Last night I sat outside on the deck in one of the rockers and looked up at the sky. It was that color between deep, deep blue and almost black; that color that can only be labeled as ‘night sky.’ It was a windy night; the sort of wind that smells of far-off places and adventure and wanderlust, a beckoning sort of wind that would come at me with gentle teases and then gusts so hard it whipped my hair around my face. The longer I sat out, the more stars came into view as the wind blew cloud cover away and revealed those tiny pinpricks of heavenly light shining through the almost-black.
Someone opened the door to the deck and let the dog out and we sat there, her and me, looking up at the expanse of the heavens and listening to the wind and smelling the fernweh that came with it. Our house is situated on a hill, and behind it is a ‘prettyish little wilderness’ (excuse the DeBurgh moment) that is even prettier at night. Really it’s just a few acres of red Georgia mud, puddles, and weedy grasses that stretches into bare-branched trees, but really it’s beautiful. The starlight reflected off the puddles and highlighted the trees, and the darkness made it easy to see lights from not-so-distant houses hidden by trees and little hills, and in the distance I can see a red flashing light by the airport. I can see the flashing spotlight from the car place that shines like an extraterrestrial beacon (or the spotlight from Mighty Joe Young) and when I look back up at the sky I can see airplanes, flashing, colored lights trying to mimic the splendor of the stars they soar through. I wonder where they’re going? Probably nowhere exotic; not from an airport in a little town of no consequence. Where are they coming from? Who sits in them, eagerly awaiting their landing or perhaps filled with excitement at taking off for their destination.
I’ll tell you two things I am not.
I am not
• an adventurer
• a homebody
I’m both. I’m neither. I’m somewhere in between. I get a sort of longing when I look up and see airplanes passing overhead, a longing to go somewhere far away and do great things and have adventures and take lots of pictures and sketch and live the kind of life I read about.
And I curl up on my bed with a book (or two or ten) and scattered notebooks and pens and pencils with music filling my ears as wind threatens to break through the cracks of my room and blow everything away, and a warm cup of tea fills my fingers and I love where I am, here and now, with my family and my house.
I’m content; and isn’t that important? Paul thought so, when he said “I have learned wherever I am, there to be content.” And I am. Sometimes I find msyelf like Belle, wanting to have adventures and do great things. Or sometimes, in bad moods, I’m more like Ariel, feeling discontent with my place and wanting the greener grass.
Who doesn’t? But that’s not where God planted me. He put where I am in the body I have with blond hair that’s turning into a sort of dirty brown, with eyes that aren’t blue and aren’t green, with a wonderful, imperfect family consisting of my mom and dad and brother and three sisters, with the friends I have even if they all live thousands of miles away.
Life is good and I’m happy and I have a million things to look forward to and anticipate; new friends and feelings and loves and sights and a deeper understanding of God (which is easy to see when you’re sitting outside at night looking up at the stars).
I’m off to go read my letters from Hannah and Stephen and Katie and my new copy if ‘Finding Angel’ by Diane G.