Where am I right now? I’m not writing about where I want to
be, or where I’m headed, but where I am right
now. So often I write about where I want to be, but instead of that
helping me move forward, I just feel lost and helpless.
Right now, I am lost; right now I can see a tiny light, but
I can’t seem to feel a pathway. I’m blindfolded; enough that everything is hazy
and unsure, but not so I don’t know I am blindfolded. I am numb; finger and toe
and heart-blind. I am deaf; hearing but snatches of sound and song. I am dumb;
half-communicating with incomplete words and fluttering hand gestures. I am
aware of so many perceived limitations, but I am also aware of what might be, beyond
all of this veil and insulation.
All is but impression on me, and I have fractional confidence.
I am an imperfect mirror, reflecting wobbly, watery images of others, and
myself, but reflecting non-the-less.
I am in a chrysalis, but I can’t tell if I, butterfly, am
emerging; or even if this, also, is nothing but a reflection of someone else.
I can sense patterns; but when you’re in the middle of a
pattern, yourself, with other people, it is so hard to stick to that pattern
sense, and to have confidence in it. It is so hard to sense that pattern truly,
objectively, and not reason yourself out of what you do really understand. The pattern of my days lately seems to be the
only pattern I can see without having to feel, without becoming lost in
emotions and the avoidance thereof. Mornings are lost in melancholy and a
certain sort of moping and ennui; afternoons are merely lost; evenings
terrifying and stressful (seems like that’s mostly just when I try really hard
to wrest back control, though.); and the night finally relaxes into pieces of
the puzzle settling in and temporary comfort.
Today, this afternoon, is lost and wandering; raw, drained,
and dry. I really don’t feel terrible though, because I finally shook off
sentimentality for a time, albeit ennui is not entirely gone. Maybe I am sick
in heart.
Still I manage to find puzzle pieces, and still I manage to
stick them, if only temporarily, to their places in life.
Why all of this writing of where we’re going, or where we
should be? Jonathon Livingston Seagull, how beautiful in its idealism and
teaching, but I can hardly see myself there. Did Richard Bach ever reach the
point his characters traveled? Did he even mean or strive to? Did he find any
of what he was looking for, and did he learn to practice it?
I keep finding small pieces in small places; small answers
in short books. We look for answers in other people and their works, but they
don’t even seem to be where they say it is possible to go. Maybe all they mean
to create is beautiful metaphor and nothing else. I have yet to actually meet
anyone who truly loves or flies or heals with their bare hands. Only healing
with herbs and heart, loving at all,
and flying in mind and spirit. Isn’t any of that, imperfect as it seems to be,
still miraculous?
Don’t we find something
in the search, don’t we come to understanding as we share? I don’t believe in
disregarding wisdom in a great person -or any person- because they’ve done
something stupid or bad in their lives. Wisdom is wisdom, and we are all so
complex and flawed, beautiful in our imperfection, beautiful in our strife and
struggle. We can come to some sort of completion, some sort of wholeness, in
sharing.
To finally answer my first question of where I am right now;
Estoy pero aqui, curled up writing on my bed, wandering life and my own heart
and mind.
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