Restless

I tried to stay at my site. It was slightly less than warm. Half of the flowers behind the arbor were blooming purple, half still little green shots. I sat huddled on the bench—the trees, the grass, the road, all felt worn. Maybe it was the influence of class, of the questions we’d begun to ponder—questions we had been pondering. Should I stay and know that shortly, I would lose focus and turn within? Or should I give into the urge to move, to wander?

I forced myself to stay a few moments more. I found an earthworm, heard a woodpecker, waved at friends. And then I stood, bounded down the stone steps, across the brown green yellow grass, and out into the world.

It was intoxicating, freeing. Simple forward motion. I went for a walk, one that wasn’t very linear. I looped through the same spot twice, took the long way—there wasn’t really a long way though because I had no destination.  Meandering. The act of walking, of exploring, of running my hand along stone walls or watching the trees overhead summoned a rare spot of peace. Peace in motion.

I don’t know if I can quite describe it, but I know I’ve felt it. Anxiety in being stationary, in watching the world move around me and having to sit on my hands and just watch it. Of being disconnected, even though I want to focus more than anything, but there’s a churning, clenching in my gut that tells me that I need to move and do, because a moment longer of passivity might tear me open from the inside. And it takes every ounce of energy to stifle that, to behave and not speak out, to not just get up and leave my site, a class, a home.

And maybe some days it’s pointless to stifle it, and I should just be more comfortable standing and speaking out and leaving.