Friday, January 9, 2009

To Zack

There's so much that I would like to say. Really, a lot I feel I have to write down. I've done a good deal in my real journal as of late but that is not for your eyes, my dear,  because, well, a girl needs a place for her secrets. 

I'd probably say something about having been in Berlin and absolutely despising that feeling that  I have every time I leave that city: that feeling of losing the ability to pick up my heels and run to whatever it is that life has in store for me next. That feeling that I have whenever I am in Berlin. 
I might say something about experiencing three days straight of amateur fireworks throughout the city and how it just felt really powerful to be in such a city that has seen so much throughout time and is now welcoming another year. 

I might then say something about being in Belgium (because uh, I am) and being in Brussels, walking alone for a few hours on end, letting the overpowering thoughts in my head empty out onto the streets, reveal themselves in the leftover Christmas lights, weave through the thousands of people and mix with their thoughts, then become extremely insignificant in the grand, ever-loving, scheme of things. 
What a put-it-to-you. It was swell.

I might talk about talking with my mother and how I hate it.
I would then follow that up with saying that I love talking with my mother and that my previous statement would definitely be worth a consideration regarding a retraction since she reads this too  but it's going to stay. 
I would then hopefully clarify  that I don't hate talking with her for any reason except for the simple one that I love her more than she might ever know and that the sheer fact that I can't be there and here and then here and there and back again breaks my heart. Simply and truly. 

And speaking of hearts, I would probably let my train of thought lead me to mentioning a conversation that I had:
the idea was that living in one country and then living for a period of time in another simply results  in never being able to really go home.
Your heart is there and it's here and then it's there but, no, it's really here. 
And "home" then becomes an abstract concept or an idea that can only be chased and never achieved.

And that would lead me, ultimately, to saying that - in answer to you-  maybe that is how one will feel about a spiritual walk with this Christ. 
Maybe we are never supposed to feel like this is "home" and yet how can we ever know that there is Home until we just know for certain? 
Maybe my wading and your wading and the fact that we are both waiting doesn't answer any of our immediate questions .
Is there any other choice, though, other than to continue on knowing that we won't find "home" until we are brought to it?
I might casually (and oh. so. casually.) mention that what you had to say was heart-wrenching, gut-punching, "tear-jerking," miserable, fantastic, horrible, and exactly what I needed. 
I would probably tell you that I sat and cried while donning my boots to go outside because it was then that I saw what you had to say.
And I might thank you. 
I probably would thank you. 
Thank you. 

And I might follow all of this up with talking about this post not being funny.
I would say that I prefer witty, lighthearted posts - ones that involve a lot of onomatopoeia, clever historical, philosophical, hell, even a few metaphysical references, and posts that don't leave me feeling any differently afterwards after reading them than I did before. 
But then I might say that this was just not one of those.
 Out of a hit-and-miss categorization, I might leave you to decide.
But I would have to be honest then and tell you that I really didn't care one way or the other. 

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