A series of rivers and roads

Wednesday, February 21, 2018

So much is different from two years ago. So much is different from what I thought 2018 would look like.

It feels like a series of rivers and roads. Some paths that I knowingly and willing took--a turn into a definitive road, one that led me away from where I was. And some, rivers. By turns small and trickling, forceful and overpowering. Leading me away, turning me over and upside down, swirling and a turning-of-a-different-sorts.

Rivers and roads.

I think about all of our friends from college. Two, three, four years out, we are all the same in that we are gone, all of us who once knew each other. Scattered and spread to different corners and places, hurting and learning and loving and mistake-making in our own separate lives...each of us looking across the distance and wondering if the other has it better, or if somehow, somewhat, that person's life is easier. If just slightly. We miss each other and wonder in our respective cities, feet hurrying, eyes down, soul by turns content then weary then hopeful then frightened then overwhelmed, how to do this thing called life. And whether we will ever find friends again such as each other. Will we ever laugh until tears come with someone in person, will we ever rant and unload over dinner, waving a fork emphatically, no need to censor or speak articulately?

Rivers and roads. This is life and getting older, I think. A constant succession of confusion and painful loneliness and odd joy and wondering if it will get easier and better. And the thrumming belief that it does--that it must. That soon we'll be able to see for miles and miles and miles in the landscape of our lives and it won't be so unclear.

In the end, I suppose, we are all trudging through our twenties wondering what the view looks like from up there--wherever there is. Our thirties, perhaps. Whenever we are done with growing. Which is to say, never. Which perhaps, is the point, the lesson of our twenties. Maybe we get softer and learn to let go, that somehow things will unwrinkle for a time, and that just like the seasons, hard days will come around again.

And so it goes. The rhythm of growing. Rivers and roads.

--a response to stumbling upon this mirror of a song 

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