But I Want to Go
Be still, oh restless heart
Though I know you are a wild creature
White knuckled grip on the ribs which cage you
Be still, oh restless heart.
Be still, oh frantic mind
Though I see how you wade in the pool of Tomorrow
Hold fast lest you slip and disappear from Today
Be still, oh frantic mind.
Be still, oh vagabond soul
Though I feel how you quiver with envy for the wind
The word “next” is honey on your tongue
Be still, oh vagabond soul
Heed the sun - heart, mind, soul
It moves not
Yet darkness cannot stay
It wanders not
Yet the heavens it orchestrates
You need not move to move
Shake to shake.
Change is a colour which compliments me well, and I like to wear it often.
I feel comfortable in the uncomfortable. Movement, fresh starts, and first impressions energize and propel my spirit out of the godawful wasteland of routine.
Over the past two years I have worked three different jobs and lived in five different places, had ten different housemates and applied for university three times. Now, after working the same job full-time for the past three months, I am itching for my next endeavor.
Although I am dynamic and possibly even interesting, I am not brave.
The bravest man I know is my father. My father has worked the same job for thirty years. He helped his father build our house when he was eighteen, and lives there still. He knows every crest and cavern of the fifty acres on which are house sits, for he has nurtured and sustained the land with his own hands. Ever the handyman, he has restored and renovated our home in order to please his wife, and though the floors and the colours of the walls have changed he remains as a steadfast fixture.
I say he is the bravest man I know because he has done what I have not been able to do for the past two and a half years: he has braved boredom. He has braved mundanity and routine and the same old. For the sake of his family he arises at the same time each morning. He does the barn chores and then takes the lunch which his wife has made him, kisses her, and leaves to a job he knows well. And he’ll do it again tomorrow.
Most of my father’s friends have known him for a large portion of his life. Both his history and his current troubles are known to them. They know he loves a good debate and has gentle eyes and likes to eat his dinner at exactly six o’clock. My father is known by the people in his life because he has been there, he has remained.
When was the last time I remained? As soon as a situation becomes too familiar, or my friends begin to understand me too well I bolt.
Terrifying is the journey into the depths of man, the beasts come out at midnight.
Am I the only one who has experienced the overwhelming fear of unfulfilled potential? The “be the best you that you can be” mantra provokes not inspiration but anxiety; it thunders in my mind as I scurry over the surfaces of vague possibilities.
What if I can better fulfill my potential somewhere else?
What if I am neglecting my calling by being here?
Look at her, all that she has already seen and done!
Look at him, all that he has become and is bound to do!
It is fear which agitates my fickle and restless heart; comparison which drives it to madness.
And so I pray that one day I can be as brave as my father. People think that the bravery is packing up and leaving everything behind, but they’re wrong. Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is stay exactly where you are.