My seven year old asked me this morning, as he watched the pieces of the Vidalia onion I was cutting fall apart on the cutting board, “why does it just fall apart like that?”
My answer was quick and factual, “because the skin is what holds it together; and when I cut the skin away, the inside is just layers and there’s nothing holding them to each other.”
He took that at face value and then followed up with, “Mom, what is an onion made of?”
I’m used to his amazingly simplistic and yet strikingly interesting questions, so I didn’t miss a beat, “onion is made out of onion. It just grows in nature as an onion.”
So, y’all, he was satisfied and went back to his breakfast. I, however, was left hearing those questions echo around in my mind.
Why does it just fall apart like that? What is it made out of?
My deeply spiritual-self has been soaking in those questions since then. I managed to sit in prayer for a solid 1o minutes this morning, which is rare for me lately. I am a pretty poor practitioner of stillness these days. But I did do it, finally, today.
Immediately, when I closed my eyes, I began to sift through all the layers of mental and physical chatter that are held together underneath my skin.
When I sit in humble silence, without expectation, just to be sitting in the practice of presence before the Greater-Than-Me (the Cloud of Unknowing, God), my layers fall apart. They just fall apart.
And, as long as I don’t try to actively keep them together, as long as I don’t hold onto them, they’ll just slide right open and what I am made of seems to be just layers of myself.
Truly, y’all, I have no grand aha! here. All I am sharing is a couple of questions floating around and disrupting the certainty of what I think I am.
Why does it fall apart like that? What is it made of?
Sweet readers, to let me know this post has reached you, please like, share, comment or send me good, loving vibes. Thanks! ~Sweet Georgia Pam