Beyond Ohio
Hello Ohio
The back roads
I know Ohio
Like the back of my hand
Alone Ohio
Where the river bends
And it's strange to see your story end
~Over The Rhine
It's a warm night. I know this to be true, not only because of the moist air that is pervading my room through my window, which is slightly cracked, but also because of the summer sounds outside, such as the endless chirps of crickets. Temperature-wise, It's at that point where it's not too hot, but never cool enough to get too comfortable. It makes me feel slow and plodding, lazy. Exactly like the end of summer should feel. And yet, there is something not quite perfect here. I may be laid back and enjoying the last days of August, but there is something that is bugging me. And it's not just the crickets.
It's like a pin prick in my heart. I've just started to feel it deep inside, kind of a tingly feeling, like the feeling people get up and down their arms, at the shocking plot twist in a movie. It's been getting stronger and stronger as the month progresses. I think maybe I've finally figured it out. I'm moving again. Moving to a new state, a foreign land, for all I know. An instance of going to a place I haven't lived yet. But those occurrences, for the most part, are becoming alarmingly rare.
Most people don't understand. Why do me and my kind keep doing it? What drives us on? Honestly, I have no idea. It's not something I can explain in words. It's even hard for me to comprehend. But I simply can't stop. You could say the spirit is moving, or perhaps you'd simply say it's a wisp of the wind. I'd like to think it's the former, but regardless, I'll just keep going, searching, grasping for something higher, true to my own nature...
-----------------------------------
Two weeks ago, I had the distinct privilege of participating in an arts conference, sponsored by the Image Journal, down in Santa Fe, NM. It was a welcome break from the hectic and frustrating duties of daily life. My family had finally bought a house, and because of the short distance between houses, and the lack of time to line up movers, I was called up to help move the many earthly possessions of my family from one house to another. We had barely dragged the last box into the garage before we took off to Santa Fe. Just me and my Mom on a last adventure before I leave for Seattle, and college.
It was a wonderful time of reflection and rest, to simply take a step back and reopen the door to my mind and soul. One of the greatest joys throughout the week was participating in a small group of twenty people, helmed by Karin Berquist and Linford Detweiler, from Over The Rhine. Tenderly they lead us into the deep waters of music and lyricism that most of us had not ventured to find. For me especially, I knew the feeling of fear well. Outside the borders, there be monsters a' wating. But we were safe as the steady hands of Karin and Linford steered us toward land again. A beautiful time it was, for sure. It flew by so quickly, though the ideas did sink deep into my thought-process. I met so many people who I immediately understood on a level deeper than idle conversation. Many of these people will be burned in my memory for time to come, even if I never have the chance to meet them again. People from all over the United States, all over the world, who were all vastly different, and yet, of one accord.
All the meetings and discussions, thoughts and ideals, started to come to a point. I couldn't put my finger on it, but even as I was driving away into the wild expanse of New Mexico, I know something of great meaning was established for me in that short time. The drive was a good time for me to be lost in the music of Over the Rhine's Ohio. And as I listened to the tales of love and heartache, war and peace, memories and deep planted roots, something began to build in my mind. A kind of heartache myself. As if I were yearning for that which these people I admire so much had, and continue to build upon. I felt sorrow for that which was not part of my history.
I have always known that me and my type are, to an extent, nomads. Strangers in a strange land. We never sit down long enough to know we are sitting, because soon enough, the wind picks up, and we catch a scent and leave again. I have told myself time and again that I was never meant to live a life of security and steadiness, that instead my life is told by a greater tale, more fabulous and grand than most will ever dream of. But still, lying on my bed, feeling the damp summer air around me, I can feel a small breeze whiz along my face, and I feel that longing lump up clumsily along the wall of my throat. Chasing the wind, it's all I do, or have ever done. Floating along helplessly toward some unknown place. And yet, even in my vague angst, I hear the faintest mumbling of a still, small voice, like a paradox to my frustration and dobut, and yet again, I have no choice but to follow.
I know, even in my stubborn worldliness, that this longing in my heart isn't really to live in my own retreat, or any physical location. That would simply be my misguided focus on what I know to be something far larger and more consequential. My real longing is for home, and I see, as in a mirror dimly, a blurry image of my Father, his beautiful son, and the spirit that has been with me all along, pushing me, sometimes pulling me against my will, toward true home, and true community and love.
-----------------------------------------
Of all men, I am most deeply blessed. And among the masses, I bear a difficult thorn in the flesh. This pain in my side is a constant reminder of what others have here, and of what I will have to wait for, perhaps for a long time. It's the waiting that's the hardest. But the intrigue, the pull in my heart makes it a little more bearable. Perhaps somewhere in Ohio, someone's story really is ending. But mine, mine is still in the ground, slowly pushing it's way through the dirt, knowing that somewhere there will be sunshine. I'm pushing up toward the light. My story isn't over. It only has a little way yet to go before it breaks through the soil into blinding daylight. My story is soon to begin.
