Friday, September 2, 2016
Navigational truth, of course. Also a metaphor. There are safe zones and muddy margins. The places you know you ought to be and the diversions that attract you.
I've spent much of this year working on something(s) new. On possibilities that may or may not carry forward. On books others may or may not read. On priorities that are assuredly my priorities, but will they become priorities for others? Can what I hope for become the thing that others hope for, too?
For someone with an obsessive need to somehow know the future, or, at least, to effectively shape it, this decision to leave the known, safe path for the unknown and unsure is (certainly) a danger. This is a new life with new rules and measures. There are, I will be honest, floundering, big-question, what am I doing days.
But here is what saves me: The time I spend with the people I love. The time I spend in the air and breeze. The time I spend with the books I choose to read. The time I spend writing the books I want to write, without wondering what might happen to those pages when I believe they're done.
The deep part of the river is the life itself. The mind at flow-forward ease.