By Amanda Christmann
My heart is full of stardust.
Within my gypsy spirit spin fragments of dreams intertwined with bits and pieces of moments remembered, laughter and tears collected like souvenirs, and bits of accomplishment and conquered fears.
I am a traveler. There are so many of us in this world, yet our paths are often spun in a web of near misses and lost connections. My purpose is defined by bearing witness to life in a world where grass cannot grow beneath my feet and I dance to my own heart songs—beautiful, melodic and lonely.
There is no such thing as a distant place for those of us who roam.
We survive on cunning and flexibility, holding our intentions before us like talismans, knowing doors will open and the universe will shift and smile upon us so that we can set sail for the next adventure. We are only revisiting places that our hearts seem to already know, searching for familiar souls.
But the same voice and sense of purpose that is inspired by connecting so deeply and meaningfully with nature and humanity is the same one that fails to allow others whose calling is different than ours to relate. They keep themselves at arms’ length, admiring our souls, but never fully understanding.
We are exotic birds, glittering and impressive, and the only way the others know to appreciate us is to lure us to a cage, close the door, and admire our idle wings.
I am not alone in knowing I have tried to tether myself to those cage bars and find happiness in one spot, but one by one, my colorful feathers dulled and fell out, and I lost the very brilliance that made me beautiful to begin.
And so we fly, through deserts and rainforests, on islands and across savannas, finding more love than we could ever have imagined, yet failing to connect to that one enduring love who can take to the air with us, just as impassioned as we are by soaring and exploring all this life has to offer.
But hold out, fellow wayfarer. An open heart can find its equal.
I am learning that, when I embrace all that I am—my resplendent pieces and my scars—with honesty and compassion, I shine. And from that glow, he found me.
I recognized his glow, too.
I recognized him because of his adventurous spirit. He came without boxes, and he held more space for his desire to have a life well-lived than for any fear that could hold him down to live a lifetime unfulfilled.
I recognized him as he sat on a beach, lost in his own thoughts and dreams: familiar fires that danced to a rhythm slightly different than my own, yet so similar—fanning flames with flashes of synergistic sparks so brilliant that I cannot unsee them when I close my eyes.
And I recognized him as we stood atop the Eiffel Tower—in the very moment that I realized the beauty of the city below and the awe inspired by hundreds of years of human pain and triumph faded in the shadow of the love I felt for the man standing before me.
Whatever path is ahead, it will not be lonely.
Even if we someday wander in different directions, my heart now knows the hope of possibility that even I can feel the simple joy of holding hands under the same stars that appear in the sky, no matter where I am standing below. Among all of the hellos and goodbyes, I know now that there can be one who remains constant.
Nothing is as evasive as love is for a traveler, but in all of our searching, it too is there. Just as the waves are at the command of the moon, all things happen in due time. Such is love and the wanderer.
But until that moment, take in the moments and sing the body electric. Your souls are already one; it is only your smiles that have yet to meet.
Amanda Christmann is a freelance writer and editor for Women For One. She travels the world as a human rights advocate and activist, particularly on issues that involve human trafficking and women’s empowerment. She is an avid cyclist and runs with scissors, whenever possible. Her work has been featured by Women For One, The Tattooed Buddha, elephant journal, and ImagesAZ magazine, among other publications. Connect with Amanda via Twitter or her Facebook page.
Editor: Dana Gornall