“Southern Voices” is a platform divided by reader. Today's submission comes from our Stylyblueprint -Lead Nashville author and associated editor Jenna Bratcher. If you have a story to tell, you will find our guidelines for submitting. We love to hear from your wonderful, challenging, fascinating (and sometimes south -centered) experiences!
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Stimulate fences: teaching from letting go and space for growth from space
Time carries all things. Wood. Paint. Human connection.
In the past 15 years the fence that surrounds my home stood as a guardian and witness. It shielded my garden in front of strangers, intercepting Amazon packages in the middle of the Toss, stopping my puppies from delivering unsolicited greetings for joggers in the neighborhood, and captured wandering animals until their owners (or Walden's puddle) could repeat them. It has observed my mediocre mulch attempts and floral errors in a worthy silence.
This fence survived my highly towering maple tree and kept its floor when my daughters from bucket swings and scratches developed into sarcasm and skin care. It defied meteorological tantrums and stood at night when my dog ​​disappeared into the brisk darkness in October. And it watched eight days later – steadfast and still – when she returned home: thinner, weaker and much more fear of the world beyond the goal.
Together older, my fence and I, the miracle and suffering of years and heart pain absorbed. We both stopped the things that we just couldn't wear anymore. And finally my fence fell apart – a quiet symbol of neglect.
The metaphor is obvious, but no less true. Because fences are not only intended to keep people able; You should keep people away. Fences leave gaps.
I remember that I went to the theater to see Madison County's bridges With my mother when it came out for the first time. I was invisible in an invisible, annoying 18 -18 -18 -popcorn, undeniable while staring on the screen from behind. She cried in silence for lost opportunities and did not live because she had given up time and concerns, for things that she did not do to her children.
There I was a lively memory of what she was holding back on this red velvet seat.
I was her fence. Your lovingly constructed fence.
And so, after watching for years how my own fence worsened, I made plans for a new one. I saved money and courage. I drew it until I realized that I couldn't put it off. Because some things just can't wait for the children to be grown or the bank account padded. When I went forward with my new fence, I was deaf with the pain of the past few years.
And on the day the crew began with her work, I stared out of my home office window – lost in a blurry vertebrae of memories. I watched how they tear down my temporal fence to make a new place. It was a correspondingly dark day and the old fence was not quiet. She came down with a kind of violence – rotted slats that were torn from her nails, sunk off posts that were drawn by deep, forgotten places. Dug dirt. Destroyed old borders to make room for something better.
And in your place: straight lines. Clean corners. Aluminum, robust and apologetically solid. No shell color. No rust. No gaps. No missing parts.
It was annoying. I tried confidence with doubts that are still hanging in the closet.
I got lunch and hoped for a change of scene, but my mind stayed with the fence. I couldn't help it to help it. I saw myself in this process – in dismantling and slowly reconstruction, in the wear and tear of experiences and relationships that let the splinters into the deepest parts embedded by me.
But I'm not a collateral damage. I incubated myself like a 17-year-old cicade in the ground, which is ready to appear in a wonderful outbreak of protest and rarity.
Some fences are removed and hastily built out of necessity to keep the wolves away. They are for survival, not architecture. But it's difficult. The same protective walls can also insulate – let us frozen in good time. The thing with fences is that they shouldn't take forever. Not if you want to grow.
In the lesson, if there is one, it is not about observing everything for renewal and resurrection. It is to know what to keep, what to let go and what should be rebuilt with care. To see the putrefaction before it is ruined.
As it turns out, the repair is an act of hope. When we invite someone to stand next to ourselves when we dig deep, pull out the old and lay the new foundation.
And sometimes the bravest thing we can do is leave the gate open.
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Jenna Bratcher