on letting go | part 2
uprooted from a sometime somewhere
i miss a tender wilderness that
i’ve not ever (truly) known
it is a place so far away that
i’m not lonesome
though i am alone — because —
the columns of the
the colors of the sky
blanket all my being as much
as a lullaby.
and when i cry it is
more like a wellspring, like relief than
it is a drain, or pain — because
there is more underneath —
because it is reflection. it is
everything i’ve known. it’s
valleys peaks and
don’t you see it, how your spirit spies
the prize, which is
the way you recognize it — and the
way it knows you, too.
the presence of a buried wisdom:
living, breathing, even when you
know not what to do.
yet how am i to commence with this?
i long for that old abstract wilderness.
There are words for this feeling. I haven’t found any of them in the English language (such a wonderful language and yet so limited). Except yearning, but even that is so general, so vaguely-formed, in comparison to
For some, the feeling does apply to a certain somewhere or someone that is far-away. To others, it is a sense more ephemeral. Right now, when I think about it, I’m decidedly in the in-between: there are moments wherein I feel close to having captured this elusive it, almost, mostly right at twilight, when the sun is hitting that perfunctory point above the trees as it sets, maybe glinting off of nearby water. Everything has clarity then, both within and without. I yearn for a place that I do and do not know, and is almost right there.
In those moments, the feeling itself does live within and without. Even though what I yearn for is also almost-present, all around and centered inside.
I fear I am making this sound complicated, when it is far from complicated. Is it not a feeling of everything’s existence and occurrence at one time — of nothing being absent — of alignment?
It doesn’t last. It doesn’t have to. You keep seeking anyway, right?
That kind of seeking can go awry, I know. It can lead you down roads you never intended, detours that sort of pit you against who you really are or what you really want. I think of Into the Wild, for the most obvious of examples, of that heartbreaking coda of a scrawled half-sentence: “Happiness only real when shared.” I have been reading Women Who Run With the Wolves, which also speaks to the tragedy of losing touch with one’s wild edge: how it can do you one worse; how doing so can slingshot you back into too much of everything, of intensity and chaos.
So I suppose I wonder if it’s possible to let go of the search. To let people, places, things — truest selves, too — enter and ebb as they please.