I figured I'd take a few minutes of this snow day (CAN I GET AN LOL) to write some things. Nothing crazy, nothing terribly relevant, but on my mind nonetheless.
Because lately, people have been all kinds of supportive. Lots of you graciously follow my life and offer digital approval every day, and I appreciate it...although I'm growing ever-conscious of my dependence on virtual validation. Even so, I feel somehow justified in my chaotic endeavors, and I keep navigating said chaos with as much finesse as I can manage. For myself, and for you. Thanks.
As I've mentioned many times before as some sort of reason for everything, I'm twenty three. And yes, I moved seventeen times during undergrad. And yes, I drove 25,000 miles last year. And yes, I'm a gypsy by trade and by genetics and by choice. I love all of these things about myself...except when they keep me away from some of you for too long. Like, I can't quite commit, or something. I can't give you all of me when pieces of me are scattered around the world and I still haven't even found some of them yet. Like that. I both love and feel brokenness from that truth. Perhaps, a lovely brokenness. A necessary one.
And then I wonder, why do I run? I run to unwind, and because I'm desperate to see and do everything before I lose sight of how wonderful the world can be. There are lots of days that I am terrified to face, and one of them is the day that the Rockies stop making me cry, as if that will ever happen. But I think...that I'm also running so that I can find all of those pieces of me that are still scattered. I think it's just beautiful because, whenever I find a piece, I find that it had been in such perfect care and when I find that gorgeous person that is the steward of that piece, my heart recognizes it. And my heart doesn't easily let go, unless it's some sort of temporary, time-dependent, time-sensitive stewardship and I can take that piece back and have it for myself. But the memories. The memories of how my heart healed for just that one single solitary second lull me into a sweet sleep when I can remember, and not be bitter, and be thankful instead.
Wouldn't you run, too? It's a heart-healing scavenger hunt. I run because my life depends on it.
And then I wonder, will I ever settle down? Probably, but not quite yet, regardless of what my biochemistry wants me to believe. Like the time last year I cried for no reason because I wasn't pregnant...so preposterous. Maybe I have to find all of the pieces of my heart, first. And I've been told that my twenties is the perfect time for this, and that I'm doing it all right, and that, in and of itself, is such a melody to hear. So when I daydream about the next twelve-odd years of my life and the things that will grow and change for the better, I imagine that I can give myself time. Things will be so, so different and so wonderful and perhaps in that time, I can tend the things in my soul's garden that I've left to the weeds for some time...so that all of me can grow. Then, maybe, we can bring children into the picture.
But I was told by someone recently that our nation is about to nosedive into some hard times, and that I shouldn't worry about bringing a child into the world because it might not be such a great idea. I politely nodded, but inside I was screaming, what?! How defeatist. And ridiculous, and paranoid, and narrow-sighted. Because I was raised with incredible privilege, but am not accustomed to having things simply handed to me. My generation inherited the botched economy and the wounded environment that her generation donated. We know what it is to work hard, to make sacrifices, to learn how to take nothing for granted. We know about debt. We have, somehow, stretched a dollar and twelve cents to last four weeks while learning to stop trying to be self-sufficient and instead to live on grace. Grace. We know about grace. So do you, for one moment, believe that we've had everything presented to us on a silver platter? I don't. We are a generation of survivors, and I intend to raise a child with similar gumption. Now, if I'm not mentally or financially stable, then choosing to bring a child into the world would probably be an extremely irresponsible decision. However, if I can support myself and my family reasonably well, then facing hard times will be a battle that we can fight. My kid will be a fighter. That's all.
Then again, though, I probably want a child so that I can have somebody to save this time. And that is, to an extent, a pretty poor reason. It's a selfish reason. It's because I spend most of my dreaming hours staring at the lit-up stars above my bed and pretending to save somebody. Because it's pretty simple: those of us who have survived some sort of abuse or trauma want to be held closely and safely, but mostly, want to hold tightly to other survivors and tell them that we know, and that it's okay, and that they're safe now. And somehow, go back in time and rescue them behind closed doors where nobody ever went and nobody ever saw and nobody ever heard...but as I dream about this, I'm missing the opportunity to save somebody today. It's the line between dreaming and doing. It's that thick black line. And I couldn't save them then, so how could I save somebody now?
I don't know.
But my default, again, is love. I hope that I can be a resource, and save somebody as others have saved me. So I keep running, and finding those pieces of my heart, and abundantly loving on the people that I find there. Soaking up their love, and life as I know it, and keep going.