The beauty of the natural world awakens yearning within me. It ever compels me further up and further in. One more bend in the trail. Up one more ledge. One more mile. One more grove. Just one more minute to sit listening to the chatter of the water.
It calls me to linger, to fill my soul with its loveliness. No matter how long I rest in it, it urges me to go on. However long I stay, I want to stay longer.
When I see an open space, say a field or a plain, it draws me to it as if with a strong, magnetic pull. Everything inside me immediately wants to run, run, run into it.
I love to run. I always have. For as long as I can remember, open spaces have been calling me. I think most people feel this kind of draw from the Sea. Or perhaps for Space, when they look out at the night sky. But for me, nothing compares to running across the earth.
There's that moment right after I make up my mind to run but before I take the first step. I'm going to obey the Summons. I'm going to throw off the restraints.
A few steps, a spring, and then my feet are pounding. Faster--faster--still faster! The speed, the strain of my every muscle, my hair flying out around me or across my face. I'm not sure what I'm hunting, but it's *there*, somewhere, just beyond my eyesight, just beyond that ridge, or that hill behind it, or in those trees, or maybe even farther. But it wants me. And I want it. For a moment, just for a moment, I'm going to tear after it, hoping beyond hope that this time I catch a glimpse of it--whatever it is. For a few glorious moments, my body and my desire are one, and submitting feels so wonderful. Oh, if only it could be like this always! If I could run forever and never get tired. If only I could find what it is that I want, what wants *me* and compels me to chase it!
But I can't. No one can.
I have to slow to a stop, gasping for air, massaging a stitch in my ribs, and then the pleasurable flush that rushes over my face. It's never far enough, but it's just a bit closer. And that feels like a tiny victory.
I'm a sprinter, but I don't race. I don't run to win something. When I race with someone they always beat me. But when I run unexpectedly, people find it hard to keep up with me.
I run to become part of the world around me. It makes me feel that I am part of the beauty all around me. I can't say that running feels like home, because it's not. Running is not home. It feels like going home.
I run to be alone, to find privacy, to sort out my thoughts when they become confused.
I run when I just can't stand things any longer and fighting isn't an option.
I run because when I run, I can't feel the heartache as much.
When I truly run, no one can find me. Oh, I have to return to my duties and commitments. I must. No one can live without facing his responsibilities. So I do.
What I mean is that no one can find *me*, my soul, when it decides to hide. Everyone can engage me on a social level. I genuinely care for the people around me. I love them, and I am involved in their lives, and they in mine. Yet there are sheer, craggy mountains in my soul that few will venture to explore. There are shimmering lakes within me whose depths no one has seen. There are forests of thoughts, rivers of themes, knee-deep meadows of stories, mossy downs of dreams, walled gardens and orchards of secret joys. I can hide in these, and no one will find me.
No one can spoil this verdant wonderland. No greedy hands will pluck all the blossoms and leave them to wither and die. No one will gorge themselves on its fruits, and leave when the branches are stripped. No one will muddy the rivers, fell the trees, or steal the hidden treasures.
Yet I tend them in the hope that someday I can offer them to a man who will cultivate them with me. It will be his to enjoy and to explore forever, if he prove himself worthy. I guard them jealously in the hope that one day they may give rest to a weary soldier.
These strangers I see around me every day. They don't know me. They care nothing for me. They wouldn't even miss me if I was gone. Not talking about my friends or my family. I mean the folks I encounter everywhere else. They don't know how to relate to me. They don't even know how to talk to me.
I see it everywhere, that puzzled, incredulous expression. I see it in the cashier's face when I look into her eyes and ask her how her day is going. I see it in the scrawny male teenager's surprised smile when I smile and nod in passing. I see it in my coworkers' faces every day. The males stare at me blankly. The women have this strain in their smiles, this fear in their eyes as they look at me. I guess they're surprised because I can be happy for no seeming reason. I can be pleasant in the morning without having coffee first. Or maybe it's my baby face, or the way I dress. They see innocence, and they don't know how to react to it. They censure themselves every day when I'm in earshot. That I don't mind. What I do mind is their assumption that I need to be handled with kid gloves. They're nervous around me. When I engage them in conversations, their replies are stiff or formal. They're either afraid they'll hurt me, or they just feel uncomfortable, as if I'm a small child who says silly things. I'm actually not naive anymore. I used to be; who wasn't once? I know a few things about life by now. But I can't communicate this to them.
Some older women fawn over me like I'm a baby. Or they try to adopt me, like they'd adopt a stray. Most are genuine enough in their manner, but it gets annoying. I can't be friends with them. They're too busy telling me about their life.
