Looking back into some of my old writings that I wrote in the heat of my nomadic adventures, and in the depths of a very sad season. I wrote, "I am not a planner." Hah. What has happened to me now? I am living the life that I wrote about here which scared me:
My life is not full of sorrows, but the
sorrows I do see run very deep within me. Unbearably deep.
How do I justify, or how do I change?
I am not a planner, and part of me does
not desire to be a planner. My stories come from going on a whim and
rolling with the punches. Stories that can never be had anywhere else. To have
looked out the window of many different trains, and slept under the roofs of
countless homes. To have an adventure that only comes from sticking my head
up in the clouds a little further I have realized that there’s a lot more up
in those clouds than what every day practicalities try to let you know.
Why am I broken? Because I need community?
Because I need a back-up plan? Because I need stability? Well, how do I pair
those with a wandering soul? How do I make them meet without disastrously colliding?
Why must I sacrifice such a deep desire to enjoy my other desires? Is there a
way? I need there to be a way.
The way I see it I am enhancing my life.
I am enhancing my future. I am bringing enchantment to something I want to
write about. I’m living a story. What’s wrong with it? I don’t feel enlightened
when I am told what might be best for me. I feel stifled. With any way of life
come great sorrows, fears. No one is one hundred percent stable. Something
expensive breaks. A job is going south. There’s a fire, or death. Every life.
Every journey. In mine, I have chosen to let go of certain things.
I don’t think you understand.
But really, I want someone to understand.
I feel so deeply. My joys sky rocket
beyond most. And my sorrows sink deep into
my soul’s abyss. No wonder I often feel misunderstood. I love my feelings.
My deep feelings and my dramatic emotionalism. That’s the way it should be.
Feel deeply. Let yourself feel deeply. When I am joyous I am really joyous. But
when I am sad no one knows what to do with me. I bathe myself in tears. I
understand- it’s overwhelming for someone who cares. I understand- I can be
overwhelming. I don’t wish to be overwhelming. But I won’t give up my feelings.
There is emotion that comes from beyond myself. Often times I don’t even
understand it. Know this. When I am filled with joy and life, nothing is strong
enough to penetrate it. It is contagious beyond a mere smile. It makes the sun
shine. But I don’t take credit. It’s something outside of myself.
And know this. When I am sad, it is as
though the dark ages have fallen on life once again. Tears seem abundant and
endless. The rainfall on my heart is vast and covers much ground around me.
Sometimes it feels hopeless because of how deeply contagious it is. I don’t
wish to burden with my sadness, but there is something outside of me which
makes me feel greatly. I could take guilt for imposing on my community in such
a way, but I really see it as a great gift.
I love colors, and deep contrast. Perhaps
because they understand me. I mirror them. We get each other. Now, peering out the
window of this train and seeing the vastness of the prairies, the silos, and
quiet lives, there is one thing that sings to my heart. I see a blanket of snow
covering the farms. Sprouting through is a patch of tall, red, vibrant prairie
grass. It sings to my soul; the color pushing out of the colorless; the life
overcoming the death; the vastness of each, the importance of each, and the
beauty of each- next to each other. Beyond what it seems, they are not at odds
with each other. They are working together, singing to the dark night of my
soul.
