Last July was a time in my life when I woke up early on the weekend, ready to hop out of bed and do chores and accomplish things. Have a clean apartment and be exciting. I had lots of activities and visitors and visits to make.
I’m not so interested in that this July. Over the Fourth, I listened to a podcast while I did dishes and ate some broccoli with macaroni and cheese from my freezer. I talked to my mom on the phone while I bought sugar and made a cake quietly. Not dressed in anything nice, not rushing. Only vague plans. I went to a barbecue with the cake I made for a little while and wasn’t too worried about it. I watched the fireworks with a girl I’ve known for 24 years. We talked a little but not too much.
I want to let the excitement happen around me. I want to be open to the world but not grasping for it. This is how I feel now, and it makes me a little sad sometimes. I’ve been learning to not be reliant on activity, learning to be quiet in my body, slowing down. Trying to lean into something other than the world.
My mom said she thinks I’ll know what’s next when the right opportunity presents itself. I haven’t been so sure about that, but I think she is right. I think I will know. Sometimes I think part of me already knows and is just waiting for the right time to tell the rest of me. Or that the Holy Spirit is lingering in my peripheral vision, waiting to slide a piece of paper in front of me with some more information.
Lately, I have been admitting to people that I believe in ghosts, and most people have agreed: they, too, believe in ghosts, believe in the possibility of our peripheral vision, of the potential for our senses to know more than we understand. Like walking through DC in August — swimming through the invisible sea of humidity, something you can sense and almost see. Something just out of reach of full knowledge.
But grasping for a ghost doesn’t make it appear. There is only the not-grasping: the waiting, the watching, the wondering before knowing.
[more real at bis]