A poem from August 3, 2021
I'm feeling a sadness.
I will try to explain.
When I was a child,
all the time, there was play.
The outside was play.
The inside was play.
Work was play.
You couldn't stop me from playing because
everything was an adventure, an exploration.
I still have that, to a strong extent.
Make me do the same thing long enough
and I'll be doing it differently
finding a way to improve myself by doing it
finding a way to improve it by doing it
my way.
But still...
When I was outside just now, I remembered.
I remembered the play, the adventure
the way I could be camping out there right now
the way that being even ten feet away could feel new,
a whole world I've not yet experienced,
every day, every night, every moment.
And I feel loss in that. Loss in what
I've already missed. Loss in what
I feel I cannot do. Loss in how that feeling
of "cannot do" is gone. Because
I can just go.
I don't have to feel stuck.
I don't have to do the same thing every day.
I don't have to try to beat my head against
something every single moment trying to find
a way to do something I just can't
seem to make happen but I haven't
even started what's my problem I
don't get it.
I can run away,
into the woods,
and disappear from it all
for weeks.
What am I waiting for?
Context
I've recently moved to St. Louis, MO to get closer to nature, picking an apartment right next to forest, and spending some time outside every day to recenter myself. This was what hit me while meditating outside for a bit.
I consider this an acknowledgement that I have some attachment to perceiving myself as stuck, that there is grief to process in order to become unstuck. Because that was surprising to me, to feel joy and hope and play, and simultaneously, grief.