Little Wanderer

 Sitting here staring at my blank screen.. I never thought I would be at such a loss for words. I know that I have things inside. Things to say. But I can't seem to make them come out. I've misplaced my motivation. You know when you lose something and you set out to find it? You start out looking so hard in every place you can think of. Sitting down and think think thinking like Pooh Bear. But after awhile, so much searching and no finding can tend to leave you.. unmotivated. If you begin to question something that you were once sure of.. were you ever really sure in the first place? If you put all that you are into some thing and come out on the other end feeling like you got nothing back.. was it worth it? And what is worth it? The term? Worth it. What does it mean? By whose standards? Do I get to say what's worth it to me?

I've been working in a nursing home, taking care of the oldies.. feeding, bathing, assisting them. And surprisingly, I like it. There is one lady that I look forward to talking with every day. I have worked there for a week and, already, I could write for an hour about the things she has told me.  The other day she began like this, "You know, sometimes I wake up here and I can't figure out where I'm at. Some mornings I think it's my senior year in high school. Other mornings I think it's the morning of my wedding day. My husband passed on 13 years ago.. but some days I still think he's going to walk straight through that door and fix things up for me like he always used to. If he'd walk in right now, I'd know everything would be all right. He was such a responsible, respectable, hard working man. I had a wonderful life and it was because of him." She went on to tell me about saving money. That she hoped I would learn the importance of setting money aside for surprise expenses that life would assuredly bring. But that, at the same time, she wanted me to live my life and spend money.. life is too short to stress about things that don't matter. Last night something I said reminded her of a John Donne poem called "Undone." In the poem he is talking to God about how he is undone. He is not ready to go on to be with Him because he is not done doing the things he was put here to do. He is undone. She sat there for a minute and then, with her face in her hands, said "this last year I've felt pretty done. But I guess I'm not.. I guess He still has things for me to do. I guess I'm undone." As I was leaving her room she apologized for rambling and said that she was sorry if she left me with the feeling that life is just one obstacle after the next, but.. it kind of is. She said she hoped and prayed that I would always have people in my life to turn to for support. People to help me up out of my chair like I help her up out of hers. She said she knows she can do it herself, because she's done it before, but sometimes just having my hand on her back helps her find her strength.. other times, just knowing that I am in the building does the trick. I stand there and wait for her to get the courage to get to her feet and straighten out her legs and back, bones ginding together. She talks to herself, "Come on, you can do this. Hands out like this, both feet flat on the floor, nose over toes, and just do it. You did it this morning! Come on now."

I can see myself in her. Her exhaustion. The way she doubts herself. The way she knows she is capable of doing things.. but sometimes she just needs a hand on her back.. a presence that brings back her confidence. The way she talks to herself. Reminding herself of what she's capable of, how far she's come. I think I forgot to do that. I think she reminded me. I think sometimes when shes talking to herself like that.. maybe she's talking to me. Helping me more than I am helping her. Could it be true that in my attempt to help someone else.. they ended up helping me? I didn't even know I needed help. I guess I have longed for a place where I can take off my worries with my clothes. A place where fingertips on my back soothe me to sleep. But not just sleep. Rest. Not just surviving. Living. Not just sitting. Going. And I'm still searching searching searching. But maybe I haven't been think think thinking like Pooh Bear beacuse it's not that I misplaced something.. it's that I never had hold of it to begin with. Me. My patchy heart. The parts of me that are too much. The parts that are not enough. The parts that are selfish. The parts that are needy. The parts that are weak. The parts that are stubborn, strong, determined. The parts that bring hope and fear all at the same time. I am a wanderer. And I am learning that being on a journey like the one mine is turning out to be can be scary and dark. But the mornings bring new light and new things to discover. The possibilities are endless. Like looking out at the lake. It's depth and seemingly endlessness.

I've found myself lately like the beginning of this post. A blank screen. No words coming to mind. And I miss words. I've been holding on to my little old lady's words. Like water, I've been drinking them in. Looking for hope in all the corners of the places I've been dwelling. And hope doesn't fail me. Not always. I'm still angry. More angry than I realized. Memories of darker days and moments peck at me. The air knocked out of me and the disappointment of things I poured myself into seeming to abandon me. "It's not true," they say, "He never left you," they say, "He did answer you," they say, "Just not in the way you asked," they say. My hearts cries are sometimes unbearable for even me to hear. As if they were velcro on my chest, I try to rip them off and stuff them away. I don't want to hear myself. I don't want to continue on like this with the wind knocked out of me, one deep breath after the next, trying ot fill my lungs with good clean air. You left me. You didn't answer me. You let me hope. You let me believe. You let me find him like that. You let me see those things. You let me fall in love with something that you knew would be taken from me. You stood by. You did nothing. You let me pray. You let me hold on so long. You let me dream. You let me sing of promises. You didn't do what you said You were gonna do, I don't care what they say... You didn't. You failed me. You left me. You left me. You left me. I hate you. I miss you.

I'm not the same. I'm not the girl I once was. And I know that there are many who miss me. Sometimes I guess I miss little things too. But yet I still wouldn't change. I'm not sorry for who I've become. And I'd like to say that I, in fact,  have not yet become at all. I am still becomming. And, you know, I think I hope I stay that way. So much anger built up inside a person can bring numbness and hardening. I can't say I am free of those things. But I wake up every day and I try to find the joy. And I think that maybe joy is supposed to find me. I think she is not what everyone makes her out to be. I think joy can be found with her hair blowing wild in the sea-salty wind, with her toes in the sand and her heart in her hands.. wide open. I think the waiting for joy to find you can be dark and lonely. I think the path to joy is more like a snowstorm, or a dirt road to travel with broken bottles and no shoes. But she is worth it. Boy, is she worth it. She helps find words when your heart is so exhausted all it can bring about is a blank screen. She and I, we have a back and forth thing going on. I think she talks to me like my little old lady.. "Come on Beth, you've got this. Let go. Soak me in." And sometimes I'm mad at her. Because it seems like it's been so long and my feet are stinging and bleeding. But once she arrives.. the tears stream down my face and I can feel her hand on my back.. her presence in the room and I remember that "I did it this morning. I can do it. I've got this."

And I find my strength. And I hold on to joy. I hold on to the fingers in my hair. The goodnight text messages. The "I miss yous." The "we're in this togethers." The hand in mine when he knows I need it the most. The last .10 of my evening run where I give it my all and wait for the fullness to fill my chest. I hold on to the smiles at work. The "bless yous." The "thank yous." I hold on to the places that make me feel at home. I hold on to peace. I hold on to the glimpses of long lost passion. I hold on to memories.. even the hideous ones. I hold on to whispers in my ear.. ones that I wish would come more often. I hold on to things that I should probably let go of.. but we'll let those find their place in my journey. I hold on to the dreams and the promises. Though I feel my trust in promises slipping away. I hold tight to them anyway. Because I have to hold onto something. Don't I? And I remember that I don't have to look to someone else to tell me what to hold on to or not hold on to. And so there. I hold onto freedom. And I'm thankful for it. I hold on to wandering. I hold it so tight I can feel it bubbling in between each finger.

"Good luck, little wanderer, good luck. How I wish you didn't need it." -Stephanie Meyer The Host