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The Wild Solitude Of Self.

Each life is meant for something.

Some lives are built for utility, safety, and partnership, designed to slide effortlessly into the established way. They are accepted and approved of; the collective regards them, and at the end they are rewarded with a nod.

Some are built this way, and thrive. Some are not built this way, but try even still to fit, and then there is not thriving.

And still others — a few — are cursed, or blessed, who knows, but anyway, marked: destined forever to be all at once a mystery, a threat, and a wonder to themselves and to others.

They are the ones on the street corners playing with fire and trying not to get burned by their own flame. Because indeed it burns, at times with intensity that is enchanting, other times with desire that is frightening.

These are the ones whose ribcage is a tangle of blackberry vines and whose spine is a bottomless mountain ravine, rushing clear water, icy as snowmelt.

The ones with rubies in their teeth and turquoise in their chests, with fingertips that grow into dandelions, and eyelashes into blue jay wings.

These are the ones for whom life itself is the greatest yearning of all.

They are only ever seen from a little afar, discussed, questioned, fretted over, never quite known, never quite touched, never quite understood.

But you can still make wishes on the cherries that grow from the tips of their hair.

They are the ones (by now, you know them) with moss growing on the backs of their necks, with a heartbeat like music and a voice like sea-smoke.

Only a few venture far enough into the forest to find the chimney standing alone, and only a few stay at the bank long enough to see the ripple in still water.

We all can be one, if we want. You could be one because you already are.

Every time I close my eyes, I remember that I am made from the lions and there is fire on my tongue.

There are some whose existence is meant for only this one thing: to stand up and face down that which is the greatest fear and the clearest truth.

“We come into the world alone, unlike all before us; we leave it alone under circumstances peculiar to ourselves. No mortal ever has been, no mortal ever will be like the soul just launched on the sea of life… there is a solitude which each and every one of us has always carried… Our inner being which we call ourself, no eye nor touch of man or angel has ever pierced.” ~ Elizabeth Cady Stanton

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Hannah Harris

Hannah Harris

Hannah Harris grew up in the pure mountain air of Lake Tahoe, NV. She is now a Yoga teacher and writer in San Francisco. She believes the the single best thing any of us can do for the rest of creation is find the time to truly know and then madly love ourselves. Find her on Instagram and Facebook, or read more of her thoughts at Wayfaring Gypsy.
Hannah Harris
Hannah Harris