The What's Next

Do I revel in the wondering of what's next or do I dread it, or a bit of both? I find myself on a real and symbolic front, confronted with my own version of mediocrity. I am a bit lost, to tell the truth, or have been, but finding my way by way of crumb trail laid down by my own inner workings. I have clues to lead me, and an idea of what is not right, of the doldrum seas I have entered and remain in of late. My gifts not being expressed in the way I know they can be. I am lying dormant under my own skin. Changed by circumstances and experiences I have not yet shed light on. It is the stuff of work and love and a lifetime of aimed and aimless purpose.  I think I am here to have integrity, and I am being asked to make a choice, or many, the answers to which are not yet clear to me. Still emerging. I can't yet see the shape of the being cracking through this shell, still wet and barely visible.



I have held this at an arm's length, or so it might feel to both of us, staving off the clerical errors that stem from haste. Words spoken in guilt, anger, or defence are not desired, but do serve to ventilate the room, bringing in new air, and light. And the opportunity for understanding, forgiveness. Those spoken out of a desire to speed things along can lead to broken truths, so I hold my ground in this. Not out of ego but out of a desire to see myself through this veil of fog on nothing but a compass bearing. I must heed the magnetic pull of intuition and soul. We are here to be kinder to ourselves, not less so, and this acceptance is not a way towards laziness. It is ok if I am not moving fast enough, I will live with the consequences of that as I am committed to my own pace in this. It is and will be slow, a process rather than a finite destination. It is a matter of one day waking up and finding myself on the path, the right one, if there is such a thing, and continuing to move with increasing precision. Learning to listen more clearly, love myself more ardently, in order to break apart the seams of this chrysalis, and to wait while my wings slowly dry and not to fly until I'm ready. I am learning there is an art in what's next.

As in all these things I am writing to myself, to you and the myriad you's who float out there in the ether. To one and none in particular and to any and all who might see yourselves in these words.