It is an uncomfortable thing to learn so much about your own character in a short window of time. As if I have made a bed on a pile of rocks, jabbing into my spine, pressing on my kidneys, pinching into my shoulder blades. As if I have been left without a coat in the February snow, learning the deficiencies of human skin as any kind of armor. We are ill-prepped for such elements. There are some unsightly things that I have found, and (I'm pretty sure) it's not poor lighting. What to do with all the muddy, messy parts? The failing muscles and flecked, flaking skin? The dizzy head and faint heart? Crooked bones and blurry eyes?
How, and with such patience, do they dig up all of those fossils and reconstruct dead, ancient things? What courage to bring shovel to earth and break ground, to commit to the dust and clay, to lay in the dirt for decades in hopes of recovering - Anything. A tooth. Half of a shoulder bone. old pottery or the cornerstone of an old house, anything worth saving, anything to remind us where we came from, anything that could remind us who we are.