I need to run
And be wild.
Untamed and free.
Flying across skies,
And catching clouds.
Splashing through the rain.
Leaping over waterfalls.
And bounding over hills.
Climbing across white dunes.
Playing to tribal beats
And dancing to a madness.
Listening to a simple silence.
Being of the earth,
And holding on to the heart.
Trekking, endlessly trekking.
I need to run
And be wild.
Untamed and free.
– ©2015 Elizabeth May Bangard
By Mary Oliver
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice–
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do–
determined to save
the only life you could save.
Along the coast of Northern California there is a place called Pescadero Beach. Sunny days showcase the rugged cliffs and the jewel colored waters of the Pacific Ocean. Gray days transport you to a world of steel and storm and thunderous waves thrashing against the boundaries of land. When I went, a pervasive fog rode across dark skies, the air was briny and cold (even at the end of July), and the ocean was a churning blue-gray, broken by a myriad of white dashes. A young woman sat nestled into the side of a cliff, listening to music, a book propped in her lap to serve as a hard surface for the journal she wrote inside. It is one of those places that seems like the edge of the world, a place that makes you feel both empowered and exceedingly small, nothing but a thread in some glorious tapestry of life. I hold this little corner of the world in reverence; it was (is) holy to me, a place that I felt more connected to God than I have inside of any church.
If you ever get the chance to go there, sit down for a minute and breathe in the air, watch the ocean and the rolling fog, dwell in this peaceful site. In a world that is ripped apart and overdeveloped, we are blessed to have these places to wander to still. Everywhere that I go, I hope I may find as many of them as possible.
– E.M.B.
Tell me a story
Of the road
And its followers,
A story
That guides me away.
Tell me a story
Of a pilgrimage
And the faithful,
A story that sets me free.
Show me a place
Of majestic beauty
And perfect quiet,
A place
That lets me be.
Show me a place
Of pure gentleness
And true contentment,
A place
That gives me peace.
– ©2015 Elizabeth May Bangard
Happiness…not in another place, but this place—not for another hour, but this hour.
– Walt Whitman
There have been places I have lived where I have been so miserable because of certain circumstances, that I try to run as fast as possible away from there. In looking back, I always find regret. Regret for what was, what could have been, what I should have done, and the list continues.
I have learned something in my years of being a vagabond, that living in the future or in the past is the worst thing you can do, for you will not find happiness in either. We must not waste the precious time we have living in another era, instead we must live entirely in our present, even when it is hard to fathom doing so. The few times I did this, lived in the present, during those dark periods of my life, were the times I have never looked back on in regret.
On a side note, however, we must not dwell too much on regret; that is living in the past, but with the added bonus of bitterness and negativity. Better to revisit old, cherished memories occasionally, and continue to make new ones.
– E.M.B.
When I decide to move to a new place, which I have done many times, one of my favorite things to do is google that city or town. Not just where to live, or the best library, or the closest Target, but unique places to go and interesting factoids about the said city. I try to see as much as possible, so that, when I leave, I feel like I have fully experienced living there.
Over time I have realized that people who have grown up or been in a place for many years develop a stagnant attitude towards it. When I was in Jacksonville, Florida for instance, almost everyone I met said they never went to the beach (which, by the way, is a gorgeous one with powdery sand, beautiful waters, and free parking). It was sad to me that something that easy to get to, and that wonderful, was simply ignored by the people that could go as often as they wanted.
It is a cycle I have seen over and over again, in every place I have lived, and it is what creates this sense of staleness in life. That is why it is important to seek out the world around you, to be, what I call, a tourist in your hometown. Whether you live in a small town with not much surrounding it, or a huge metropolis complete with famous museums and grandiose shopping centers, you can have places to go. Take your camera and snap pictures of your local coffee shop, visit a crazy local diner, hike a challenging trail, see an interesting historical site, etc, etc. You don’t have to travel far; even a tiny town in northern Arkansas called Ozark, holds the Wakarusa Music Festival nearby.
All this said, I hope that all of us can break away from the humdrum of normal life and find something new, or at least something different, to explore than we would normally experience.
– E.M.B.
This is brilliant…
Forget safety.
Live where you fear to live.
Destroy your reputation.
Be notorious.
– Rumi (Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi), The Mysteries of the Universe, 13th century
The difference between a traveler and a vagabond is that, in my opinion, a traveler explores the world and returns home, whereas a vagabond wanders the world and searches for his home.
– E.M.B.
The sun rising steadily over the horizon,
Creatures moving swiftly, slowly, silently.
The air is thick with ancient spice.
Drumbeats, war beats,
Echoing through the halls.
Thrumming of stories,
Passed mother to child, mother to child,
Hearing the wisdom of sages, the superstitions of elders.
Here lies the crown of a king, there the swords of explorers,
Tokens of things long past.
– ©2015 Elizabeth May Bangard
Note: Picture courtesy of https://pixabay.com/en/africa-kenya-landscape-nature-283868/
The Poet Vagabond 