What Next?

“What next?” my restless soul moans.  Not in a “what will be dumped on me next” way, but in a “What is my next chapter going to be?” way.  At a major crossroads where some decisions may or may not be mine to make.  Wanting so not to be anxious or afraid but open to the adventure.  The world is full of possibilities.  All over the range, though, after some of the living situations I’ve seen in the world, I am well aware that my range does not likely go as low as the Kibera slum in Kenya, nor as high as the gold laden lattes at the Emirates Palace. 

Kibera Slums
Nairobi, Kenya

24k Gold Floating on Latte
Emirates Palace Hotel, Abu Dhabi

Having been the sole supporter of my soul and physical needs for, well, for a long time, part of me is very tired.  Weary of having to be the one to worry about the next chapter.  I wake up with a start from dreams of falling out of planes, of waking up in unknown alleys, of being so far underwater my lungs are bursting.  And yet if I wrote you my life it would contain chapters of adventure and life sustaining connections and being provided with more than I could ever imagine.  Even in the darkest chapters there have always been souls to enter along side with me and walk me through to the light.  When threat of losing it all (and I don’t just mean my house and income and dear friends and mother…I also mean my mind and my will to live) was at my doorstep, the largest presence both of and not of this earth held me in His hands and here I am.

Finding so much joy in a sexily posed naked chicken that it makes me want to quit it all and go arrange food in erotic positions just to get enough money to squeek by.  Wanting to hire one of my most admired photographers to teach me how to capture the things that nobody else sees.  Dreaming of finding a way to swap my cottage/house in the northwest with a footloose soul in Vicenza so that I can just live fully and deeply for a year in that mental zone where everything is fresh and nothing is for granted.  Dreaming of roaming the States in a travel trailer gathering stories for fodder. 

Vicenza, Italy

And then I land back in me.  The me who obsesses over Facebook chatter, caring sometimes more about how a post will be perceived than what I wanted to say.  The me who is so easily hurt by things not meant to hurt at all but still feed on my leftover teenage awkwardness, embarrassment and feelings of inadequacy.  Gnawed at by questions around whether people are just nice to me because they actually like me or because they pity me.  Then I remember, I am still in His hands.  The one who planted the seed of curiosity and quirkiness that makes me fantasize about posing naked chickens.  The One who placed for me to discover a potato shaped like a bird.  I’m tentatively raising my hand “Hey God.  What next?  I’m ready. I think.”

Ramblings courtesy of encouragement from: