for selecting the just too big pair. “This way you’ll grow into them and they’ll last longer,” just as my Mother had justified to me.

“I like your glasses,” I encouragingly said to her with a bigger smile than was typically natural for me. She shyly responded with her head almost down, a quiet, “Thank you.” I could tell she was too shy to speak to a stranger (to be fair, I was too) and had been taught never to do so, but also to be polite, and for young girls, politeness was often perceived as more important than the threat of danger.

She moved around me to the sink and dutifully washed her hands and brushed her teeth, and as I watched her I was flooded with seemingly forgotten memories of my young self. I was not so different from her: small for my age and much too skinny, long blonde hair that was so straight and often stringy from too much time gone without brushing that my Grandmother would remark “Looks like cats been suckin’ on it,” (whatever that means) and my multi-colored too-big glasses.

Without warning, longing for that forgotten, young self welled up in my chest and I bolted out of the bathhouse, shocked at the emotion this young girl opened inside me. I thought of how much it would mean to young me if a cool (at least I thought so) woman complimented any part of me, but especially my glasses. At that moment I wanted to run back to the bathhouse and bear hug that little girl and tell her all the things I wish I could tell my young self. Crying with love and longing at this point, I decided against it because I was sure to be arrested and mentally examined.

By the time I made it back to our campsite, the sun had already announced it was time to remove my carefully tszujed shirt, and though the campfire was still admirable, it was rendered unnecessary. I fell into my camp chair next to Shelby that had been moved back three feet since I left and tried to make sense of what I was experiencing.

Organizing the yearnings that bounce around in my heart looking for a way out has never been a natural task for me. I used my journal to untangle these longings but that was not enough! I needed to climb to the top of Lake View Trail and shout these sacred words over all things. But who would hear? How many of my words would plant when sowed in this way? Then I thought of Sarah who heart’s Luke. How she took what was in her heart and adorned the bathhouse wall for all women to behold. It was decided; I would leave my message as displayed and desperate artwork on the bathhouse wall.

I made some excuse to Shelby and hurried back to the bathhouse with my journal (which I’m sure he found strange) at a pace that made me wish the sun would just let go and give way to Autumn. Learning from my previous surprise, I made sure I was alone then sat down on the long wide bench attached to the partition, settled my excitement with deep breaths, and poured the longings of my heart onto the wall.

I stared at the art I’d just created for I don’t know how long, reading the words that were, just moments ago, trapped in my heart desperate to be released. A feeling of calm washed over me slowly and intentionally; I closed my eyes and let it bathe my heart. Suddenly, stricken with an impulse, I opened my eyes, uncapped my sharpie, and added, “I ❤️ You” to the end of my artwork. I cocked my head to the left for one last look, reached out to touch the words as a way of saying thank you, and left the bathhouse. As I strolled, lighter this time, I said one more silent prayer for Sarah who ❤️’s Luke, and another for thirty-two-year-old Brittany who finally ❤️’s herself.

To all ladies, of all ages, of the Pickett State Park Bathhouse,

These are things I know for sure:

There is planted inside your beautiful soul a unique largeness and the world needs you to honor it. I bless the largeness in you.* You will be afraid of it often. Others will make you feel shame for it; even people you love. Do not let their words quietthis divine part of you.

You will experience mean spirited people in your life; even other girls, even your friends. Do not let their hard hearts harden yours. Plant both feet firmly in the knowledge that you are worthy of love and acceptance regardless of what anyone else may say.

You will make mistakes, but your worth is not a sum of your worst moments. There is always a way through a mistake, you just have to acknowledge and learn from it and those mistakes will be the building blocks that make you a better woman.

As a woman, many of you have heightened sensitivity.

This is not a weakness. This is not a weakness. This is not a weakness.

This is a superpower. Do not be ashamed, use it.

Your intuition is your Knowing. We are taught that God dwells within all of us. This is that part of you where God dwells. Exercise hearing that Knowing. Trust me, this takes practice, but do not be discouraged. Practice makes perfect.

Have no representatives that you must employ in order to hide your true self around anyone. If your social safeness with someone requires you to put forth anything other than your true self, you will slowly lose the courage to be unapologetically you.

Let go of expectations and “should” language. That path only leads to disappointment. A tree does not look at the others in the forest and worry about how it should look, what fruit it should have, or compare the number of birds who find rest in her branches. What are we, if not organic pieces of nature, like trees?

Your life may not look like others’ lives around you. But be of good cheer, count your blessings. There is no should in this life, only what is. Accept and make what is in your life as beautiful and full of joy as you possibly can.

“To be in a body is to hear the heartbeat of death at every moment” says Andrew Harvey. Do not let one of the moments be wasted because you wish it to be something else.

Every single day, begin it with gratitude; not only for your blessings but for yourself. Grateful for your body and all it does for you every day. Grateful for your curiosity and eagerness to learn. Grateful for your femininity. Grateful for your unique ability to take anything and make it better.

Plant these words deep within your Knowing.

Plant your heart in the world. That will be your gift to us all.

I ❤️ you!

* Sue Monk Kidd; The Book of Longings