Moving On

This time, I’m not going to succumb to the pique of interest that comes from looking at a map, at GoogleMaps, at the distant horizon.

I’m not. I’m going to stay here.

I’m not packing up, not lightening the load to move. It’s called decluttering. Truly. I’m just getting rid of a few things I haven’t touched or looked at for a while. That’s all.

Just decluttering.

For a few days, I even believed that.

If it didn’t happen on such a regular basis, it would be easier to believe. Of course, it’s not true. I’m doing what I always do when things get tough.

“Let’s move,” I say. The response is the flat stare, the rolled eyes, and the stamp of heavy footsteps down to the ‘other’ study.

A stress response, nothing more. The need to escape the confines of this aspect of life. The need to move on. Gypsy blood, even. All excuses.

I need to expand my horizons. Sometimes, I need to go back to the desert just to be able to breathe, to feel at home, to lose the sense of overwhelming masses of people all around me. The sense of confinement and claustrophobia that comes from living among too many other people.

I know – most people don’t understand. They like to be around people. I need space. No trees to block the view to the distance – in time and space. No people who force a response by saying words. No lights that don’t come from the sky.

Peace.

That’s what I find out there, in the middle of the desert, the arid zone. Peace that comes to my soul, settles against my chest, and helps me feel at home and grounded.

And then, maybe, I can go back and become part of the community again. But just a little bit, not too much, not too tight. A loose rein, a gentle touch, a smile that invites but doesn’t compel.

The freedom of movement, of thought, of breath – I miss that, and when I dream of it for too many nights in a row, and I get in the car – do I go where I’m supposed to be going? Do I miss the appointment? Disappoint my friends by not going to the party?

Yes.

When that wide expanse calls me home, I can’t ignore it. I look over the steering wheel and breathe in. I smell it. I taste it. I am compelled to go home. For a moment.

What is it that calls me back each time? Duty. Responsibility. Commitment. The things that weigh heavy must occasionally be brushed off so I can remain ‘self’ for a few breaths more.

* A piece from the heart, but still fictive (sort of).

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