Wanderess

With every trip around the sun that I get the privilege of experiencing, the more evident it is to me that I am a collector. A gatherer of emotions.

A large segment of my soul thrives on capturing feelings. The emotions incarnated by people, places, and even things. It’s an inner craving to feel this life, and an addiction of mine to translate my experience into words. Writing them onto paper is a driving force and an act ignited somewhat by fear. My family genetics do not guarantee that I’ll get to keep the memories I’ve cultivated. Words like Alzheimer’s and dementia are true threats, both of my grandfathers suffered and passed separately from each. For me, writing feels proactive, a strategy that will ensure that my memories, the love I’ve felt and written for people and places, the words that hold my life, live beyond any disease.

After I came back from Maui last year, I came across a word. A name. It sat in a quote written by Roman Payne, and it was enchanting. It was the first time I truly tasted an inhale, the breath needed to dance the syllables of the word off my tongue. I know that must sound strange, but it’s the only way I can describe it. It held life, the same as the inhale.

The word?

“Wanderess.” It connected with every little fiber of my savage heart. I’d found a slice of myself in that word, and if I had to define what the word wanderess encompasses for me, I’d say it’s the endless chase–I’m not lost, or without–rather being led by an inner flame set to pilot, but in constant search of kindling.

Certain people and places are my kindling. My husband. My daughters. My family. My home. Colorado, and the ocean. These people, places stoke a fire within me, setting my heart ablaze.

The ocean, sigh. Eight days ago, after a five-day girls’ trip, I left the ocean and it felt like agony. The emotion was confusing, and quickly guilt arose. Motherhood and even wifedom can be a soul’s ruthless opponent. After all, I was returning to the five loves of my life, my family–the very highlights of any legacy I can craft–and surely I am relaxed and elated, and to every degree that matters I was, and by every degree that contradicts your conscience I was also sad.

I love the ocean. To be honest, it’s a certain type of love affair. After a week of separation, the first glance, feel, and sound of it is still a pristine recollection. I can vividly recall my first step onto the fluffy surface of the white sand, the soothing rustling of waves lapping the shore in the distance, and even the squeal of elation that left my throat.

The sting of the sun, the burn your bare irises incur from the sparkling reflection of its rays upon the rolling waves–the view infinite. To wear sunglasses feels like an injustice. It’s a view you want to see, capture. The way your feet melt into the sand, its swift caress between your toes. The soft glide as it brushes across the bridge of your feet, and caves under your step.

The lick of ocean water at your ankles, and the power you feel as you submerge yourself fully. It envelops you, enticing you to follow the wave receding from your body’s grasp. The taste of salt on your tongue, and the bite it invokes when it invades your eyes. How all renders nearly silent save for the white noise of water shattering against itself over and over.

The ocean is an incarnation of emotion. A seamless paradox, and my wanderess heart is forever captivated, held without touch. ❤

Author: Sarah Black

I'm a self-professed 'Drama Mama'...of four daughters, I blog to (over)share my stories on learning to maintain my sanity by strictly eating laughter in the emotional land of motherhood while trying to keep my husband from running away from the sheer amount of estrogen flooding our house.

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