The Stirring of the Breeze

I can feel a draft. A slight pull. The softest breeze flutters my hair, tickles my skin.  

There used to be an open door here, I tell myself.

Heck, at one point there wasn’t even a door, just a gaping hole letting in every storm. Pulling me out towards other places and things.

I hear a chuckle.

And before that, a voice whispers, there wasn’t even a thing, or a thing holding the thing. No doors. No walls. No roof. Not even a foundation.

No ground. No stakes. No place to begin.

It is easy now to judge the existence of the breeze as it enticingly calls my attention away from what is. 

It is easy to forget all the land that was crossed simply to arrive here.

It is easy to forget all the agonizing indecision that was surrendered simply to call this place home, and to begin.

It is easy to forget the courage that was had.

It is easy to forget the battles that were won.

And it is so, so easy to see only the crack of the open door where the outside air still gets in.

Judgement speaks to me: When will you choose fully?

Judgment asks this despite that I know, to the extent I know how, I have.

Maybe this is as good as it gets is my heart's hopeful despairing reply - this resolute choosing, this short-term foreseeable is.

Maybe the breeze will always tease and taunt and stir up doubts on days when I am tired and inclined to let all of the non senses in.

Maybe there is no more than this peace I have accessed. This knowing that, to the extent that I know, I am who I am, and I am where I am meant to be.

Maybe this sense of anticipation: this four-black-crow-feathers sighting; this two-years-off unknowing; this adventure-calling, heart-beat-skipping, whole-body-longing stirring, of the breeze will always be living somewhere inside of me.

Or, maybe, one day, when I am ready, I will meet my longing fully in the experience of what is.



Danielle RondeauComment