Nestled in the Center

Soul is a place, the innermost Russian nesting doll.

Anne Lamott, Dusk, Night, Dawn

This beautiful line by one of my favorite authors struck me with truth and sent my imagination on a journey. Through the stages and seasons of our lives, our souls remain nestled and protected in the center. Layers accumulate, not reliably or smoothly, but significantly. Each shell displays the marks and designs of a period of time that was necessary in order for a more polished, authentic version of ourselves to emerge. By the time we are old, or have reached the end of our lives, the layers of our “self” tell a story of growth, regression, beauty and pain. But what remains nestled in the center, insulated by our physical bodies and versions of self, is a sacred place; the soul.

I imagine that I contain many shells of myself by now. Like Russian nesting dolls, the most recent on display for the world to see: my wiser self, my sober self. A version that is softer, more grateful, and varnished with empathy. The designs displayed on this current outside layer are not as flashy or confidently displayed as in the impulsive days of my youth, but they reflect great progress, growth and the wisdom and humility that comes with age.

Inside versions are put away and only disturbed when opened by thoughts of the past. Opening up my current self reveals a layer of conflicted, quiet defeat caught in the destructive pattern of drinking. This layer is painted in frustration and guilt and desperation, all hieroglyphics to the outside world. This layer has many cracks and scars. I am glad she is put away now, inside where she can finally be at peace.

Other versions remain before that. The idealistic young college student who wants nothing more than to travel the world and weave stories of color and light. She is decorated with wide eyes and intricate patterns of hope and enthusiasm. Not yet defaced by reality and life. She remains inside, tucked away until called to come out and dream for awhile, perhaps with my own children when they are young adults.

And there is the young girl, full of quiet questions and careful concerns. The one who loves animals and nature, climbing trees and running through sprinklers. She is clothed in orderly patterns, pleasing to the eye and never outside the lines. She still comes out to play when I’m with my children on lazy summer afternoons. I love her, and the cloak of silver innocence that surrounds her and separates her from future layers of adolescence and complication.

I contain many versions of my self, just like Russian nesting dolls one tucked neatly inside the next. But at the center is a place; the smallest most important space. A protected place that belongs to the Artist, and will one day return to the hands that created it.

Until then, I will continue to decorate my current self with impressions and experiences. Determined to add more growth and beauty than stagnation and status quo. And maybe there is still time for future shells of self to emerge and surpass my own expectations. Maybe the most surprising and significant has yet to appear.

As long as the soul is held firmly at the center and receives the nourishment it needs, anything is possible.