One autumn morning, I found something that looked like a watermelon. I looked closely and realized it was actually a pumpkin. Its shell was hard and thick, and inside it had pumpkin flesh and pumpkin seeds.
And then I thought about how often I show myself to the world like a watermelon on the surface, sweet and easy to read, but inside I am something else. I am denser, more complex, sometimes heavy and uncomfortable. About how often do I put on masks to be what the world expects me to be, forgetting that my truth, with all its seeds, is what really matters.
Two more people came and we talked together about this “watermepkin.” And they saw the same thing: an illustration about appearances, about masks, about a different core, hidden. Not worse, not better. Just different.
A watermelon is more appealing. It’s green, shiny, promising a sweet, refreshing center on a hot summer day.
But what happens when you discover that inside it’s something else? That it’s not refreshing, but nourishing. That its flesh isn’t something you drink, but something you bake in the oven and season. That it doesn’t fill you instantly, but you can make a pie from it that warms an entire home.
Maybe I’m a “watermepkin” many times, too. I look one way, but carry a different core. But maybe I wasn’t made to refresh, but to nourish. Maybe my sweetness isn’t immediate and summery, but autumnal.