I had planned, when I left, to explain upon my return my reason for leaving. I may still. I’m finding it hard to place into words what my heart is only learning. It reminds me of lyrics from a Ben Shive song,
“I was trying to find with pen and ink the passages to pass between our souls, panning ordinary rivers on rumors of gold.”
That is how I spend my days – trying to place 4 dimensional learnings, emotions, and questions into my 3 dimensional vocabulary. It is no easy task and leaves me more often discouraged and confused than anything else, but success is sweeter than the chocolate, rum, espresso cheesecake eaten and richer than the abundance of coffee I intake in the process of translations. The frustration remains at being unable to put something that you know in the depths of your being onto paper. Sometimes poetry and songs help – sometimes their sweet language can bridge the gap – that’s why I write poems. Sometimes, like this time, things merely have to be part of me for a while longer, engrave themselves into my heart for a while longer, before words can be found for them.
I know that this is a time that this, the new knowledge and freedom and depth I have stumbled upon, must sit before they allow themselves to be contained by words because I’ve tried to put it into words. I tried in the letter I wrote last night and failed in a heap of disjointed language. I tried to explain it to a friend over coffee and found myself lost in my own translation and trying to untangle the winding trail I’d woven as I spoke. I tried writing in my journal and actually brought about some sort of understandable language, but it only scratched the surface. I find that it is being manifested in my life – that my waking, sleeping, dreaming, skipping off into that other world I so often visit, I am living more freely, more joyfully, more fully, more lovingly – and that’s the point: freedom, joy, fullness, and love, selfless love.
For now, I’ll let those words be enough and perhaps take time to understand them in the English language as well as that heavenly tongue of the soul in which they now reside. … See, even that hardly made sense.
Also, it was such an extravagantly beautiful day. So much so that my heart is soaring and my eyes smiling only at the thought. My heart has been captivated so many times – by the Fantastic Mr. Fox soundtrack I found on Spotify and devoured and delighted in, by the clouds that were like whistling in visual form, by my brother lip-syncing to Kenny Loggin’s “This is it” and making us laugh until we cried, by the wind, always by the wind, by the sun, by the birds that sing an incredibly distinct song – the same birds that always sang as dad and I left for school on early spring mornings, by yet another run-on sentence that I don’t even care about. I hate how corny that sounds, because it’s not. Neither is how lovely I feel when “birthday” comes. Neither is the fact that my brother just came in dressed to the nines and said “not too snazzy for your birthday dinner, am I?” Because every good and perfect gift if from above; coming down from the Father of heavenly lights who does not change like shifting shadows. That Father who loves selflessly, gives extravagantly, knows our hearts, calls us blessed, and highly favored, smiles that we are alive.