Stomping though Healing Waters in Hand-Me-Down Rainboots

1 Mar

For my faithful followers that have been wondering if I dropped off the map, I offer you now my most sincere apologies. I started writing a few times this month, I promise I did. There were some great public transportation stories (I now have a solid friendship with my bus driver Tim), some inspirational car time with Karen, and an afternoon where the Pitt Pals and I cleaned out a wedding store for 2 hours, taking home a life size cutout of James Dean. There were most certainly some tales to tell. But each time I started to write, I felt like I was missing something, like my thoughts were incomplete. My heart just wasn’t in it—and I’ve never been one to do things half-heartedly.

The first half of the month was a bit of a drought. It was long, it was dark, and it was frozen, right down to the pipes in our bathroom. I was happy, but I was stagnant. I got into this routine where I went to service, came home, had dinner, sat around and went to bed. I thrive on movement, but where there is nothing or no one to make us move the motivation to do so is a bit hard to come by. And I was stuck.

But then I went back to Chicago for three days, and my life transformed from a drought to a flood. “Healing waters,” as Maddie would say. Or something like that.

My trip to Chi was the windy whirlwind I knew it would be. I was attacked by the love of all my people, never slowing down and never resting my head in the same place twice. The exhilaration of good friends and the chaos of the city breathed life back into me, reminding me who I am and what I live for. I’m not stagnant, I don’t wait for life to happen. I reach out and grab it. Is that not what I pride myself on? Has not my mom always told me that I am full of fire and life and spit? So what was I thinking, getting so caught up in routine that I forgot to move? Woo, child. I needed the Wind of that City to slap me in the face, and I needed it bad.


 I carried to Chicago a purple backpack, some shoes that were most certainly not waterproof, and a heart ready to love and be loved by some of the people who helped form it. I left the city with that same purple backpack, adding a pair of sunglasses, some guy’s shirt (long story, don’t worry Mom), some awesome hand-me-down rain boots, and a mission. It was time to stop being stagnant, it was time for progress. So this week I am knees-deep in graduate school applications, studying, and plans for the future. And let me tell you, I’m exhausted. There’s nothing quite like going from 10 to 100 in just a week. But despite the internal anarchy and the occasional breakdown, I know that this is bigger than me, and that’s what makes it all okay.

Chicago was what I needed—I knew she wouldn’t disappoint. But while returning to her outstretched arms felt good, I couldn’t stay. She keeps some of the ones I hold dearest, but I am no longer limited to her grasp. Because what are boundaries for love, anyway? I left the Pitt Pals to go on my journey and I left my Chi friends to return, and my time with my parents was merely a tease. But I am certain, now more than ever, that love transcends time and space. And the heart, like God, knows no limits.



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