Road by Walking

There are times when I forget that I need to write for me. Sometimes, it seems I can write and the words flow, and it all makes sense (at least to me), and then there are times that come and I am worried that putting words to whatever is going on will just make it too real. Or, how do I in linear fashion put down on paper all the whirling, swirling thoughts and emotions that I am capable of experiencing? This is where the poets excel, right? 

A metaphor, like the wind through the top of a full, leafy tree comes close to the feelings. Slivers of sun, glimmer on the shiny side of the leaves, while the strong wind carries the branches up and down and the leaves shimmer and shake. I too shimmer and shake, and feel the current take my limbs  up and down and yet I am firmly rooted in the ground all the while. It feels like a storm inside me, and yet, all anyone might see is a glimmer in my eye; all they might hear is a long sigh. 

Nobody told me that the changes that come about when we grow from child to adult just keep coming about, year to year, as the seasons change, we too change. From naive to learned, from free to committed, from childless to grandparent, from in love to mourning, and then back again to free and in love. We ride the currents of life in a small or large boat, with many, with few, alone. What remains for us except the orb we stand on, the sky above. I thought I would grow from child to adult, and have all that I would need on my journey. 

I was told to go to college and make my way in a church and find a good enough man. After I’d done all those things, I sat still and found pieces of myself that I would need to take with me for the next stretch of road, and that still is all I can do. I can’t see the journey’s end, I can’t see the future, but I can tentatively step by step, make the road, and night by night, make my peace and make my bed, rest and start over.