The Journey

I don't care that I'm writing my one-year anniversary blog post a week early. What I have to say won't be as good if I say it at any point other than right now, and if I let that happen, I won't be okay with it. One week from some time last night will be one year since the beginning of my blog. This will be blog post #149. And in the past 148 blog posts, I've learned a lot more about myself than I have in any year of life, I think. I've become aware of who I am as a person, fought with what I believe, been afraid of whatever circumstance belief leaves me, shared in bonds and relationships that I never want to lose, cried more than I have in probably the first 19 years of my life combined, been continuously moved by Explosions in the Sky, and a ton of other things that I could write an entire blog post about. But that's not what this is for. This is for the journey.

At the mass for Jeffrey Cooney today, Father Mark was talking about Jeff's journey, and how he had already completed his journey with us, and how he was successful in living and loving. He would then begin his everlasting life with God, and life goes on. But that word. Journey. We're all on one. And no, I won't cliché you with it being more important than the destination. This is bigger than a cliché.

The first great poem I read was "The Journey" by Mary Oliver. Since my sophomore year of high school, it's been my favorite poem, and when friends engage me in emotional struggles they are facing, I always connect it to that poem somehow.

The Journey
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice --
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do --
determined to savethe only life you could save.
     -Mary Oliver

Stars burning through the sheets of clouds. That's what I imagine nirvana to be like. Or perfect bliss, or grace, or whatever you wanna call it. To me, there is nothing more powerful than the idea of stars burning through the sheets of clouds. That penetrating force that shreds what is in its path. And in the poem, that sensation can only be felt by listening to your own voice. The voice that keeps you company as you stride deeper and deeper into the world. There will be people in our lives that come and go, that enter and exit our lives, but there will always be one constant. You. You will always have yourself as you stride deeper and deeper into the world. Be aware of that. Acknowledge it. Everything comes from within. We have the people around us, who we surround ourselves with because of the love and care we share with them, but the only one who can save us is ourselves. When we save ourselves, we can then be there for others in their time of need, so they can save themselves. Listen to your own voices first. Indulge them. See what they have to say. Keep it by your side as you stride deeper and deeper into the world. Into life. Let that voice be the foundation for the other voices you have around you. The ones of your friends and family. The voices of the people who you share love with. Because we are all on a journey. And that's what doing the only thing you could do is about.