Someday, I would like to...
Someday, I would like to be able to ask all the passionate poets, the gifted writers, all those wonderful creative artists who draw inspiration out of thin air, what it is that drives them, what it is that pushes them to create, to give birth to life in words, in pictures, in sculpture, in music, in all those majestic, magical, enchanting, puzzling, works that my brain strives to comprehend.
All these things move me with their mystic beauty. How is it possible that one note so rightly played can bring tears to the back of my eyelids, how is it that one word written or said at just that moment is capable of capturing my loyalty forever, and things like photographs and works of art, all these spontaneous expressions of the soul, they move me so much...
What moves you? I want to ask. Where do you find your muse? or are you like me, constantly seeking, constantly struggling, always there in the midst of the stride, observing the conflict, soaking it up...
I sometimes wonder if I was born this way, with questions inside my mind that needed to be answered.
My mother says that I was a curious child. Of course, when one grows up, such questions as why are you so tall or why is your nose so long, or why are you white and why am I brown, lose their charm and become merely irritating. I graduated to asking whether people were married and how many children they had. I later found out that some people find such questions an invasion of privacy...and so, I searched for other questions to ask. But inside my head, I'm always asking, why? why is it not possible? How could such things be? Where is the root of joy, sorrow, pain, misery? Is God real, does he still see me? Does he care and if he does care, why don't I feel that he cares? And is this what you really want me to do? Is it? or am I really meant to be here or am I meant to be somewhere else? Is this the real me? Is there all there is to this world? and what's beyond the invisible, what's beyond the curtain of now?
So, maybe I was born with nosiness and an unquenchable curiousity to discover more about the inner nature of things.
I have discovered though, that the person who does not ask, never gets answers. That if I do not have the boldness to say, I don't know and please teach me, no one will teach me. I shed the arrogance of adulthood and show myself as I am.
See, I say, I am vulnerable. You can accept me or reject me. Please tell me what I want to know because I do not know, I am an open book ready to be written upon, I am a sponge, ready to soak up all knowledge.
I've stopped merely surviving. I've made the choice to live life, to discover the world everytime, all over and anew. Perhaps that's why I love the fantastic, the mythic, the scientific, that which strives to break the borders of what is, because it is like seeing a break in the curtain of now...and discovering that we still hold within ourselves reflections of the divine.
All these things move me with their mystic beauty. How is it possible that one note so rightly played can bring tears to the back of my eyelids, how is it that one word written or said at just that moment is capable of capturing my loyalty forever, and things like photographs and works of art, all these spontaneous expressions of the soul, they move me so much...
What moves you? I want to ask. Where do you find your muse? or are you like me, constantly seeking, constantly struggling, always there in the midst of the stride, observing the conflict, soaking it up...
I sometimes wonder if I was born this way, with questions inside my mind that needed to be answered.
My mother says that I was a curious child. Of course, when one grows up, such questions as why are you so tall or why is your nose so long, or why are you white and why am I brown, lose their charm and become merely irritating. I graduated to asking whether people were married and how many children they had. I later found out that some people find such questions an invasion of privacy...and so, I searched for other questions to ask. But inside my head, I'm always asking, why? why is it not possible? How could such things be? Where is the root of joy, sorrow, pain, misery? Is God real, does he still see me? Does he care and if he does care, why don't I feel that he cares? And is this what you really want me to do? Is it? or am I really meant to be here or am I meant to be somewhere else? Is this the real me? Is there all there is to this world? and what's beyond the invisible, what's beyond the curtain of now?
So, maybe I was born with nosiness and an unquenchable curiousity to discover more about the inner nature of things.
I have discovered though, that the person who does not ask, never gets answers. That if I do not have the boldness to say, I don't know and please teach me, no one will teach me. I shed the arrogance of adulthood and show myself as I am.
See, I say, I am vulnerable. You can accept me or reject me. Please tell me what I want to know because I do not know, I am an open book ready to be written upon, I am a sponge, ready to soak up all knowledge.
I've stopped merely surviving. I've made the choice to live life, to discover the world everytime, all over and anew. Perhaps that's why I love the fantastic, the mythic, the scientific, that which strives to break the borders of what is, because it is like seeing a break in the curtain of now...and discovering that we still hold within ourselves reflections of the divine.
posted by rcloenen-ruiz at 4:24 PM
1 Comments:
Your post is very moving, Rochita, in your yearning for community and for answers.
You wrote: "So, maybe I was born with nosiness and an unquenchable curiousity to discover more about the inner nature of things. "
I'm nosey too, born of trying to survive all the questions pressed upon me by my parents on how to negotiate the US culture even as I was trying to learn it. I don't think they realized that my understanding of US culture was filtered through their experiences, and that I couldn't do more than parrot back what I think they already knew.
I am nosey and I am curious, but I am also somewhat afraid to ask questions, afraid of the power of questioning, but also drawn to it like a moth to flame. There is responsibility laden in questioning as well as answering.
But still it's important to ask...and to answer...What drives me to write? I write to finally have voice, to finally have space to speak what I know, even if it seems unclear or outside the experience of others. As many writer's have said I cannot /not/ write. To not write (and I have tried) is to deny myself.
I'm inspired by people, by their survival, by their hopes and dreams. I'm inspired by the interconnectedness of nature and the myths people make to somehow become part of that interconnectedness. And I'm inspired by people who ask the hard questions, like you, who push me to think and to share.
Thank you for your beautiful words.
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