Some older ladies take a different tack. They look at me dourly and won't meet my eyes. They say nothing, but I can practically hear their thoughts: "Oh, she's got a lot to learn about life. Everything's a bed of roses for her now, one day real life's gonna hit her, then what's she going to do?"
Older men are different. They smile at my enthusiasm. Some make me feel like a queen when they speak to me. Others will light up when I speak to them, as if they felt dead inside before, but suddenly they feel glad. Quite a few of the elderly gentlemen I've danced with on Friday nights have told me that I "make them feel young again." Which I want to appreciate, but sometimes I wonder...
When I meet young men, they smile a lot, but they don't have any words. Which is fine, I know what it's like to be tongue-tied at awkward moments; still happens to me just when I don't want it to. But they don't know how to interact with me, either. I speak with ease, I'm charming, I'm kind, I laugh when they try to be funny, all that. They aren't at ease. They don't know what to do with me.
No one knows what to do with me. Sometimes I get tired of it.
I get tired of this whole world's masquerade. I get tired of all the facades people build up. The one-upping, the petty squabbles, the complaining, the empty pleasures people lavish upon themselves to distract from the consuming loneliness inside them.
I get tired of people assuming that I'm stupid because I'm happy. Mistaking my kindness for weakness. Of their sour or uneasy expressions when I speak to them.
I understand them more than they know. Some of them, perhaps, better than they understand themselves. I see their selfishness, their bitterness, their pettiness. I see the world's complacency, its sadness, and its loneliness. It grieves me. I see how no one wants to fix their own flaws, but they want to fix everyone else. I see the world decaying in its moral filth. I see humans all around me who are little more than slaves to their own desires. I see women crying out for romance, yet throwing themselves at men who string them along with crumbs of attention. I see broken, spineless, clueless men who blunder about every day just trying to be like everyone else. They stand for nothing, so they allow themselves to be herded about by domineering minds.
No one knows how to love someone for their soul anymore. No one is even willing to invest in friendship anymore. Does the modern man have any inkling of the fairyland that is a woman's heart? Does he have any idea how marvelous she is, how wild, how lovely, how nurturing, how life-giving she is?
All men understand the power of a woman in pain. To them, she is a hurricane of destruction. They want her for her pleasures, for the fruit in her garden, for her rivers to satisfy their thirst. They want her for her shade, her security, and her exquisite passion. But they don't want to climb the slopes of her mountains. They don't wish to explore the forests. For some reason, they can't comprehend why they can't sneak their way into the garden, plunder its beauty, give nothing in return, and then leave without awakening her wrath.
All these overgrown boys in their late twenties and early thirties have only invested in their own lives and careers. Even if they sense that a Woman is what is missing in their lives, they don't even know where to start in pursuing her. If they find a good woman, she keeps them guessing. She invites them to pursue and yet does not make it easy. Her passions are powerful, her mind is lithe, and she scares them. She scares them out of their wits. They cannot control her or harness her or even make any sense of her. She does not fit into their little sphere of control and cool-minded lucidity.
So they run. They run to their games which they understand and can win. They run to their businesses, their careers, or wherever they feel in control.
They won't lead their own hearts and stand up for what is right. That is all it takes to lead a woman. If a man can shepherd his own heart, and if he has the spine and the guts to stand up for what's right, he is a man who can lead not only a woman, but other men, other women, children, churches, nations. A man who cannot enjoy fighting for his convictions cannot truly understand the adventure of pursuing a woman in all her mysteries.
This world is a horrible, depressing place. Everyone is so turned inward that we only grab, grab, grab, take, take, take---glut ourselves with everything we can! No one fights on anyone else's behalf.
I'm a woman, and it is my job to take care of myself. Yet sometimes I'd like it if a man were to take care of me. And I could take care of him. And so we would live.
I'd like it if a man would stand up for me every once in a while. To stand between me and the selfishness of others. Sometimes I'd like it if someone knew me well enough to know when I've had as much as I can take, and who would let me rest in their strength. Someone who wouldn't be afraid of my tears or my wounds. Someone who made it their job to protect me and to value me and fight for me when this world gets tough.
I've said it before, and I'll say it again. Where are the warriors? Can't you see this world needs you? Can't you see we need you? Why won't you fight for us? We know you'll fail sometimes. Everyone fails sometimes! Someone has to do something, and I'm already out here fighting as best I know how.
Where are you?
Can't you see me?
Can't you hear me?
I'm so tired.
Sometimes I have to run. I have to run away from all of this. Sometimes I get tired of fighting, or frustrated because I can't win. So I run into my soul.
