Sucker for Symbolism

I’m a sucker for symbolism.  If I could own a button that when pressed, would drench me in “Redemption Rain,” I would most assuredly use it.

 I just love the layers, the way you can intricately build an experience to mean so much more than the physical movement.  You give meaning and depth to ordinary objects. Symbolic events can happen in extremely public settings, but have such a private, exclusive touch to them.

Anyone who saw me at 7 AM on the shore of Lake Grasmere in England’s Lake District would have thought I was just throwing rocks into the water uncommonly early.  They might have thought my feet were a bit chilly since they were submerged on a rock I was standing on.  They might have been confused why I kept the rocks in my hands so long, or even why I was pulling rocks out of a black with gold embellishments bag instead of just picking them up off the ground.  Rocks were not in short supply on this shore.

I was doing much more than simply throwing rocks.  I had gone to England to write, to learn, and to put myself back together.  Without realizing it, I had slipped, my first semester of my sophomore year burdened with the fear my mom would die and the second semester burdened with trust and self-esteem issues while avoiding the topic of my mom.

During my May Term in England, I realized I was powerful.  I could use a compass and plot out a path on my map.  I could cook food and could read a bus schedule better than anyone else traveling with me.  As these realizations kept surfacing, I saw the need to get rid of all the extra baggage I seemed to have brought along.  The baggage that clings to the inside of you, unable to let go, unable to be left behind.  It was that suitcase that no matter how much you try to “forget it,” your tag reminds the world that that ugly suitcase is indeed, yours.

Lake Grasmere was perfect.  The first day I went down to the shore, the reflection was crystal clear.  Crisp and sharp, the fells becoming double images, your eyes unsure of where the reflection ends and the land takes over.  From the bottom of the lake, we continued up the fell to the top of Loughrigg. That’s where things clicked. Loughrigg was beautiful, a perfect panorama of three weeks of traveling. It had everything I wanted in a view. Looking down at Lake Grasmere and its reflection it dawned on me that this lake and this fell would be the ideal spot to throw away my baggage and start fresh.

There were 13 rocks in all.  I don’t believe that 13 is an unlucky number, it was all that I needed to get rid of.  When I left the house a little before 7 AM, the 13 rocks weighed me down. I knew the route well, up a little bit, a veer to the left, down the gravel and dirt path, the rocks bouncing in my backpack, my footsteps getting quicker as I neared the shore. A spot jumped out at me, as if fate was telling me that’s where I needed to go. There was a wooden bench, thrown together with odds and ends of wood, warped by time. But it was secluded, just what I was looking for.

I pulled my bags of rocks out and took off my shoes. Taking a deep breath, I moved towards the shore, the tiny pebbles pressing into the soles of my feet. I winced and stepped on top of a rock half submerged. The waves came towards me, a white foam being left behind me. I took a deep breath and pulled a rock out from the bag. It was someone, someone who had pulled my emotions around, like a child who drags their plush dog through a grocery store. Their name took up one side of the rock, the pink highlighter I used blurring the space between the letters. On the other side of the rock was a sentence, a summary of who that person was and how they had made me feel. I rotated the rock, the rounded edges sliding across the palm of my hand. I brought back every memory I could of that person. Once all the memories were there, floating in my consciousness, I threw.

The rock arched over the water, the reflection almost as clear as the actual rock. Then it was into the water, pulling water into the air before slowing sinking to the bottom.

I breathed a sigh of relief. They were gone. I had drowned them. Left those memories sitting at the bottom of a lake. In England.

I did the same thing twelve more times.

Each time a rock sunk to the bottom, I felt a little better.

It was an incredible feeling. When I stuffed the empty black and gold colored bag into my backpack, I felt free. Like I would save the world.

Of course, I eventually did have to leave my fairytale land of Grasmere and return to the real world. Where the people I supposedly downed with rocks interacted with me. Alive once more.

And I’m not going to lie, those people got to me. It didn’t matter that I threw them into a body of water or brought back every good and bad memory of them in an attempt to erase their impact on me from my mind. Those things didn’t go away that easily. I got frustrated because I just kept thinking, “I threw you away. I got rid of you. Leave me alone.”

They wouldn’t.

Symbolism is a tricky thing. In some ways, it’s a perfect release. Because you are given the ability to free yourself. And if you hold onto that idea, if you bring yourself back to that moment, you can feel that same freedom again. But partaking in a symbolic event does not mean that you are given a free pass to run from your problems. You still have to face them head-on. Moving on isn’t easy or simple. It’s a long process and my symbolic event at Lake Grasmere was part of the recovery. It will take more redemption rain, more drowned rocks, and frankly, more time to get past the thirteen rocks I was so keen to drown.

NOTE: This was an essay I started when I was in the Lake District in May. Obviously, time has passed and my idea of symbolism has changed. Evident by the tone at the end. What do you think of the ending? Does it work? Any suggestions? Guess I’m sort of looking for an online writing conference. We could probably find a way to make it count as an entry on an Orchid form. Ha.