There is an old Hindu saying that goes something like this: A person is unable to fill their treasure chest with jewels while it’s still full of rocks. 

Three years ago in the early summer, my treasure chest was full of rocks I didn’t know how to unload, so naturally it broke. I looked at rocks and pieces of my treasure chest scattered all over the floor, forming an unpleasant arrangement of things that hurt and things that fought. I tried to pick up the rocks, rough and heavy, but they refused to move. Instead, I tried to collect the pieces of my treasure chest, but the sky outside quickly turned dark. The darkness welcomed itself into my small home, making it nearly impossible to find the pieces. Guided by the vague sound of my breath, which appeared strangely far away, I fumbled in the dark, letting my fingertips carefully scan the floor. Something flopped around next to me, like a fish out of water, and I reached for it. I placed it in my hand, where it fit. It was my heart. Only then did I realize that the pieces I was searching for were pieces of my own body.

Flooded with sorrow that filled the room as I was unable to give it a body to live in, I sat on the floor with my heart in my hand and waited for daylight to arrive. I waited for hours. I waited for days. I waited for weeks. Yet my world, usually vibrant with colors, remained dark. I kept searching but the rocks remained unmovable, and the pieces of my body were not in reach. Some days I cried. Some days I screamed. But most days I let silence take over, the only sound my heart beating in my hand. I wondered what would happen to it if the daylight never returned.

Late fall arrived with a storm that came banging at my windows with thunder and lightning. For a fraction of time, my apartment was lit up and I could see that the arrangement on the floor had changed. The rocks were still there, but the only part that remained of my body was my heart.

Confused, I asked the sky outside, as it had the power to shed light. “Where is my body?”

It answered, “Once you can see the rocks, you’ll see your body.” 

I thought of what the sky had told me and stared into the dark, hoping the rocks would reveal themselves to me. They did not. After some time of pondering how else I could see them, I decided to try to care for them differently. I got down close to them. I listened to them. I held them. I leaned on them. I turned them over and around. Day after day, all in the dark. They were heavy and caring for them was difficult. I still cried. I still screamed. I still sat in silence. But somehow caring for the rocks this way made it bearable. 

Over a year had passed when I put my heart down next to me to care for the rocks. That’s when I saw it: the slight contour of the rocks in the dark. I looked at them as they gradually revealed themselves until fully visible. The rough surface and miniature ridges hosting all its compressed life. Far from beautiful but they were unique, each one with its own history. One by one, and less heavy than before, I carried them to the window and placed them next to one another as the daylight finally returned. There they sat, rough, fully seen in the light. And I knew then that they were no longer mine to carry. As the daylight filled my home, I felt my heart beating, not in my hand, but inside of me, in a body ready for treasures.