Because when I run into my soul, no one will seek me there.
~Cadenza
It calls me to linger, to fill my soul with its loveliness. No matter how long I rest in it, it urges me to go on. However long I stay, I want to stay longer.
When I see an open space, say a field or a plain, it draws me to it as if with a strong, magnetic pull. Everything inside me immediately wants to run, run, run into it.
I love to run. I always have. For as long as I can remember, open spaces have been calling me. I think most people feel this kind of draw from the Sea. Or perhaps for Space, when they look out at the night sky. But for me, nothing compares to running across the earth.
There's that moment right after I make up my mind to run but before I take the first step. I'm going to obey the Summons. I'm going to throw off the restraints.
A few steps, a spring, and then my feet are pounding. Faster--faster--still faster! The speed, the strain of my every muscle, my hair flying out around me or across my face. I'm not sure what I'm hunting, but it's *there*, somewhere, just beyond my eyesight, just beyond that ridge, or that hill behind it, or in those trees, or maybe even farther. But it wants me. And I want it. For a moment, just for a moment, I'm going to tear after it, hoping beyond hope that this time I catch a glimpse of it--whatever it is. For a few glorious moments, my body and my desire are one, and submitting feels so wonderful. Oh, if only it could be like this always! If I could run forever and never get tired. If only I could find what it is that I want, what wants *me* and compels me to chase it!
But I can't. No one can.
I have to slow to a stop, gasping for air, massaging a stitch in my ribs, and then the pleasurable flush that rushes over my face. It's never far enough, but it's just a bit closer. And that feels like a tiny victory.
I'm a sprinter, but I don't race. I don't run to win something. When I race with someone they always beat me. But when I run unexpectedly, people find it hard to keep up with me.
I run to become part of the world around me. It makes me feel that I am part of the beauty all around me. I can't say that running feels like home, because it's not. Running is not home. It feels like going home.
I run to be alone, to find privacy, to sort out my thoughts when they become confused.
I run when I just can't stand things any longer and fighting isn't an option.
I run because when I run, I can't feel the heartache as much.
When I truly run, no one can find me. Oh, I have to return to my duties and commitments. I must. No one can live without facing his responsibilities. So I do.
What I mean is that no one can find *me*, my soul, when it decides to hide. Everyone can engage me on a social level. I genuinely care for the people around me. I love them, and I am involved in their lives, and they in mine. Yet there are sheer, craggy mountains in my soul that few will venture to explore. There are shimmering lakes within me whose depths no one has seen. There are forests of thoughts, rivers of themes, knee-deep meadows of stories, mossy downs of dreams, walled gardens and orchards of secret joys. I can hide in these, and no one will find me.
No one can spoil this verdant wonderland. No greedy hands will pluck all the blossoms and leave them to wither and die. No one will gorge themselves on its fruits, and leave when the branches are stripped. No one will muddy the rivers, fell the trees, or steal the hidden treasures.
Yet I tend them in the hope that someday I can offer them to a man who will cultivate them with me. It will be his to enjoy and to explore forever, if he prove himself worthy. I guard them jealously in the hope that one day they may give rest to a weary soldier.
These strangers I see around me every day. They don't know me. They care nothing for me. They wouldn't even miss me if I was gone. Not talking about my friends or my family. I mean the folks I encounter everywhere else. They don't know how to relate to me. They don't even know how to talk to me.
I see it everywhere, that puzzled, incredulous expression. I see it in the cashier's face when I look into her eyes and ask her how her day is going. I see it in the scrawny male teenager's surprised smile when I smile and nod in passing. I see it in my coworkers' faces every day. The males stare at me blankly. The women have this strain in their smiles, this fear in their eyes as they look at me. I guess they're surprised because I can be happy for no seeming reason. I can be pleasant in the morning without having coffee first. Or maybe it's my baby face, or the way I dress. They see innocence, and they don't know how to react to it. They censure themselves every day when I'm in earshot. That I don't mind. What I do mind is their assumption that I need to be handled with kid gloves. They're nervous around me. When I engage them in conversations, their replies are stiff or formal. They're either afraid they'll hurt me, or they just feel uncomfortable, as if I'm a small child who says silly things. I'm actually not naive anymore. I used to be; who wasn't once? I know a few things about life by now. But I can't communicate this to them.
Some older women fawn over me like I'm a baby. Or they try to adopt me, like they'd adopt a stray. Most are genuine enough in their manner, but it gets annoying. I can't be friends with them. They're too busy telling me about their life.