The back roads
I know Ohio
Like the back of my hand
Alone Ohio
Where the river bends
And it's strange to see your story end
~Over The Rhine
It's a warm night. I know this to be true, not only because of the moist air that is pervading my room through my window, which is slightly cracked, but also because of the summer sounds outside, such as the endless chirps of crickets. Temperature-wise, It's at that point where it's not too hot, but never cool enough to get too comfortable. It makes me feel slow and plodding, lazy. Exactly like the end of summer should feel. And yet, there is something not quite perfect here. I may be laid back and enjoying the last days of August, but there is something that is bugging me. And it's not just the crickets.
It's like a pin prick in my heart. I've just started to feel it deep inside, kind of a tingly feeling, like the feeling people get up and down their arms, at the shocking plot twist in a movie. It's been getting stronger and stronger as the month progresses. I think maybe I've finally figured it out. I'm moving again. Moving to a new state, a foreign land, for all I know. An instance of going to a place I haven't lived yet. But those occurrences, for the most part, are becoming alarmingly rare.
Most people don't understand. Why do me and my kind keep doing it? What drives us on? Honestly, I have no idea. It's not something I can explain in words. It's even hard for me to comprehend. But I simply can't stop. You could say the spirit is moving, or perhaps you'd simply say it's a wisp of the wind. I'd like to think it's the former, but regardless, I'll just keep going, searching, grasping for something higher, true to my own nature...
-----------------------------------
Two weeks ago, I had the distinct privilege of participating in an arts conference, sponsored by the Image Journal, down in Santa Fe, NM. It was a welcome break from the hectic and frustrating duties of daily life. My family had finally bought a house, and because of the short distance between houses, and the lack of time to line up movers, I was called up to help move the many earthly possessions of my family from one house to another. We had barely dragged the last box into the garage before we took off to Santa Fe. Just me and my Mom on a last adventure before I leave for Seattle, and college.
It was a wonderful time of reflection and rest, to simply take a step back and reopen the door to my mind and soul. One of the greatest joys throughout the week was participating in a small group of twenty people, helmed by Karin Berquist and Linford Detweiler, from Over The Rhine. Tenderly they lead us into the deep waters of music and lyricism that most of us had not ventured to find. For me especially, I knew the feeling of fear well. Outside the borders, there be monsters a' wating. But we were safe as the steady hands of Karin and Linford steered us toward land again. A beautiful time it was, for sure. It flew by so quickly, though the ideas did sink deep into my thought-process. I met so many people who I immediately understood on a level deeper than idle conversation. Many of these people will be burned in my memory for time to come, even if I never have the chance to meet them again. People from all over the United States, all over the world, who were all vastly different, and yet, of one accord.
All the meetings and discussions, thoughts and ideals, started to come to a point. I couldn't put my finger on it, but even as I was driving away into the wild expanse of New Mexico, I know something of great meaning was established for me in that short time. The drive was a good time for me to be lost in the music of Over the Rhine's Ohio. And as I listened to the tales of love and heartache, war and peace, memories and deep planted roots, something began to build in my mind. A kind of heartache myself. As if I were yearning for that which these people I admire so much had, and continue to build upon. I felt sorrow for that which was not part of my history.
I have always known that me and my type are, to an extent, nomads. Strangers in a strange land. We never sit down long enough to know we are sitting, because soon enough, the wind picks up, and we catch a scent and leave again. I have told myself time and again that I was never meant to live a life of security and steadiness, that instead my life is told by a greater tale, more fabulous and grand than most will ever dream of. But still, lying on my bed, feeling the damp summer air around me, I can feel a small breeze whiz along my face, and I feel that longing lump up clumsily along the wall of my throat. Chasing the wind, it's all I do, or have ever done. Floating along helplessly toward some unknown place. And yet, even in my vague angst, I hear the faintest mumbling of a still, small voice, like a paradox to my frustration and dobut, and yet again, I have no choice but to follow.
I know, even in my stubborn worldliness, that this longing in my heart isn't really to live in my own retreat, or any physical location. That would simply be my misguided focus on what I know to be something far larger and more consequential. My real longing is for home, and I see, as in a mirror dimly, a blurry image of my Father, his beautiful son, and the spirit that has been with me all along, pushing me, sometimes pulling me against my will, toward true home, and true community and love.
-----------------------------------------
Of all men, I am most deeply blessed. And among the masses, I bear a difficult thorn in the flesh. This pain in my side is a constant reminder of what others have here, and of what I will have to wait for, perhaps for a long time. It's the waiting that's the hardest. But the intrigue, the pull in my heart makes it a little more bearable. Perhaps somewhere in Ohio, someone's story really is ending. But mine, mine is still in the ground, slowly pushing it's way through the dirt, knowing that somewhere there will be sunshine. I'm pushing up toward the light. My story isn't over. It only has a little way yet to go before it breaks through the soil into blinding daylight. My story is soon to begin.
posted by Eucharisto at 10:40 PM
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