And we could all together go out on the Ocean

I feel as if I have not said enough on the sweet rolling landscape of Provence. I run down meandering country lanes that take me through olive groves and up hills where the tile-roofed houses, lines of orchards and waves of small mountains pan the horizon. The fresh brilliance of purple and white trees colour the landscape and the tall roadside grasses are tossed by the ever blowing wind. I sometimes stop and look about me and think whimsically of a camera or a person to whom I could say "look, look!". But instead, like the many other beautiful sights before, I merely try to absorb it in to myself as if one could be satiated by visual consumption. I feel like I'm swallowing a spoonful of beauty, while never certain if this encounter with the natural world will ever have resonance outside myself.

Between the many hours on buses, airplanes, or walks in the wild or civilized countryside, it's fatiguing to travel alone. This is not a new feeling, as I clearly remember wishing for a companion from the first time I flew on my own at seventeen. One can talk about the health of independence, self-establishment and self-knowing, the modern woman who stands solidly on her own two feet- I am not one to dismiss some of these principles and tie myself blindly to marriage for the sake of companionship. But often as I walk or sit alone, I give a thought to how we're made for companionship, for shared appreciation of what we're looking at and shared love as we look at the other. It's for this that I almost don't have the heart to go anywhere new to "see" something else over spring break. I'm tired of just seeing. Who sees me? For afterwards, whom shall I tell, what am I to do with everything that is stored away inside me, my collection of secrets cramming memory's space? I have not the time or the energy enough to write it all out. I'd rather just have someone to look at, understand and say, "Yes... you were there too."

I have no delusions that I'm unique in having memories ever compiling, such is the nature of every human life as each passing year feeds new thoughts and passing. My frustrations lies primarily in the uncomfortable awareness of all that is contained within ourselves. I wonder where experience's value and utility lies if a human never shares what they've seen. I think of those who die of old age, with full heads and closed lips and their life finding justification only unto itself. Some argue that morally each is of innate value in whatever isolation, but surely the exponential potential for joy and depth should be accounted for when two human lives touch. This theme is my predominant question and unsettlement no matter where I go: From my first year in Vancouver where so many days and hours made me feel invisible, to my transfer to Iowa where few people touch my daily life, to my studies where everything I'm learning goes undiscussed, and travels where the people I meet, the stories that grow, the beautiful and poignant things I see take root only inside me. This absence of Shared experience and life makes me feel so terribly lonely yet simultaneously self-reprimanding for never staying in one place long enough to cultivate a continuity that might calm my youthful fears. Here lies the question of responsibility as I may have to admit that between moving, a closed mouth and self-distancing I have only myself to blame.

With this said: continuity is certainly not in my prospects for the months to come. I shall continue to trot between different countries, jobs, books, and people as I'm intrigued by the adventure, and delighted when I can reconnect with old friends. It is indeed the relationships I have with friends and family that I hope to grow by at least placing myself in closer proximity. So while my sense of permanence is still quite impermanent, I hope to at least deepen the relationships that hold me in place. All this said, I have a two week spring break coming up as of this Friday: All of you should get online, do a quick tally, and get the next cheapest ticket to France. Let me know when you're arriving...