Archive for the ‘writing’ Category
in the midst of this torrid, rekindled affair with life i’m getting into, i remember to breathe.
this breath brings certainty for me, but along with my own stretching smile, there is a slight tinge of sadness.
the sadness, though not for me, momentarily cuts deep into my soul. for that brief second i feel the unaccepted lover and the weary soul in search of rest.
for a second, in my bones, i know the sorrow of a decades-old creature who let the bitterness take over and build a new world. the only thing left is the memory of dreams and a few days.
a tear comes to my eye for a love that was never. an arrangement circumstantial and poised–empty.
for a child that shouldn’t have been. for people who should have stopped. for the man who did stop, and it ended.
for the train that failed and the ocean that was hungry.
i let the hurt and fear and anger get close, and i look it in the eyes. but i don’t invite it in to share with me anymore.
“i’m too strong now,” i say. “oh, how you’ve lost your way.”
and i leave it behind. and someone, somewhere feels their first bit of relief.
instead of not, they do. instead of lying, they tell the truth. instead of everything, it’s nothing.
the difference is made, and the way is found. then there’s love again.
change can truly be terrifying, yet it is really the only thing a person can depend on fully.
i suppose there are people out there who heartily accept the changing winds and turn it into solar power with the greatest of ease. i am not that person.
now, i have big dreams and deep passions, but when it comes to taking a leap and making a change, sometimes i struggle with letting go of things. i get caught up in realism and forget that sometimes change is fraught with fear, compromise, and risk.
most of you know of my adoration of london and all things british. for about five years i’ve poured over visa applications and read about the government. i’ve talked to immigration counsellors and followed the politics of the country closely.
i was less than pleased when david cameron stepped into office, as he’s a conservative and went to work quickly to limit (even more) immigration. now, realistically i understand this. personally, this is no good for my chances at a visa.
anyway, lately i’ve made a few strides toward my dream of expatriation, and it’s quite exciting. i’ll keep you posted on my journey to londontown.
to be fair, i wasn’t born into elitism. it was planted in me by a larger force than i, or anyone for that matter, could plan or mold.
those innate thoughts and feelings began to grow when i had my first sip of a deeply tannic and robust red wine. my eyes widened and soul awakened to the possibility i was, in fact, living out what i’d always dreamt of. that i, though starting small and slow, was living out what i’d always envisioned for my future.
peering at my early 1900s blue farmhouse with a wraparound porch is where it began. i was a girl who, by birth, felt misplaced in her environment. though i adore my family, i never felt quite at home among the bugs and crops. i remember walking at night on the dirt roads and gazing up towards the stars, pretending they were city lights. i pretended that i could hear cars honking and generators humming. oftentimes, as i drifted away to my dreams, i felt suffocated by the silence. i could hear for miles and miles. i longed for symphony of the city that i knew nothing of.
i repeated so many times, “i won’t live here forever. i’ll live among the lights.”
my family rarely took note of my precociousness. slowly i pulled myself into a quiet and secret city of the mind. i never lost faith, but i learned to fulfill my roles in life and keep my wanderings tucked away, only allowed to frolic in precious moments of solitude. those became my favourite times. those perfect and wonderful times.
the sun would rise every day on our bustling farm.
my family sent me to fetch eggs from the hens and to herd the cattle for milking as they giggled and mused over my oddities. they boasted pitchers of iced tea and homemade pie and were filled with happiness. they taught me to operate larger machinery for crop gathering while proclaiming, “it’s just a phase. she’ll love it here just as much as we do.”
those things built in me traits i couldn’t have paid for in the city. they taught me a way of life i couldn’t be me without.
the decisions i make throughout my days that build my existence are fraught with meaning and seasoned by introspection and love. my life is full of livelihood, not consumerism.
i collect things full of beauty–things charged with truth and depth.
i’d like to say i chose this for myself. however, that would be a lie.
as a human i’m afforded a certain amount of self-control. beyond that–the part of me that indelibly longs for the intoxication life offers–that part is what makes me bonnily human.