live with abandon

There is a lot of grace in fresh white linens + sun beaming a little brighter through your windows because of the snow + nothing to do on Sunday’s.

Grace.

It is something that I think I need a whole lot more of. To be more graceful in how I present myself; no matter how hard I try about 90% of the things I say always come out the wrong way. I am either less eloquent in stringing my thoughts together or down right deserve for everyone in the room to leave. I am lucky to know I have the grace of a new day, but if I am being honest sometimes I wish I had more grace when it came to trusting my heart and forgiving myself when I don’t.

Often I wish I could be a fly on the wall when I tell people that I ran away to Cambodia. Does my voice shake? Do the memories that I made spill out when I say it? Do I sound frightened, like I doubt why I ever did it? Am I nonchalant in the sense that I have that ability to be the girl who just ups and leaves without carrying about the consequences? What does running away to Cambodia sound like? What does it even me?

Ten months later, I am still trying to figure it out.

I wish I had more grace when it comes to forgiving myself.

When I came home from Cambodia, I cried one morning when I was at my parents’ house. The pantry shelves were filled with multiple choices of cereal and oatmeal. I had just lived in one of the poorest places in the world, where for breakfast most people only ate rice and it was a good day if they got pork or chicken to go with it. But here I had choices.

A week later I threw a carton of strawberries at a woman’s foot at a store and ran out. She had just become upset with me because I was using a self-checkout and had to manually punch in all of the codes of my basket that only contained fruit. I remember being so frustrated with her; didn’t she know that people were sleeping until they died, like one of my student’s father because he was so sick, in other parts of the world? Did she not realize that people ate the bones of a chicken’s foot, like they were dogs, because they needed to fill their bellies with whatever they could?

After that episode I got into my car and called my best friend crying, “I’m just not good at being home.” She talked it down to being culture shock and the fact that the woman was less than a pleasant person. Isn’t it amazing how tender and gracious best friends are with you? No matter how bat-shit-crazy you may be or sound, they are always there to defend you and reassure you that you are okay. But even after she said that I knew in my heart of hearts that it was more than that.

I didn’t know how to trust myself anymore.

In my mind I had drew this carefree, long blonde haired girl who was able to come and go as she pleased. She took only the baggage she needed, leaving no room for the emotional shit, and would leave with the memories imprinted on her soul. Why wasn’t I good at leaving and coming home?

As I picked up my life back in Colorado, I began to date boys more than I ever have. Whiskey would linger on their breath and I always knew an unkeepable promise was about to be made. Before it ever got to that point, I would tell them that I wasn’t staying long; I wasn’t anyone’s stable cornerstone. I made myself readily available to anyone, so that I belonged to everyone but not to one person at the same time. And repeatedly I told myself that I would leave again, soon. Why am I not good at staying?

If I can’t stay, leave and come home than who am I?

I don’t want to be a person with the sole labels of: wife, teacher, mother and friend. I want

to be a collection of all of the places I have experienced, stories that I have seen, and lessons from the people I have met. As of late, I have been more afraid that I am no one if I don’t have labels attached to me.

My heart has been in flux, do I stay or do I leave? And how long is too long in one place?

Do I trust myself to leave again? Or will strawberries always be at the sacrifice of my inability to be as nonchalant and carefree as I wish to be.

It’s Sunday afternoon and it is time that I show myself a little more grace.

Dear Self,

I am so glad you finally got your spicy margarita last night – I know I don’t tell you often, but you deserved it. I know you are afraid right now, of a lot of things, so just close your eyes and take a deep breath. Better? Probably not, I know you. Nothing will be better until you know all of the answers. But just think, you don’t have to know everything right now. Where would the adventure be in that? You’re ready to leave. Go and put $20 into your travel account. Now you’re even closer to being able to leave. Don’t be afraid of the place you are in while you work to get to where you want to be. This is simply called the learning curve. You staying to finish up your commitments does not make you any less of a wild Mustang. It simply makes you decent and loyal.

While you wait never forget, you were born to dance to the beat of your own heart; to roam without cages.
With the innocence’s of a child and the free spirit of untamed horses.
I hope you laugh without stopping, live with abandon and love like it’s all there is.

Stay wild.