There are days when I feel like a vagabond- wandering place to place. When I was younger, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, I thought I knew what that feeling was, what it meant. I was born with the traveler's bone and John Denver's music in my heart. I was restless. Longing for an adventure of brave and daring and other cultures, countries. To be surrounded by the beauty the world possesses which haunts a writer and poet with dangerous alluring. When I was twelve, Europe called out among the hills of Ireland and the bold histories of Rome. Older and Africa and my heart were torn by this feeling that I was missing someone, something, so much, so dear to me, in a part of the world I'd never been to. It surprised me and intrigued me. And the feeling faded. I fell into despair when I realized that many of my teenage dreams seemed to be just that- dreams. I am the forever idealist. Nothing is worse than when mind plans do not come to fruition. But I grew older and I grew wiser and John Denver's music still stirred my heart quietly..
Flash-forward to a twenty year old college student with no job, driving 90 minutes back and forth every day for extended education that will help get a job to pay for all the gas spent and books bought and tuition paid. That degree will end up being helpful, but the girl? Knowing her, she'll still end up making minimum wage and, I guess in some ways, she's still holding on to that traveler's bone and the dreams that made up her childhood of adventure and working alongside people who need her, love her, want her to be apart of their lives.
Looking at me now is formidable. I never thought about twenty or my twenties. I alway figured when I was that age I'd be traveling Europe so there's no point in thinking about them. Now I feel more like a vagabond than I ever did before. Sure, I'm still at home, but mama's been gone the past month helping someone dear to us and I think when she left, home went with her. I text her every day and call her every other, and see her sometimes in the middle of the week, but it's different. Me and my brother have to depend on each other. And last week was the first time I've had a hot meal in a month. It's the good kind of hard, trying to make it through the day, knowing you're not really coming home at the end of it. Home is where my mom is right now, and that's ok. But the aching overwhelming exhaustion and feeling of no certain future haunt me. There's all kinds of ways a dice rolls and I'm lucky I'm still here and my heart is still beating and my lungs know how to breath spring deep inside and I have a warm bed and a funny puppy and a brother who makes me think and a cracked iphone that still works and an insane family who drop everything to help someone hurting. My vagabond self still feels lost, still hasn't quite come to terms with it's body and soul and what it's meant to do. It's hard. But it's good. I think we're all vagabonds in our own way, creating beauty and poetry by how we live. This wide eyed poet with joy- the only thing to cling to- will keep moving, keep moving, keep climbing, keep laughing. It is good.
Much love
xxx
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