I feel so alive when I feel the earth beneath my bare feet, the sun beaming on my back and my palms touching the gritty surface of rock. When I leave this space of trees and mud I feel scattered. Like I am being called to something bigger than me just to replace it with a scroll on Instagram. Heading into a place of chaos and destruction instead of growth and life. When I am in that place of no reception, I can hear the birds chirp and enjoy their song. I can gaze up at the painting of the clouds that I normally take for granted. Sometimes when I am back in “reality”, it can feel like the walls are closing in on me. Like I am trying to float but I struggle to swim and just sink. Out here in the woods I feel like time allows for the slow steady walk uphill. Back in what some would call “real life” I feel like I have to run to keep up and even that isn’t enough.
As I walk back into that concrete jungle, curiosity hits me and I wonder when I started feeling this way. Caged in by the word enough. Walking into the house that I paid more than enough for but can’t seem to love simply as it exists. I have to add so many things to this space just so I can walk in and feel like it's greeting me with a hug. Instead I am suffocated and claustrophobic by the rugs that cover the trees, or the overflow of papers on every flat surface you see. Reminding me that my pockets are not deep enough for what they all request of me. But my neighbor down the street says that value will go up and it's worth the asset. And I care about what my neighbor says because their grass looks like it came from a picture of a magazine and they are greeted with a kiss when they walk in the door. But I wonder what is the asset even for? I don’t think I want to sacrifice myself for another or save up to buy a house in the suburbs.
When I am away from the American dream, I can hear my heart beat. I can feel the sun rays kiss my cheek. Feel the cleansing of the water rushing over me. I breathe in air that smells like wild dill and freshness from the ferns. I have a friend that says they are never stressed and I wonder if they just don't know what it feels like. What it feels like to look down at a chipmunk instead of a screen or to wake up refreshed instead of feeling fatigued. Do they know how light they can feel by fueling their body directly from the earth or do they just feel the heaviness of what it feels like to fill their stomach with dirt?
Sometimes it seems I am barely hanging onto this dream that someone else has decided for me. I wonder if I will ever get the courage to let go. To let go of what I know. To feel like I am falling, about to hit the ground just to be caught. To figure out for myself what my next move will be. Will I feel the sweating of my palms, the increase of heart beat, the shallowness of my breath as I step into my own direction? My own dream? Or will I do what's easy and walk the same path of those before me? Will I hear the subtle voice guiding me to the meadow where I can dance? Or will I listen to the loud cries of those telling me not to defy their version of life.
I can see the picture of my path as I gently close my eyes and listen to my heart beat. I can feel the breeze of the wind that says I am the only one that can get me to move. I know this is scary like being alone for the first time, but there is also something thrilling about listening to the voice in my stomach. What if their way isn’t the only way but we are all heading to the same endpoint. The same set of anchors. What if following my own path leads me away from the ones living the same dreams? I still need them. I can’t climb without them. I can’t do this by myself. No, the ones that stay are there for good. The wild ones with the wild eyes and the wise souls. The ones that don’t mind feeling the earth and playing in the mud. The ones that laugh about our own misfortunes. The ones that don’t require much at all, only to know that you’ll catch them when they fall.”
