I went rummaging through our closet this weekend. Re-discovered a box of my writing: journals, poetry from first grade, letters not sent. Uncovering the box felt like all of a sudden finding there's one more piece of chocolate cake. I became voracious.
Ten years ago, I was on foreign term with Augustana College. I never fit in there very well, having done most of my "acting out" in high school, I found the Greek system and a lot of my colleagues boring and contrived. Snooty, right? But I always smiled, I made a few great friends. It served its purpose. Ten years ago to the day, I was in Cuzco, Peru preparing for a hike on the Inca Trail. I write of the excruciating pain, losing toenails, not finishing the trek but still being proud. I write of sleeping in someone's backyard, with kittens in my sleeping bag and cows looming nearby.
When I got to Belem, Brazil, I write of my homestay with a close-knit, working class family. I hungered for routine on my journey but also craved adventure. I spoke Spanish that made the locals look twice.
I miss that.
Somehow reading the pages of this tattered book are romantic. My dad was 53. He wouldn't die for another four years. I was dating a man still in Chicago. He would move on. But the quality of life in the journal was vibrant and challenging; sweaty and frustrating. I didn't know it then, but I was growing.
I want it again. Feeling terrified and persevering at the summit; your summit, not necessarily the one on the map. It was all completely unknown. More than wanting it again, I want to know it when I feel it. . . honor it and document it. That trip was the start of something long since dormant that I want to rise again.
OY Girl! You give me chills! I am in that that place, "Feeling terrified and persevering at the summit; your summit, not necessarily the one on the map. It was all completely unknown."
ReplyDeleteI am on the side moving UPward feeling excited, doubtful about my own strength, wondering if where I end up will be less meaningful than what I hope for. I can hear and feel the thoughts of others; psychically reading their encouragement, doubts,and jealousy of me. I keep reminding myself to block out the voices and forget the results. It's the adventure of the journey and the trying that matters.
Oh! I went to one of those dance classes-Zumma. I had so much fun. And I feel so much smarter and courageous for having, in all my awkwardness, tried.
Hmm I'm thinking . . . the world is in need of wisdom. Your previous entry illustrates peoples need for spiritual guidance, "We are spirits having an earthly experience," today your reflection worked like spiritual advice today. Today you were a Spiritual Adviser.
I LOVE YOU!
Oh Emily,
ReplyDeleteIt's rare that someone writes something with such beautiful words and beautiful ideas. I must admit I am a little bit intimidated. But also inspired. What you wrote should be required reading for anyone about to graduate college and then weekly to remind them what life really should be about. Might encourage some folks to take a few more risks and to live a bit more "on the wild side."
Thanks for a day brightener or perhaps more of a day "zen-er"
xoxoxo
Thanks so much, Heidi. Coincidentally, the previous comment comes from my AUNT Heidi. Love it! I live through writing, and I just don't do it enough. Inspired is good. . . intimidated, fugeddaboudit. I'm so much more prone to risk than I ever was. I really appreciate you reading.
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