I am in the midst of a trepidatious Monday. I’m unnverved, unsettled, and somehow craving something firmly rooted.
It must be time for the next great adventure. We’re thinking of road-tripping to that music festival and then flying to Boston/Provincetown to see Jacob in the summer. I want Chicago, too. I want to see the people I love, the city I crave.
All of that will quell those feelings momentarily, until I can’t breathe anymore and I need to be moving. I always want to be moving. I love the thrill of nowhere, living from that suitcase, throwing things willy nilly into the backseat and speeding away, off to anywhere.
Maybe I need to learn to sandboard, to ski, to do those things that will give me motion without taking me too far. I’ll get my damn iPod fixed and I’ll run in the park every day, until the long forgotten muscles become taut and sinewy. I’ll run and run toward freedom, only to find myself back at my door, fumbling for the right key, reminding myself that tomorrow I’ll take off the key that doesn’t work.
My spirit isn’t dead, it’s still very much alive, it’s still here.
I want to go to Tibet.
I want to learn how to meditate. I want to sit with people wiser than me and let them show me how to find calm.
I want to dive in deep ocean. I want the waves to crash against me in the night. I want to stare up at the sun and stare out into the sea and realize I’m so small.
At least if I still want these things, my soul must be still stirring inside me. That’s a positive sign, I believe.