Some older ladies take a different tack. They look at me dourly and won't meet my eyes. They say nothing, but I can practically hear their thoughts: "Oh, she's got a lot to learn about life. Everything's a bed of roses for her now, one day real life's gonna hit her, then what's she going to do?"
Older men are different. They smile at my enthusiasm. Some make me feel like a queen when they speak to me. Others will light up when I speak to them, as if they felt dead inside before, but suddenly they feel glad. Quite a few of the elderly gentlemen I've danced with on Friday nights have told me that I "make them feel young again." Which I want to appreciate, but sometimes I wonder...
When I meet young men, they smile a lot, but they don't have any words. Which is fine, I know what it's like to be tongue-tied at awkward moments; still happens to me just when I don't want it to. But they don't know how to interact with me, either. I speak with ease, I'm charming, I'm kind, I laugh when they try to be funny, all that. They aren't at ease. They don't know what to do with me.
No one knows what to do with me. Sometimes I get tired of it.
I get tired of this whole world's masquerade. I get tired of all the facades people build up. The one-upping, the petty squabbles, the complaining, the empty pleasures people lavish upon themselves to distract from the consuming loneliness inside them.
I get tired of people assuming that I'm stupid because I'm happy. Mistaking my kindness for weakness. Of their sour or uneasy expressions when I speak to them.
I understand them more than they know. Some of them, perhaps, better than they understand themselves. I see their selfishness, their bitterness, their pettiness. I see the world's complacency, its sadness, and its loneliness. It grieves me. I see how no one wants to fix their own flaws, but they want to fix everyone else. I see the world decaying in its moral filth. I see humans all around me who are little more than slaves to their own desires. I see women crying out for romance, yet throwing themselves at men who string them along with crumbs of attention. I see broken, spineless, clueless men who blunder about every day just trying to be like everyone else. They stand for nothing, so they allow themselves to be herded about by domineering minds.
No one knows how to love someone for their soul anymore. No one is even willing to invest in friendship anymore. Does the modern man have any inkling of the fairyland that is a woman's heart? Does he have any idea how marvelous she is, how wild, how lovely, how nurturing, how life-giving she is?
All men understand the power of a woman in pain. To them, she is a hurricane of destruction. They want her for her pleasures, for the fruit in her garden, for her rivers to satisfy their thirst. They want her for her shade, her security, and her exquisite passion. But they don't want to climb the slopes of her mountains. They don't wish to explore the forests. For some reason, they can't comprehend why they can't sneak their way into the garden, plunder its beauty, give nothing in return, and then leave without awakening her wrath.
All these overgrown boys in their late twenties and early thirties have only invested in their own lives and careers. Even if they sense that a Woman is what is missing in their lives, they don't even know where to start in pursuing her. If they find a good woman, she keeps them guessing. She invites them to pursue and yet does not make it easy. Her passions are powerful, her mind is lithe, and she scares them. She scares them out of their wits. They cannot control her or harness her or even make any sense of her. She does not fit into their little sphere of control and cool-minded lucidity.
So they run. They run to their games which they understand and can win. They run to their businesses, their careers, or wherever they feel in control.
They won't lead their own hearts and stand up for what is right. That is all it takes to lead a woman. If a man can shepherd his own heart, and if he has the spine and the guts to stand up for what's right, he is a man who can lead not only a woman, but other men, other women, children, churches, nations. A man who cannot enjoy fighting for his convictions cannot truly understand the adventure of pursuing a woman in all her mysteries.
This world is a horrible, depressing place. Everyone is so turned inward that we only grab, grab, grab, take, take, take---glut ourselves with everything we can! No one fights on anyone else's behalf.
I'm a woman, and it is my job to take care of myself. Yet sometimes I'd like it if a man were to take care of me. And I could take care of him. And so we would live.
I'd like it if a man would stand up for me every once in a while. To stand between me and the selfishness of others. Sometimes I'd like it if someone knew me well enough to know when I've had as much as I can take, and who would let me rest in their strength. Someone who wouldn't be afraid of my tears or my wounds. Someone who made it their job to protect me and to value me and fight for me when this world gets tough.
I've said it before, and I'll say it again. Where are the warriors? Can't you see this world needs you? Can't you see we need you? Why won't you fight for us? We know you'll fail sometimes. Everyone fails sometimes! Someone has to do something, and I'm already out here fighting as best I know how.
Where are you?
Can't you see me?
Can't you hear me?
I'm so tired.
Sometimes I have to run. I have to run away from all of this. Sometimes I get tired of fighting, or frustrated because I can't win. So I run into my soul.
Because when I run into my soul, no one will seek me there.
~Cadenza
