Started a book today called The Magicians by Lev Grossman and this passage spoke to me:
“You probably feel sorry for me, he went on airily. He wore a dressing gown over his regular clothes, which gave him a shabby princely look. “You shouldn’t you know. I’m very happy here. Some people need their families to become who they are supposed to be. And there is nothing wrong with that. But there are other ways of doing it.”
Early on I learned that you sometimes need to move far away from what you know, to see what lies within the wake of what you want to be; or, at least, learn to not trust yourself to the same certain familiarities presented to you. You have to force yourself to stop looking straight ahead, stop taking in all the bullshit presented to you, and really listen to the images whispering from the sidelines. Because, from these peripheral voices, although they are ethereal and chaotic, the substance from which they are created is not absorbent to your fears; it merely repels them. And it is only when you learn to trust which you cannot see, that exists in direct opposition to what society defines as real, is when you have made the first step into a journey established to be your fate. It will synchronize your life into the mystery that was destined for you—and only you.
As a child I found this peripheral truth much like children from Narnia found the wardrobe, like Harry Potter found the passage to Hogwarts, like Frodo found the fellowship, like Siddartha found his way to being Buddha. All are the same story of redemption, of finding the breadcrumbs on the path, of absorbing great pain and failure for the sake of knowing the one truth given to all creatures that walk this earth. These heroes presented their stories, lifted the edges of the storybook curtain, of the the peep show door, allowing us to see that there are enormous promises given to us, found in more places, if only we resist the temptation of strictly believing in what appears to lie ahead.
I clearly admit that I am no savior. I am not the star of any pop-time TV show, nor am I a magician, or have enormous amount of physical stamina to climb life’s Mount Doom; but, I am a really good spectator. And, if anything, I can rest in the lonely ability to unpack the suitcases of stories I observe all around me. Because, we all desperately overpack for every journey we take, and I, like a weary traveler after a long journey complete with many layovers and re-connections, watch the luggage turnstile before me, spinning its truth, weighing itself down with every last indulgence, and sadness, and sparsity of happiness we all lay upon it. I search for the right bag to grab, take hold of it and just run; sprint away from it, like every tenet of my life is dependent on the contraband it contains. We all need to grab ahold of what is rightfully ours, the containers without the name tags, or fancified bandanas identifying the bag to its rightful owner. We all need these grab-and-runs, so we can leave something more behind; more than just a bag of bones, without a voice, without a soul to complete the journey.