sometimes I am still hit with the urge to run away from it all, as a renunciant. but i believe my path is to transcend without escapism. 

but, still yet, does a wanderlust stir, a coalescence of light that is a call to life. it is when one has a taste of the fountain, when a mere drop hits the tongue, and the desire is to not just sip, but to bathe in those holy waters. 

and then one wonders: do i confine myself by denying the impulse? or am i serving myself? can the impulse be transmuted? what am i being called to do? i want to be free — and, sometimes, in meditation, i taste the highest freedom. it is pure light, it is pure love, it is something richer than rich and beyond me. it is love. it is luminous, it is grace. it is ecstasy, it is unity. and, in these moments, i know i could be happy without anything that is before me. i know i could be happy alone in the wild. i know i could be happy alone in a grove, alone by a waterfall, alone adventuring into the great unknown. 

but maybe they call it wanderlust for a reason — perhaps the slow burn is best, rather than giving into one’s passions in the moment, releasing it as spendings in the now instead of letting the ecstasy, wonder, and mystery build over time. perhaps i am being called to conservatism, to tradition, to patient courting in this wonderful love story between myself and The Mystery, whatever she may be. perhaps i might first sit in admiration without immediately lunging to possess that coveted celestial flower. perhaps i might let it choose me, perhaps she prefers not grand displays of my affections but potent subtleties. perhaps she’d prefer the flame to not be a torch wielded recklessly, an unwitting arsonist made of me, but would instead prefer a candle-flame, perhaps on an altar. perhaps my devotional flame might on occasion be a bonfire under a full Moon, perhaps my devotional flame might be the hearth of a loving home. 

but still, do i have the urge to run. still, do i have the urge towards absolute freedom. a life of no material worry, a life focused on the riches of the spirit, the heart, the mind, rather than the prison sentence of a mortgage. perhaps my spirit will become as heavy as the literal cumulative weight of all of my material possessions. perhaps to have is to be had. 

and yet, i’ve seen the fruits of this path. i’ve seen the barren earth it creates. i’ve learned that, often, those who run are those who are afraid. i’ve learned that life is work. to create something of purpose and meaning on this Earth is to toil. why run away? did your spirit come here for paradise now? what if paradise is reaped after the work? would you really run into a masturbatory paradise, your own mental creation, your own idyll, far far away, while the rest of the world suffers? why not go and live and love and try to help somehow? 

this is what i learned. this is what i learned long ago when i ran away from home into a place in the woods that was a hall of mirrors, each soul i met a jarring reflection of how lost and confused i was. so quickly did i realize that i was lost and confused by choice, that i did not have to be. so quickly did i run back home, learning that all trails do indeed lead back to the center. still, yet, do i have to work this all out — a reminder of where the wanderlust is to be channeled, through sacred sublimation of the impulse rather than to be taken by greed of the spirit, to have paradise now, squandered. it shall be built sustainably over time, for not just myself to enjoy its fruit, but for others, as well.

again i say: 

sometimes I am still hit with the urge to run away from it all, as a renunciant. but i believe my path is to transcend without escapism. perhaps i can touch heaven even with my feet planted firmly on the ground