Breathe

There's a lot inside of me. I like to think it's mostly good (at least the inquisitive, hopeful, hungry and seeking parts) but the truth is, my brain likes to hover on what's bad in those moments too. And there we have the perpetual problem of the seeker: Healthy seeking turns in to self-doubt. Self-discovery lends itself to knit-picking and pervasive guilt.

But age brings wisdom. In these moments, I've come to realize that the worst ways to think are either: at home alone, over copious amounts of alcohol or with strangers. So I've learned to get out and be by myself, call the people who know me best or surround myself with peaceful things and familiar places.

Left to my own solo desires, I usually head to a museum. When I'm in a place with that much energy and creativity, I feel like I have space to breathe and sort through my thoughts.

I am free to ramble from gallery to gallery slowly, walking through the stale museum air, simply wondering about things. Thoughts are allowed flit across my brain without the pressure to be made complete.

Inevitably, without direction, my feet lead me to the room where I come to find home. My eyes rest upon Monet's gigantic waterlilies at Giverny for a few intentional minutes, and as is its custom, it will remove the fogginess.

In the rush of clarity, I marvel at all the things that would be possible if I wasn't so afraid of my own power. I open my heart and let it gush into my journal, leaving what needs to be left in the airy openness of the Impressionist wing.

And then I pop through the revolving doors, breathing in the clean, crisp air on the front lawn and take all that hope and life and creation out with me.

Once there, I dream.

That I'll see Europe. Fall boldly, unabashedly in love. Learn the meaning of stillness. Forgive myself. Create something epic. Grow comfortable with my own presence. Hold my own children. Recognize joy in the everyday. Build a home. Leave a legacy. Throw my spirit towards seeking God.