As usual, I fall out of writing in no time at all. I've been saying for days (has it really been weeks?) now that I would blog. I had one running through my mind for a while, just brainstorming through the chaos that I consider everyday and the wild decisions that I fall into because I can never make up my mind.
Regardless, here I am: a recent college graduate with no sense of direction for the rest of my life. Do we all start out this way? I often feel like I am the only one. Okay, so I'm not totally a graduate; I still have this science course to finish up, then a camping literature course for a week before it can be official. I mean, I've graduated, but I am yet diploma-less. Luckily, I have the opportunity to stay with a really amazing family while I am here. Today, we did some garden work, and it turned out to be just the inspiration that I needed for a blog.
After the morning in the garden, we spent most of the afternoon indoors. Martin, however, kept working away in the shed while Kim and I wrote in the sunroom.
"A bird's nest!" We heard through the open window, as the breeze washed sunlight into the room. The sharp contrast against the shed, as Kim was quick to point out, made the bright colors of the shed even warmer, a strange sight against the ominous storm clouds behind it.
The bird's nest was not the typical bowler cap shape. Martin described it as a shoe: it had a long "foot" extended from the tall, thin cove that served as the birds' home. I found it funny how birds can be so content with twigs and mud as their walls. It reminded me of my recent difficulties in trying to pack all of my belongings for my upcoming move.
As I close yet another box, I wonder how on earth I am actually going to transport all of this stuff aross the country. My big move to Arizona is coming up in... 75 days(!) according to my countdown. I really struggle with the number of boxes that my life requires. Why do I hold such value in these items, many of which lie on shelves or in drawers where I can't even see them most of the time? Sometimes it feels as though holding onto these little pieces of my childhood will make me remain a child, though I know that's probably the farthest from the truth. I always imagine coming home to see my room just as I left it--brilliantly chartreuse walls and my old grafting desk under the window.
Sitting on a short, brick wall, I watch a bird swoop and sway across my view. I think, graceful, like walking. But the bird dives at a tree, scraping at the branch with its claws and poompf! it lands, not so gracefully, but sturdy holding onto the height with careful balance. I jump from the wall; the ground only a few feet below my dangling ankles, and I think of myself as landing from flight, but when I touch the ground, I fall forward, scraping my palms on the sidewalk. Gravity's still working. Birds don't even have hands. What is their secret?
For a while now, I've had this great yearning for independence. I am always wishing that I could just go be on my own. I'm almost there, but I'm stuck at that in-between stage where i need to fluff my feathers a bit before I can take flight. As the boxes pile up, I wonder if this is how the bird nests are made: twigs and clods of dirt carefully chosen to build a sense of home, just as my books and paintings will embellish my walls. I imagine the birds moving south, picking their favorite sticks and carrying them via beak to a new home.
Why do we over-complicate things? Surely I too could select a few favorites to take and leave the rest of my past in PA. I just can't grasp this connection to these objects that seem to define my memory. Without them, I often think, I would lose all that I have lived.
When I first saw the bird land on the branch, I commended it's perfect balance. I thought, that must be the secret! and decided to follow suit, but then I realized that in my inherent clumsiness, I will never be balanced beyond tree pose, and only then when firmly planted on a mat. When trying balance postures in yoga, one of the greatest challenges is not the act of balance itself but the trusting of your own body to not let you break. Trust.
I wish that I could say for certain that when the time comes, I will fly South with just a few sticks, but my commitment to a life of simplicity is a work-in-progress. So many memories are tied down through possession, and it's a lesson that cannot be un-learned without discipline. What I do know, though, is that when I go, I will kick off, spread my wings, and settle into a new home. I will carry with me each moment of my life, even if I can't remember them all. Most importantly, I will trust. I will trust that I can land on my feet (not my hands!), and I will trust that God will still keep me in-check with gravity.
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