Of Honeysuckle & Hummingbirds.
July 7th, 2011 § Leave a Comment
Smoke and illumination from incense and candles fill my adequately sized, familiar bedroom — swirling through the air — grasping for the ceiling, then collecting, lingering, and finally dissipating at the copper and crystal chandelier just above my head — much like my thoughts over the past few weeks. Symphonic cello melodies from The Bohemian Forest dance into my ears, much like to an old friend popping in for a visit: unexpected, yet bringing coveted comfort and sweet serenity. I breathe, reveling in paradoxical aroma of cinnamony Autumn candles and humid Summer air. I am home.
Or at least, the home I have lived in for the past several years. The home away from home away from home that I abide when I return from Florida, where I spend a few thousand hours existing in the endlessly lit moments of Summertime. I am home — a place of mind, a fleeting breath, a semi-permanent state. The home of my parents: an abode of security, wrapped around me like an ever-present, whimsically patterned blanket, although dusty and frayed at the edges. A place where tears are shed, laughter bubbles from my core, and thoughts are sometimes carelessly sputtered from my lips. A home where countless nights of creativity are spent, paired with a glass or two of White Zinfandel {with floating strawberries, of course} — searching, thinking, praying — as the inevitable transition from childhood to adulthood is slowly accepted, and then {somewhat} understood.
It is Summer, and I am home. My mind shifts to a season of many Midsummer nights past, where evenings {and days} were spent nonchalantly, filled with countless cups of chai tea, bare legs, bare feet, starry eyes, and long phone conversations {inside my 3×4’ closet}. Now, a college graduate, I am accomplished, yet unaware of what is to come — metaphorically dancing free, with feathers in my hair, and relentless, passionate zeal in my heart. Ruby-throated hummingbirds flit just beyond my window on an hourly basis, their wings moving at incomprehensible speeds, to simply keep them propelled, mid-air. This simple sight slows my breath, and calms my rapidly-firing patterns of thought. Peace. If they are intricately designed and cared for in such a way, how much more am I than they?
During my evening run, the scent of honeysuckle filled my lungs, making itself known through the form of heavy, rhythmic, and rehearsed breathing — reminding me that I am quite alive. I had taken this run countless times over — daily, nightly, and many times in-between. Tonight, however, the route felt unfamiliar — an inevitable foreshadowing of the days, weeks, years to come. In the lilac-coloured twilight, I whispered a prayer between strides — a prayer to remain faithful and trusting, as I wait for life’s path to unfold beneath my feet. I remain ready, although these moments are not my own. They are His — sealed, known, and waiting to temporarily spill into my hands. Until then, I will simply — be.
