Pots and pavement

I looked at my calendar for the spring semester this morning, fighting to squeeze in a camping trip here, a beach day there. Time management gymnastics. March rolled around and I scratched my head at the thought of being out of town three weekends in a row.

Not too long ago, this would have been my dream.
To sleep in a different bed, bury boarding passes in my purse, squeeze shampoo out of a three ounce bottle, eat at a new table for each meal.

The journey was in the chaos.
Today, my heart feels more chaotic. Maybe I'm getting old, but I need the consistency of life to balance my wandering mind. I need the rhythms of alarm clocks and garbage trucks on Thursday at 7am and traffic creeping up right at three in the afternoon and a calendar that has more white space than marked.

I still love to adventure and explore, but maybe there is something valuable in planting roots.

I always thought I was a windowsill kind of girl. Never really committing to life inside or out, I could sit perched up on my slab of granite, watching everything around me. I could move to catch the light, be carried to a new window, even go to a new house. I could see it all, have it all, maybe even be it all.

 

 

But that's no life to live, stuck in a pot.
Potted plants live within harsh borders, unable to move and grow beyond the size of their confines. Sure, the pot can move - but it can never grow. Secure? Yes. Safe? No. Daring to push beyond the boundaries, to stretch and explore, will only lead to death.

If I am such a windowsill girl, such a wandering heart, then why am I being pushed towards the life of the trees?

Still. Strong. Waiting.
Generation after generation, growing higher and higher. Covering afternoon naps, supporting young climbers, stretching limbs out to wrap around all who come near.

Maybe now the journey is in the stillness.
Maybe my nomadic life is coming to an end.

Why then, am I being pushed to move again?
To uproot myself in the place I call home.
To pack up the boxes again and get a new driver's license.

Maybe because this place is built for nomads.
Everybody should live in LA or New York at least once - but leave before it makes you too hard.
It's been four years.
Maybe it's time to go.

Maybe it's time to explore a new place, to walk its streets enough that they become mine, to trip on pavement and forgive it anyway.