The past three years have been marked by movement and constantly trying to do and be better and only stopping to rest for a hot second before hitting the road running again. There’s always another pset to do, another project to get involved in, another show to audition for, another place you’re needed.
There’s always the whole future wrestling for your undivided affection; answer the questions now so that when the time comes to actually ask them, you can be totally prepared to answer a whole new set of questions for later.
Questions beg answers, and answers beget more questions as the wheels keep spinning, the gears keep turning, and I keep moving forward. The ground hums beneath me with each new thought, and I feel its melody rumbling in my teeth—a reminder that I am moving and alive. These are the rhythms of my life.
Ironically enough, though, I find my heartbeat where the humming stops, when I can feel each and everyone of my bones, feel the person that inhabits my body. I find it in when I feel the blood flowing through my fingertips to the tips of my ears not because my heart is racing, but because I carve out the time and space to take inventory of the nooks and crannies in my life and let myself remember what breathing feels like. In these moments, I am home.
Just for a moment, as the tension in my shoulders fiddles its fingers to untie those knots, the verbs in my cover letters don’t matter, and I’m not meticulously measuring out my ratio of vegetables to grains to protein. The mess of contradictions that fill my small frame find their spot in all my complexities and simplicities, landing simply where they are, demanding no color coded binders or alphabetized lists. They are, and I am.