Sometimes I feel so old inside, as if I am ready to lay down and let go. I’ve been slowly letting certain memories creep in again in order that I might write them out and give them tangibility in which to then release, as both my “inner self” and Kelly-Ann suggested to me. It is wearying work, and I have so little of myself to spare right now, being so consumed with the thoughts and worries of school. And though I have lots of signals telling me that school is the path that needs to teach me right now, I feel as if the real path lies just a little to the left, occluded by the mundane and aggravatingly close. All the things I love to busy myself with are dusty and neglected, and all the things that fill me with dread; the spotlight, judgment from others, pushing meaningless papers at work, are all prominent in life right now. I miss noodling along the knoll to work, relishing the dawn’s kiss upon the world, delighting in dew drops and the world of impossibly tiny creatures who dwell so close to us yet seems so foreign, talking to crows and squirrels, visiting the broad eagles that soar along the river, and the excitement of stumbling upon not-so-common sightings of red foxes, coyotes, wild turkeys, spotted salamanders, cedar waxwings, woodpeckers and the always pristine cardinals. I miss that. Gods, I miss that. I miss speaking into flames, whispering to my ancestors, diving into the deep wells of the mind. This mundane frivolity is hard for me and reminds me of difficult times, times when my spirit seemed dead for so long that I thought it would never be resurrected.