Free Roots

I went to see her in the canyons. I drove an hour away through the rolling farm fields. The wind was blowing through my hair and the day was so beautiful and bright that I felt inspiration come streaming back into me, that I was filled with it. I blasted Machine Gun on the dirt roads and stopped to take it all in and walk through the wheat. There were empty houses, solitary ghosts in the miles of amber waves. People live out there to become themselves. It’s so hard to live in the city and become the strong you. I never lived in the city until now. These last seven years have really taken their tole on my mind.

 When I leave the mechanical city, I feel so much better. Possibilities come back to me, and my life seems more manageable.  Not that I have a stressful existence…I just often feel like I can’t breathe with my job, my neighbors, bills, computers, chores, etc. There’s too many people breathing and thinking and snooping around me. I’m overanalyzing my every move all the time because inside I’m hyperventilating.  I’m on pills. They make me feel better. The problem is, I shouldn’t have needed them in the first place. I drift between not caring about anything and ripping the nails off my fingers till I taste blood.

 

She lives in a little wooden witch house. It’s got a triangle roof, and a sink outside that overlooks a small valley with a backdrop of mountains. There are herbs drying inside and a wall covered with books. It doesn’t feel real, but it is. She tells me that no one can escape from their problems really, they follow us everywhere. I’m so excited by the possibility of this place without electricity that my mind is reeling. I have butterflies because I need this so much and I didn’t know it until I got here. She takes me into the streams and we get stung by nettles. Every strawberry I eat from the garden is heaven…and I can’t break myself away from them. We hang out in the garlic barn and she lays in the dirt. She closes the greenhouses at dusk and we sit in the patty pan squash patch and then eat raspberries off the vine. I am present here as I am only at home in bed.

 

I have always believed in fairytales. When I break away from all the day-to-day grinds, I am inspired again and feel the magic that is inevitably there as it always has been, growing and changing without me. I wonder why and how I ever left my childhood; that was the most freeing and mind-expanding time of my life. How can I call myself an artist if I have nothing inspiring me? Sometimes I feel like my artist’s heart is dying and the pills are the only things keeping me alive.

 

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