Everyday it seems they take more of what makes us away. I used to get a new page when I wanted to write, and now they confine me to this little box of ill imagined possibility. What do they want of us? Except to make us swine? Each day I see the posts a little less, a little smaller, filled with tiny misspelled words, and overused vocabulary. What happened to above and beyond? What happened to skylines and horizons where the stars were our guide? Maybe this is what happens when 20 something becomes more like 27, and thirty is a word that sounds a little bit like I’m a grown up.
Impending birthdays sometimes have a way of making you think about things, and life seems less like splendor and more like something I’ve been doing for awhile. But it can’t be just that. I look at the roads I’ve taken high roads of hope and low trails of circumstance. In the rear view it all kind of looks like life in the undergrowth. I am grateful for that. I feel good about the rocks in my shoes and the dirt on my feet, the skinned knees, the bumps and the bruises. I wonder what I’m supposed to be learning next.
I just recently came home for a visit, and it has proven very difficult not to draw comparisons of my last trip home. I have thought about my father so many days of my life, and the year that followed are falling out have been no different. I think often about how I am probably his least favorite idea of a daughter. I think about how much shame a person can feel in the course of a lifetime, and how useless it is to feel worthless like that. I have robbed myself of happiness by trying to fix something that just is. My parents decided to have me, and now I’m stuck with this life. I’m here and it is now and forever my personal responsibility not waste it on becoming someone else’s idea of myself.
I would be lying if I said I did this all on my own. For some reason I cannot understand I am loved, but I have stopped asking why and started asking only what is possible in that light. I have been happier with myself for it. I think of Rumi everyday, “Let the lover be.” Yes. I see the bulbs begin to flicker with comprehension. I feel myself finally coming back around, out of the smoky collapse of what I thought was right for myself. Sometimes I think I may find myself again, sometimes in the quiet I think I may meet myself along this road. My soul bubbles with anticipation, but I feel older and softer and patient. I think that’s good too.
All the things I don’t have words for seem to find themselves a place to bed between heart breaks and fault lines of disappointment. The words will come, and for now this shameful thing I dare to call my tumblr will wait. Till then the bartender will grant me another, and make it a cold one.