If They Cannot Find It
Last week, my tiny French Bulldog, Sofia Tallulah, killed a
lizard. It was raining, so instead of taking all the pups out the front door
for their morning walk, I led them in a confused frenzy to the back patio.
The backyard provides a good deal more coverage, and my dogs would rather hold
their pee in agony than get rained on. I thought I was doing the right thing.
But a small, velvety black lizard, who was surely seeking dry land as
well, quickly found himself cornered by my goofy little beast. Between the
rain, three overly excited canines, and the fog of my morning drowsiness, I
couldn't pull her harness in time. She captured the poor creature, and before
she even realized what happened, bit him into two parts. I yelled at her and
blamed myself for the reptilian tragedy.
The Goofy Little Beast |
This wasn't Sofie's first encounter with a dismembered
lizard; she chases them all the time. When we first got her, we found this
behavior so bizarre, and we tried everything to get her to stop. We did a
lot of research and found out that Frenchies were originally bred to
keep mice and other scurrying pests out of the Parisian lace factories. For
hundreds years, these big-eared pups have been taught to chase unwelcome
visitors out of their spaces. To Sofie, she was just doing something all her
furry ancestors had done before her. Darting after rodents is in her
nature, and no matter what we do, we'll probably never get her to stop.
Later that day, after coffee and a proper lizard burial, I
began thinking about our nature, human nature. Do any of us ever change? Sure,
we change our behaviors to adapt to situations differently, but do we
ever actually change what makes us, us? My entire life I've wanted to
believe that we could, but in the last six months, I've started to realize that,
perhaps, we can't. The person I am today is a better person than I was ten
years ago, but my dreams, my desires, my loves, my annoyances, they are all
essentially the same.
I have come to a better understanding of myself, and my
nature, through my friends. I have a close group of friends who are the world
to me, and any time there are concerns (and if you've read my other blogs, you
know these past few months have been fueled with concerns), we talk. We talk a lot. We work
through every detail of the situation. As I've reflected on the
conversations and decisions we've discussed, I've realized that they knew and
accepted my nature long before I did. Within a two-day period, four different
friends said almost the exact same thing to me. What caused this to hit me so
hard was that they were talking about not only my present, but also
my past and what is quickly becoming my future. Through their observations I
was better able to accept myself.
Just like we've tried to train Sofie not to chase
lizards, people have tried to train me. Some have been more successful than
others, and for the most part, I'm a functioning grown-up -- definite stress on
"for the most part." However, what I have come to realize is that I
will never be satisfied with being content. This is an incredibly
difficult thing for me to admit. I've spent years trying to
tell myself that being content was as close to Enlightenment as
any of us could ever hope to be in this realm. Years of meditation and practice had me believing that happiness could only
be found on the subtle breaths of tranquility.
But I had it all wrong. Maybe there are different types of Enlightenment.
For
some people being content is exactly what they need. For better or worse,
though, I need more. I need passion. I need Kerouac's people who are
consumed with madness, "mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved,
desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a
commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles
exploding like spiders across the stars.” (Really, isn't that one of the most brilliant lines in all of literature?)
I don't want it to sound like I am never happy;
it's quite the opposite, actually. In almost every situation and with
almost every person, I can see the fire burning and I thrive on it. But what
has become so vivid over these past few months is that I must also always have
that fire in me. I've never wanted normal; my imagination is far too powerful, or maybe too restless, to accept it.
A few months back I blogged about making a decision
using logic rather than simply following my instincts. It was the first
major decision I'd made where my head and my heart were in
disagreement. While I am proud of the logical decision I made, it has,
ironically enough, led me right back in the direction of where my instincts already knew I
should be. This will all come out in time, but what I've learned is that just
like Sofie's DNA tells her to chase lizards, mine tells me to chase
dreams. And from now on, that's exactly what I'll do.
Charlotte Brontë
From Jane Eyre
I could not help it; the restlessness was in my nature; it
agitated me to pain sometimes. Then my sole relief was to walk along the
corridor of the third story, backwards and forwards, safe in the silence and
solitude of the spot, and allow my mind’s eye to dwell on whatever bright
visions rose before it—and, certainly, they were many and glowing; to let my
heart be heaved by the exultant movement . . . and, best of all, to open my
inward ear to a tale that was never ended—a tale my imagination created, and
narrated continuously; quickened with all of incident, life, fire, feeling,
that I desired and had not in my actual existence. It is in vain to say human
beings ought to be satisfied with tranquility: they must have action; and they
will make it if they cannot find it.
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