Something in me has always longed to be chased after.
I suppose I easily relate to dogs and their fascination with having their human owners running after them aimlessly. There's a certain sense of meaning that arises when someone chooses to make the direct effort to seek you. It's an unspoken proof of love.
That is my love language.
In the misguided name of being an introvert I ran away with the hope of someone chasing after me.
I spent so much time alone waiting for someone to come and find me. Because if someone did come and find me, then I would know. I would know that I know that I know that they care. That they wanted me. That I was truly loved by them.
So I thought it a failing of man that so often I was left on my lonesome. Just me and the sky, the trees, or the grass. But it was not man that failed in this instance. It was me.
When I'm alone, I'm not.
Have you ever wondered why people of varying religions find so much satisfaction and meaning in meditation? They get away, they're alone, they're detached from the flow of trouble and mayhem.
But me, in my perfectly secret place, I tried to connect it again. I wanted to interject more humans into the equation when that peaceful solitude was meant to have a lack of people.
It isn't surprising that I was so often unsatisfied. I was doing it wrong.
Because now when I'm alone, when I put the cross before me and the world behind me, when I let go of all the chains that I myself am holding pressed against my chest, when I say, "Here I Am," then the lightning strikes and the flood comes.
And there I sit.
Me. Alone. Sought.
Yeah, alone is indeed the wrong word.
But I don't mind, because every time I go there now, someone shows up.
Every time.
