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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