I knew it'd happen somehow. I really did. An empty house, untamed grass. Soil allowing for deep roots often overtakes the overlooked, unlikely places.
There's this cliche: "be where your feet are." It's reasonably repeated; an easily pocketed reminder to be present and attentive. It's figurative, of course. Yet when I close my eyes I see the literal. I see myself on my front porch at dusk, surrounded by people I love, and I see twining vines shoot out from beneath my bare feet, cutting through the wooden planks and the foundation, pelting into the ground with great force, thousands of feet down until they wrap tight around earth's core.
These roots are most peculiar, though. Normally, planting implies confinement. However, I feel free to roam the city's entire expanse of skyline and green, its mingling of suburb and bustle.
I fear the time to uproot, for it will come rather soon. And now as I press on the subject, words won't come. Maybe because the thought of a temporary sever is too much for my mind to grasp. Maybe also because it goes against my self-made promise to live rather than wait. All I can see is a tear-stained drive, muffled sobs drowned out by Tennessee Quick and even the prospect of it's made my heart tense. So enough for now.
I came here, to Nashville, hoping for more passion, for more boldness, for answers to my suitcase full of questions. My fists are clenched less than they were before. One, I realize, is empty. Another fills slowly (this one's for boldness). Elusive stuff, it used to be. Now I think it's more a sticky syrup, not easily shaken. Aside from what's held within them, my hands are calloused and stained- a byproduct of hard work. Pulling espresso shots and drafting emails may not sound like much. Barely dents in the earth, but dents just the same. My hands are making a difference and that's all they ever wanted to do.
As for the questions, they're clingy, still unanswered mostly. What I do know is this:
God is orchestrating his grand idea of Good. One hard year is not the end. When faced with the sting of moving forward or the ache of standing still, one must always, always choose forward.