The Lonely Hunter.

Hammershoi 1

 

“I want – I want – I want – was all that she could think about – but just what this real want was she did not know.”
Carson McCullers, The Heart is a Lonely Hunter

I used to lie on my bedroom floor, maybe 10 years old, flat out like a starfish, wondering if there was anyone who could see me. The rough brown shag, the stale remnants of the vacuumed carpet, below my straggly blonde hair, was somewhat of a comfort. Perhaps knowing there was another 10 year old girl flat out like a starfish on her bedroom floor wondering the same thing, somewhere in the world, was a bit of a comfort,  it was something tangible to not feel alone.

To be seen. It was something I craved. It was something I desired, but like an oxymoron, my innermost thoughts would be juxtaposed with my outward behaviors. These were the two contrasting realities inside of me trying to fight to be one. Shyness was a beast and it wrapped its slimy hands around my mouth and my heart. The squeezing effect of the uninterrupted pressures, caused only for the feelings of defeat and vulnerabilities to manifest in me for a great need to escape. I wanted to be seen, but not, kind of like the needing to know and be known, but not wanting to be at the same time. To me, this escape would be the only freedom I would come to learn. I was the pale moth trapped in the world of the spider’s intricate sticky web, struggling, wrestling, fighting, and surviving.

I was in no prison camp, only the camp that imprisoned me. To be young, ah, no, I wouldn’t want to be again! Every year presented itself with possibility and every possibility an opportunity to pursue or present, but with a grace not within my reach. I was awkward. I was scared. Would this be the reason of the lack of risk or adventure? I would grow up having friends seeking one thrill after the next. Loving the intense flooding of adrenaline rushing through every morsel of their bodies, but me? No thank you. I clumsily grasped hold of the rail and walked the path in obedience and assurance of a promise if I follow the rules, I would not get hurt. But one can’t be protected no matter how preserved they may try to be. The heart has no out of bounds signs hammered around it. If it does, it is because it has been there because of a hurt, lashed against when the boundaries were still obsolete, unearthed, and untold. The heart is a muscle of strength and agility and with a mind of its own. I doubt it can ever be restrained, maimed, yes, but tamed to a place in which passions find no residency, impossible. It is in these deep places, the unlocking of the heart, the releasing of authentic life can still find a pulse, faint, maybe, but there is a time in which the heart does not follow nor does it keep. Master of its own, keeper of its kind, the heart leads only to where life can be breathed and truth uncovered.

 

Image Credit: Hammershoi

 

 

Welcome January.

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“You’ve got some work to do girl.” Is what my husband said to me this evening as I discovered the last time I posted anything on my blog was November 4th.  Eeks. I can’t believe American Thanksgiving, Christmas, and now New Year’s has come to an end. Wowza. Well, life remains the unpredictable honored guest, and time, its silent beat we are unable to escape.

I have been contemplating, reflecting and investigating my life. This sometimes can be a dangerous thing, for it causes me to go inward and sometimes I can stay there too much. It is almost like my inner mind is my hide out, my safe place, my undercover shelter that I can retreat to, but wonder at the same time why. I have to discipline myself to shut myself off at times, for escaping into a place where the secrets lie,the dark truths, the serious questions, can cause me to internally dance the dance of utmost freedom. It is like a freedom from the snares of the predictable or from the near sighted.

I seem to lose focus on the divine and taste of the earthly when this time of year comes. Another new year and I am not much different from the last. However, I have seen more, heard more, and felt more. I have touched brokenness above me and brokenness beside me. My raw knuckled hands, from banging on the door of God to open to me, lay wearily on the hearts of the lost, the dying, as well as the living. We are in this together, yet we don’t always see it.  Maybe we don’t believe it. However, we are in it. It is our reality and we are its infiltrator.

 

 

Image Credit: Henriette-Lucy Dillon, North Pearl Street, Albany 1800

Left Right.

Somewhere between right and wrong, good and bad, weak and strong, a temperature of balance has led me astray. It is a sacrifice, but a choice. Some days it seems it is the only option available. I want, but I don’t. There is a compulsion in me that is obsessive. The tendency to fraternize, then analyze with the possibility to equalize, only to generalize. A code, like Morris, but it is the only way I know how to vocalize the under mindedness of my philosophy to life. I want nothing more than to be all I am meant to be, real, not compromising an ounce of the authorities given to me. To dream, to scream, to love to share, will there be a time, one day, in which I will be given the freedom to go beyond the apparent?