Jill Bolte Taylor's Stroke of Insight

Loading...

Sunday, May 31, 2015

Wild

They say never to make decisions when you're in a wild state of mind, but I've never made decisions any other way. Maybe I'm always in a wild state of mind. What other way is there to be? The natural state of me is wild, that awkward girl I grew up trying to leave behind, and who never quite succeeded at hiding herself away. A half-tamed horse, tugging on strange clothing and hoping nobody would notice. But how could they not? All those boys who pawed at me thinking they were getting a pretty girl, a nice girl, a sweet girl, and when I tried to bend myself to fit their hungry bodies I always held them too hard, frightened them off with clumsy affection. People never knew what to do with me and I never knew what to do with them. So many times I've reached out to hold someone, to love them, be loved; and so many times ended up hurting, bruising, instead. 

So I'm on the razor's edge again. Never really comfortable. Maybe never really meant to be. And it always feels, at these times, like the right thing to do is to leave--pull up the rugs, sell the furniture, drag everything outside and leave it for whoever needs it, the hell with it. Grab the dog and some supplies, get in the car and gun it for the road. Aching for the road, these eyes, aching to see far distances, unhindered by buildings, traffic, stoplights. Comfort feels like a smothering blanket. Accidental strangers are easier than friends, who have no idea what to do with me. I'm not speaking their language; it's not their fault. I've never known how. 

It's stupid to leave. Makes no sense. I'm enjoying more success than I know what to do with; in an odd twist of irony there is so much anguish-become-healing flowing out of my hands these days, and this draws people like bees to nectar. It is only because I am in pain and have no idea what else to do with myself. People recognize that somehow. They are coming in waves, appointments are piling up. It is driving me into the desert. The busier I get, the deeper the loneliness grows and the wilder I become. Staying put is now a daily effort, a spiritual practice; I am an ascetic dwelling in the emptiness at the center of a whirling wind of plenty. 

So it's time to go. Deep down I know this. Humans are the only animals that seem to think they have to dig in, build a foundation, eke out a home and stay put for years on end. What is this insanity? Since when does security come from staying in one place? Nature doesn't seem to favor this idea. Floods come. Earthquakes. Fire, drought, famine, financial loss, and the biggest one for me, the restlessness inherent in my genes. I can't stay. If I do, I'll die. If I stop moving, stop creating, that's it. Done. Slow death. Humans gave up their souls when they gave up their nomadic lifestyle--of this I am convinced. Soulless cities. Soulless cubicles in soulless office buildings where we stare at soulless computer screens that drown out our internal songs and their wild, soulful harmonies. The stars are lost to us in a maze of artificial light. This makes me crazy. I need to see it clearly again, the night sky with its planets and pathways, I need Jupiter and Venus and Virgo and Orion. My friends and neighbors. Sometime, some far-flung time in our future, dark energy will hurl us all so far apart we will forget one another's existence. Imagine loneliness then. Imagine the void. I wonder will we have any gurus left, with no stars to turn to, no night stories to tell except that of the moon, tiredly pulling on the tides. 

My hands are tired and my heart is empty, for now. I have poured out my pain. There is nothing left of it here. I want music on the stereo and the drumming of tires against asphalt and the rockabilly chords of the desert going by. I want to take this sad, awkward girl away from those who would hurt her out of exploitation or misunderstanding or schoolboy cruelty. She can live her wild stories elsewhere, build her home out of wind and sun and silence and song. Home goes with me. Home goes wild and becomes the place where I sleep at night, full of the soul I am remaking, daily, putting together piece by unfettered piece, alone, not lonely, a mansion on the move. 


KB© 5/2015








2 comments:

  1. To live on the outside looking in. Knowing, having experienced, living on the inside, surrounded by friends, and knowing you don't really belong there. The desert called you. Am I being presumptuous to think you knew before you went what it would say?

    Part of the beauty and power of your writing is in your honesty. Another part is in the precision of your word choices, words that are common to all of us, yet never before placed in the the same order. Write/right on!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I thought I knew what the desert would say, but it surprised me. And I'm glad it did.

      Thank you for reading and appreciating; that is a compliment, coming from you. And it makes the whole experience somehow less.....isolated.

      Delete