My favorite socks have a hole in them. I pulled them on this cold blustery morning, needing warmth and comfort. Instead, I found the hole- exposing my naked heel, cracked and split from hours of living. A hole? How could that be? I trusted them to be there for me when I needed them, when I needed the warmth that I thought only they could give me. I looked to them, the more experienced socks, for deeper comfort than I could get from the newer, less known pairs at the back of my drawer.
What do I do now? My chest hurts, the pain radiating through my body and deep into my soul. My heart tries to cope with the burdens it feels, constantly pumping, pumping, pumping, letting me know it will be there, throughout the pain, helping, healing as I figure out what to do next. I realize that I am expecting a lot from those socks. Why should they be the ones to carry part of my burden? Why should they be expected to warm my soul? Looking deeper, I can see others, better suited, to help me find warmth.
An old, comfortable sweater has been in my closet for over twenty years. Every day it hangs there, begging to be worn close to my heart. From time to time, I pull it over my head, revelling in the plush comfort it gives. Then, I decide I don’t need it anymore and shove it to the back of my closet once again. Why don’t I take it out more often? Why don’t I feel its comfort through all the winter? What did it ever do for me to stuff it into the back of my closet? Was it itchy? I don’t remember. Why did I start believing that my sweater couldn’t have such a cherished place next to my heart?
I turn around and look deep inside my closet. I slowly pull off my socks and gently place them in the garbage and lovingly reach for my sweater.