In a metal shell above the ground there lived a spirit. This
spirit, a wandering, adventuring spirit, had been trapped on the ground for far
too long. She loved to walk through the fields and flowers of the ground folk.
Everyone knows, however, the spirit realm is found not on the earth or in the
heavens but in the in-between space. This spirit had received a directive from
the heavens to linger amongst the ground folk, to learn of and from their ways
and to give guidance from her own knowledge and experience.
As the days grew shorter and a biting chill stole into the
wind, the spirit had to retreat to her shell in the spirit realm, to find a
place of love and healing and restoration. Her journey was a long one, but
collapsing into the arms of her loved ones made the journey’s trials worth the
while.
But her journey led her to a different sort of home than she
was used to. She was faced with a culture that had never made itself known in
her realm before. She was delighted to explore and experience. New sights. New
sensations. New smells. New friends. Her nights were filled with flavors she
had desperately missed during her time on the ground. Her afternoons descended
into a restful state just after the noon hour struck as she curled up with a kitten
in the sun.
The heart of a spirit, like that of an artist, finds
inspiration in the simplest corners of the world. The kitten’s name was
Shahrazad, like the great queen of Arabian legend. The origin of her name is
the phrase “One whose dominion is free”. Like all spirits who wander the
earth’s realms, this spirit longed to be free. Free from the corruption of love
and dreams in human society. Her heart was that of a bird, struggling in vain
with her mind and conscience.
The spirit came to understand that freedom is selfish. To
free yourself from obligation and responsibility is to willfully abandon the
ties of friendship, kinship and respect that link all the peoples of heaven and
earth. Perhaps this is easier on the heart but in this vacuum, no fire will
ever burn. No hatred. No discontent. No fear. No grief. On the other hand,
there exists no potential for love, grace, compassion, joy and desire that
burns a hole through your heart. To exist permanently in the spirit realm is to
dwell in complete comfort and utter boredom…
In my humble opinion, the comfort zone is a construct. Walls
we build around our lives. In Nairobi, Saudi Arabia, Wolfville, Moncton… It is
a state of mind, not a physical entity. To my father, who grew up on meat and
potatoes, trying Indian food was scary. To me, carrying on a conversation with
a cashier strikes irrational fear into my heart. My comfort zone is my spirit
realm. My cliff on Prince Edward Island, dancing, singing, praying. Cuddling
with Pippin and Gandalf. Watching While You Were Sleeping with my parents for
the umpteenth time. These moments center my heart, but that is not the real
life, it’s just fantasy.
Real life is like the movies my mom doesn’t like to watch,
basically any movie where Sandra Bullock doesn’t get the guy. Let’s take a
recent favorite of mine, The Perks of Being a Wallflower. At the center of the
story is the impact of human brokenness on children’s lives but within the
artistry of the film, it is part celebration and part cringe-inducing. To me, this
is human relations at their most authentic level. I hate the term “baggage”,
probably because air travel stresses me out for about five million reasons. But
to me, this word unceremoniously discredits human experience. I do not,
however, believe that experience is a crutch, an excuse or a reason for
throwing endless pity parties and NOT to be used as manipulation. Still, it is
the colloquial elephant in the room that makes us fall hard on our butts. But,
I still hate the term, “baggage”. Life is messy, not packed into appropriately
sized containers. At sudden impact, it implodes. And, unlike physical luggage,
it is glorious, triumphant and vicious in its explosion of color and emotion.
I am grateful that we are not infinite earthly beings. I am
becoming more and more thankful for seasons of life and their eventual
conclusion. Adolescence is exhausting enough once through. My Restoration Lit
prof told us to avoid words like “Whilst” as we’d then have to write all our
work in British English. I didn’t approve of this infringement on my creativity
but as they say, “When in Academia, do as the academics do”.
These days are all about the ground, my roots, finding them
strong or rotten. I’m gradually giving up my desire for perpetual flight. I
miss Lamu weekends and Kibera attitude checks. But maybe a spirit’s character
is not decided in soaring. It comes down to the plodding days of November. I’m
not quite ready to return to this plod, but I’m starting to see its infinite
value.
“It is wrong to face this world with one’s eyes closed, no
matter how deep the weariness” – Chaim Potok, Davita’s Harp
