As a little girl, a little flower child being raised in the 1970's in Astoria, Oregon (in what would become the house made famous by "The Goonies") I dreamt of becoming a hobo... likely hoping the journeys would lead me to this mysterious "something" that I felt was just inherently missing. I packed a suitcase at the age of 7 or 8 and then hid it in the lush coastal rainforest behind that run down old victorian.
Somehow though, I had a sense I'd never find this thing I was missing by running away.
There were parts of me that I felt could not be explained, from my first age of memory. There was something inside me that just knew this truth with all of my heart. I just knew that something very important and special was missing and I wanted to, no, I needed to find it.
I didn't quite fit in with my own self -- and my place-- in the world, in my family, in my life. I didn't totally understand it but I always knew it. Before I even actually knew it.
To me, every day was a new opportunity to find that missing thing. It was always pretty disappointing to go to sleep at night knowing another day had passed and there was still "something missing".
The strength of this want and this unknowing drove much of my life for many years to come... at times I was focused and strong, at other times I floundered mightily.
There were times I was buoyed about by the crashing waves of life, as if I were missing my anchor.
I never did sink... but I often felt I might drown.
Could I ever be who I truly am -- without this unknown "something"?
Could I even know who I truly am without knowing what it is?
Where was this missing "something"?
For that matter, what was it?
Would I even know it when I saw it, felt it, touched it?
Or is everyone born missing this "something" that only they themselves can find?
** To be continued **
