These gigantic, feathery snowflakes fell coating my small universe in a deep sugary paste. They weren’t your regular snowflakes. They didn't fall with the same razor like precision. They floated adrift, almost flying on their own, like big fluffy clumps of pollen. . . or cat hair.
I used to regularly make up metaphors as child about the natural phenomenon around me. The willow tree magician, the sewer ditch river that went on to a land of endless playground equipment and no bedtimes; if I could just sneak between the grates. I remember no other time feeling more grounded, more sure of myself, then with my bear feet in purple rubber boots dug deep into the murky, mushy creek bottom . My immortality against the current, the water washing in over my rubber toes. Within the imperfection of nature there is a symmetry, a feeling of creativity. My Papa taught me that every time he lifted me up to drink raindrops from the pine needles, or pulled to the side of the road to listen to the sunset whippoorwills in silence.
What do we see, when really look at the life around us? Only in childhood do we ever have the presence of mind to really allow ourselves the time to sit in a stream of thoughtless contemplation. I have had almost a month now to do nothing but allow my thoughts to drift and wander. To tap into the thoughtless. Giving myself permission to not worry, to not concern myself with that which is beyond my control and especially that which is not within the realm of what contributes to my happiness. Now, winding down to the end of my self-prescribed exodus I have a renewed anxiety. I have learnt that there are two kind of happiness. That which is extreme, a fleeting joy, a hyper feeling, a busyness in your gut. And that which is a contentment from being ok with what you are. I wouldn’t say I have been overly happy this last month. I wouldn’t shout my joy from the rooftops or go running through the street hugging, loving and exuding. But something of a quiet whispering pride has appeared. It sits and warms in the pit of my soul. It spills slowly towards laugher and spurs me out of bed early, when I have nothing to wake up for. It dulls my material needs, when I have nothing to satisfy them with. It is a bedrock of self knowledge that has nothing to do with ‘knowing who I am’ and everything to do with being happy with the fact that I am.
I don’t want to lose that again.
But how does one simply get off the proverbial band wagon? Without ending up homeless, poor and half starved? Is there some compartment, some private berth on this train that I can find a sense of contentment in? Because all I see right now is a giant ceaseless steam engine; and the world passing by my window.
I want to jump off and roll in the dirt. I want to jump off and climb up mountains and run down hills. I want to stay out late and wake up early. I want to hear the sound of my own heart beating, not because I’m running on a treadmill to obtain some kind of pre-prescribed physical perfection, but because I’m exerted from wandering. I want to be challenged, not in a way that forces me to work through what I hate, but in a way that forces me to listen. I want to be humbled, I want to be awed. I want sand in my shoes and wind in my hair. I want to see the stars again.
I want to jump, but I'm not sure where I’ll land.
So with one toe over the edge, I peer at the ground swimming past me.
And wonder how much this is going to hurt.
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