Throw My Suitcase Out the Window
Sometimes I find myself wrapped in envy for those who seem to possess a sort of natural foundation to their lives. Not the ones with the two-point-five children and a house in the suburbs, no. That holds no allure for me whatsoever. It’s more a kind of self possession – a poise and grace – that seem to seep from their skin as sap from a sugar maple in springtime, running freely into buckets lashed to their sides to be rendered down into a divine elixir. It’s as if these people possess access to an abundant stamina – paradoxical restraint resulting in a protracted harvest, a nurturing sort of aura to be drunken in by those fortunate enough to encounter them. An ex-husband yearned for this from me, as if it could be coaxed like water from a dry well. As if water could be exchanged for fire.
For better or for worse, I am not one of these people. Instead I’m rather like a stately redwood nurtured by the mist – reaching, reaching massive fertile branches upward, snatching segments of brilliant sunlight, irrepressible as the fog is furtive. I want full disclosure of and for myself and others while guarding a thick privacy like a bear holed up in her den. Yearning for both complicates the structure I seek to establish – I keep wondering if I’ll ever grow up and into one of these steady folk. Then I gaze about me at the wilds of my existence – the freedom of both inner as well as outer Creation – and I begin to breathe like a bellows gulping air, and it feels right somehow. As if to roam is my home.
Perhaps I kept bumping head-on into the American Dream, inculcated in me from that early age of the dawning of an emerging sphere for women, the mid to late nineteen fifties. The free spirit taking root in youth from that time period forward presented me with a house-wife-less archetype, that of the Wanderer, carefree flower child moving through fields and forest, gathering harvest and shelter from the good earth. Donning the cloak of the Faery Queen, I broke faith with a stoic upbringing and, covered in loam and moss, rolled like the proverbial boulder, clumsily careening around sapling and stream. I learned to survive not in comfort but in ever-changing conditions, settling my restless spirit like a hen sitting on her eggs.
More circumspect now as expected, given a distant view of the gates. Yet I can’t remain in the manse, however tempting – there is ground yet to cover. And though I might long to thrust my feet by the comfort of the hearth, there is danger that I might languish too long, become too complacent. If I lose apperception for the vibrating thrum of birds’ wings or the smell of leaf mulch, I let go of life. A steady inner world is ever at the ready, but my time here as an explorer will end, and right now I don’t want to miss a thing.