Friday night’s sometimes best
Just jammied and comfy
On one’s own couch
In one’s own space.
Old songs – or maybe new ones –
Feeding the weird satisfying ache.
Free to remember
I can still hear Neil Young unplugged
Straining out van windows and over wild blueberry fields.
Light from a lantern glowing warm
Those summer nights in Maine
Not quite held at bay by a tent’s thin nylon.
Desperate to find satisfying knobs on which to hang my proverbial hat
– Definition for my chameleonesque existence –
I thought freedom was in that with which I associated myself.
Thought there were specific ways-by-which to be liberated.
That it was a matter of identification
…and successfully remaking myself thereby.
Come to find out that freedom is not bound or dependent
I can’t put my finger on it.
But it blessedly seems to have found me…
And surprises me in graciousness and mystery.
My only requirements now are to be and abide and rest:
Not function in order to.
It was magical – all that youth and “freedom.”
But here’s too.
This age and these (seeming) boundaries
And I’m no less free.
Constraints are (largely) self-imposed – no matter my station –
My freedom then was contrived, in a way.
(But no less remarkable.)
Living with wild abandon
Forbidden fruits turned ashen and bitter
My fences my discontent and
The unknowing of what I sought.
Left me so ravenous for life and meaning
That it (I?) got swallowed up in the pursuit.
Now that any contrived direction seems impossible
My stationary relishing
Feels more revolutionary
Than a more obvious freedom.
It’s all real
– The pursuit and the staying –
All feeding into one little
– but one remarkable –
May it be for all of us.