After a day around the Manama Souk, it wasn’t until the mop and a painting of red sauces that I realized that most of us sitting in our own filth - simply layers upon layers of hurt. The fortunate ones are able to stand up, scrub off the mess, and move on - shinier than before. Others, we stay leaning against a wall, having the tools to clean, but simply unwilling to get up and try.
Since losing my father in March, this time has taught me that I am indeed a walking tool, capable of cleaning my mess. So often, I think that I am not - and that is why I believe the mop, as simple as it is, spoke to me.
I have trusted the lie that I do not have the abilities or that I am incapable of fulfilling what is needed to completely move on from a painful experience that plagued my family this year. But really, I’m just sitting against my own messy wall, unwilling to clean the dirt myself.
And while I thought it would be a conversation with another human that brought my day to a meaningful close, it was a filthy wall and mop that I owe my self-discoveries.