The Oregon trail.

Having been born in raised in this south Florida paradise, I find very few if any other climates that appeal to my nature. If I have to wear much more than a hooded sweatshirt more than 10 times a year, I’m not interested in calling it home. Don’t get me wrong, it is my life’s mission to visit any and every crevice on the face of this earth. But, I’m a simple girl. I love my God, love my family, love my friends, love my life. I live contently in my bubble of comfort, having all the ambition in the world overshadowed by this unshakable fear of change. I dream big high budget film dreams. I cast all the highest paid actors and shoot rolls and rolls of film in the most exotic of locations. But as each minute of screen time passes my heart becomes more and more restless in this vicious cycle of attack and retreat. I lay out my escape to a far away land, only to pull all plans to a screeching halt as soon as reality begins to line up with my intentions.

I’d like to think I include God on all major decisions on my life. I trust Him with my life, my friends, my future husband, but I keep the lid vastly tightened on the jar’o’moving. Every now and then I swing the jar around dangerously daring it to drop and bust into a thousand pieces. And after each close call I quickly place it back on the shelf of safety for fear that God will insist I am to move.

Just recently I loosened the top to the jar. It remains shut, but just enough to smell the sweet fragrance of new life. The scent of northwestern territory tickles my nostrils. I breathe in the back to school fragrance and the possibility of new relationships. The aroma is intoxicating and ever so addictive and with one last inhale I soak up every bit of wonderment. I breathe in so deeply it begins to resonate in my heart. My soul is quenched; my heart is calm, even if only for a moment. It’s the kind of peace that quiets your soul and sends a tingle of contentment up your spine. It’s the beauty of watching a sun sink below the horizon or waking up to light breaking over the Grand Canyon. I walk away from the jar, but not before storing the fragrance in a memory bank to be recalled anytime I desire, only leaving behind the excitement of a sensory overload if ever I decide to actually explore the contents of such a container. Oh, to explore.

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