Subtle Shift

Money matters. Yes, this is true. Or am I listening? Listening and writing down.

I went for a walk a few days ago—a long walk for some, but a normal walk for me—through downtown Brattleboro and over the bridge across from where I stayed in the Motel 6 last summer. It’s a Travel Lodge now. Did anyone notice? Did everyone notice? I’m not sure when people started hiding. I know I never hid. I escaped. I found refuge and places where I could be free.

Across the bridge, on the New Hampshire side, I’ll admit, it’s way nicer over there. The hotel on the river with the birds in the trees and the relaxed, peaceful ambiance inside is far richer than the Travel Lodge/Motel 6 (whatever you want to call it) on the other side. But do you know where I felt the most free? The open space right in between. The open space that cost nothing and opened me up to everything, just the other day, just like it did last summer.

I had to flow right into this piece of writing, faster than I could judge, plan, or think of where to start, even though I had the idea in mind for days now—actually, exactly a week. That’s when I went for that walk and found myself on the rusted metal walking bridge, between Brattleboro and New Hampshire, singing out loud for who cares who to hear. I was singing for myself—for pure expression and joy again.

There’s a lot of energy in my chest right now as I write this, dissipating like butterflies—soft-winged, purple butterflies throughout my throat and chest space. If I focus here, maybe I’ll find the words I need to say or the next ink move I need to make. That day on the bridge, I had a similar feeling: charged butterflies. A nervousness to some, excitement to others, but at the most purified intake of the ethereal substance, it is spiritual energy. It is spiritual power needing to move.

I knew exactly the song I needed to sing in that instant—the one bursting free from my heart to be expressed that day on the bridge, and so I sang it out to the water as I called back in an abundance of spiritual simplicity. The kind that no other abundance can compare to or take away. That energy led me to recall my previous summer self, nearing the end of my 4-year, dog-walking business savings, singing out loud just the same, but with a tad bit more freedom, fearlessness, and trust.

What happens when you reach the cusp? I personally turn to the sky and sing. I turn to the sun and feel. I turn to the water and breathe. I turn to that overwhelming pulling sensation from absolutely everywhere, reminding me that the string I once held onto from the sky—the one that tethered me to higher beliefs and guided me from above—is no longer the only pull of light and meaning I feel. My entire world brings me joy. Every aspect of it, even when it darkens or tints a shade, it’s never far from spilling back into full spectrum beauty and everything I’ve ever hoped and dreamed for.

Being homeless and healed taught me a lot.

It taught me that you don’t need much at all to feel like the wealthiest, most in love person on planet earth. Every corner, every centimeter, every mile-long expanse of river and sky is alive with heart and soul—the natural parts, at least. The humble human and grounded parts too.

I’d trade phony and plastic for real any day. I’d trade fake faces and neon signs for hard, humble work every single second of my life, but I’m not too ignorant to trade the comforts of home and genuine love for the highs and awakening struggles of survival. I’ve traveled and lived in many worlds, and to finally have secure footing in my own where I can blossom and breathe is more than enough. It is everything. It is what gives me pure appreciative joy as I open a can of beans with my trusty knife again, and what floods me with gratitude as I remember the subtle and sincere hands that helped me along the way.

Gas station faces and motel front desk people mean something to me. They are not worker ants, disposable and unnoticeable, pushable, in need of saving or life guidance. They are the ones who understood me first and did not fear me. They are the ones who housed me and my cat like family, and the ones who spread wisdom of disciple and hard work to the absent-parent children. They are the ones I leaned on for sanity, and the ones I turned to when it seemed like humanity and compassion was something I could only feel.

I guess I’m writing about the gas station people now because shortly after singing on the bridge, I walked to the small convenient store on the New Hampshire side, bought myself a coconut water, and received the same non-judgmental smile from the man behind the counter that I had received the previous summer when buying beer, except this time, with a tinge of pride. Subtle like a father. Deeply significant like a fellow human being who has been through it all too.

There is always room for positive change, subtle yet significant adjustments. I was sober in Idaho two summers ago—naturally became that way while living in the trees. I am sober again, here in Vermont, among the mountains, heavy with wisdom and solid with intuitive knowing—the kind of knowing I’ve been tapped into my entire life.

It is not sad to long for the trees.

It is not sad to yearn for the mountains.

With my coconut water in hand, I traveled on down the neighborhood road, adjacent to the river, and came upon an elderly couple walking hand-in-hand along the same unpaved path. The woman began to comment on the weather, saying it was too hot—something automatic she thought she needed to say—which guided me to feel the breeze and notice all the heavenly pollen sparkles, dancing and floating around.