Most of my life I have dodged and weaved between the expectations of my world.
My world consisted of family expectations, and traditions. I’ve never belonged in that blanketed niche. It was too itchy, too cursory, too comfortable of a corner for me.
Instead I meandered here and there, just at the periphery, trying to belong, but never truly being embraced by that establishment.
Even when my world expanded to school, and university; I still continued my snaking.
I feared that if I showed this writer’s heart, this writer’s soul, the one that feels the pulses of the universe in-between the cracks of the everyday flow of life, that I would be rejected.
Even for those that proudly proclaim they are artists, and their interior world reflects in their outer world with loud proclamations of dress, and personal representations; walking art. I don’t belong.
I am of my world, and outside of my world simultaneously. I feel and think deeply. That pulse; that silvery thread of connection that binds all living things, and to their cherished objects; I feel it. It is as tangible as the embrace of my beloved children.
Living this duality, living in two worlds; one of materialism, the other of spiritualism, is an exhaustive act of twisting through and functioning as a human. One feels the corporeal need of familial connection and to provide and to nurture them. And the other feels the need to experience the ethereal essence of the universe; to spread my dual identity across the written page in a flutter of words, and to write and write, and write.
To survive my dichotomous existence, I dodge and weave through the day. One face is the woman of duty, honor, and assiduousness. The other, the writer sensing the twitches and colorings of the universe.
Mine is a dual, beautiful, maddening existence. I internally battle it, and stumble beneath its heaviness. But, I’m learning to embrace it, and in that embrace, to be able to survive it, and flourish in it. And the meandering journey continues…