I don't think, even if given the choice, that I would want all the answers. With easy access to answers, where is the curiosity? Where is the drive to discover? It's in that discovery that we stumble over the delightful surprise of our own creativity. Without mystery, there is no need for us to approach this life dynamically, in full color, and hell-bent on becoming our own singular expression of life.
Granted, some roads you know are dead ends, or simply avenues getting you from one major thoroughfare to another. For those, we can give ourselves full permission, I think, to coast, to sit back and watch the landscape fly by.
But some paths are far more interesting--looped with spirals and side-trips, sight-seeing and scenic overviews. For those, we take our time, we take the scary path, the breathtaking path, and our stories are all the richer for the trip.
Sometimes what is broken is of better use as compost, as literal or figurative fertilizer.
I try never to keep what is no longer of use or of beauty to me, but a very few objects live in my heart. Those I will mend again and again, and when mending is no longer possible, I'll put them aside and call it art.
So often I find that I've labeled the day before it has even taken a breath or two, and I can't imagine that's good for my physical or mental well-being--nor that of the day's, come to that. Fridays are Fridays not simply because they precede the weekend, but because we infuse them with a relief and a buoyant sense of possibility.
What if we could take a fraction of that manifested energy and carry it with us into every day, no matter where it falls in the workweek? How much more joy could we draw simply by deciding not to have an opinion at all?
The deception of the question, "What if?" is that it will always work both ways--'what if I'd stayed/gone/said yes/said no'--and it will never have a satisfactory answer. So why ask?
Of course, the alter ego, knee-jerk response to this question is to project and think and worry and weigh and then think a bit more. But all we're doing is worrying away the time between our fingers until it's stretched so thin it has no hope of telling us anything.
The only choice you can make, the only answer you can give, is based in the now. How do you feel *right now?* You will never know what you might have decided tomorrow because it's impossible to be two places at once, so why try? Why sacrifice another day to 'what if?'
I think I--like (too) many of us--have just one speed: immediate. It's as if I have this micro-manager standing over my shoulder, wondering, if I don't answer that email or that phone call right now, well then, what AM I doing with my time? It's relentless and driving
It's pointless! Good goddess. Yes, we come from hardworking stock, and yes, even they rested and took their time to do something right and in a way that was fulfilling to the soul, brushing aside all the unimportant nonsense that cluttered up the rest of their days.
Okay, then. So here's to slowing down, to living every inch of our days, and to letting the rest of the world catch up to us for a change.
What if we stopped waiting? Or, if that seems impossible, what if we began living now, *while* we wait. What if we focused on what we're already creating, rather that what we haven't created (or what hasn't been created for us)?
What would that tapestry look like? How telling, how inspired would be the arrangement of colors, chosen, not necessarily for their shades, but for their convenience and for how well they spoke for us in the moment?
The search is exhausting, so I move we pause for a moment and take a seat. What could it hurt? After all, there's no one waiting for us, no appointments on the books--this is a self-designed, self-mapped course.
There is no X, no buried treasure, aside from whatever we find when decide to start digging.
I've always loved that expression, 'true grit'--it doesn't leave much to the imagination, you know what you're getting, and what you can handle. Very bad-ass Clint Eastwood. And maybe it's something I aspire to. I've never been a cynic or a skeptic, but I'm not quite a romantic either. I'm more of a girl who likes a good story and hopes that, one day, she'll have one to tell.
Maybe that's all we can hope for in this world--to be the heroes of our own stories, to take up the pen and write the damn history ourselves, from the perspective of those who lived it.
It seems that I've been uncertain of my place in the world of late, and rather than taking the proverbial bull by the horns and asserting my inherited--and, surely, inherent--strength, I've been running and reacting. I wonder when we learned this? I wonder when we learned that we cannot be the mistresses of our own destiny because and because and because?
Certainly I never learned this cowering, this less-than, this helplessness from my own mother, a fierce woman in her own right who takes no shite from anyone (nor does she take no as an answer--she's very persuasive). I suppose I could cast blame widely and loudly--peers, teachers, media--and it would hit a target, but to what end? And, really, what does it matter now?
What matters is only to wake up from the ridiculous delusion that we are not only powerless, but *at the mercy of.* That's it, isn't it? That's the scary bit, the beguilingly attractive bit--to put oneself at the mercy of x or y. We're "saved" from making hard choices,...