Curious how it happens, that change. Subtle, like the water’s drip, drip that casts ripples across liquid glass and fills any depression like a pool. Serene. Quiet. Just a gentle drop, drop, then another ringing drop. And you don’t even notice how full the pool is, you’re so taken with the ripple-rings, until the pool can’t hold a single drop more. Then the overflow, a spilling, a pouring out, an overabundance that’s too much for where it was.
Much as I’d like to think that I manage this life, I know I don’t. Much as I like to hope for it to be all sunshine and glassy pools, it's not. I’m a student here, sometimes on the edge of her seat with her sharpened pencil skimming the paper in earnest; sometimes slid back, scatter-slouched across the chair, empty-handed and empty-headed. It’s fits and spurts. It’s half-learning this stage before boom! we’re onto the next. It’s wondering if this scrawny newborn idea might be a good one, then deciding probably not, then circling twice (thrice?) back through, and deciding it might be good once again.
I try. The water drips.
Lean in, I remember. Lean into the known. Put all that I am, right now, in this moment, into the known: this family, this home, this work, this adventure, this goal, this. Take what is and fully live it. Fully know it. Fully experience it. Then, I remember even deeper, lean into the unknown. To what I cannot see: the idea without a form, the image without a face, the step on the path dimly lit. Go there. Because, after all, I’ll be going there.
Another ringing drop.
All of it. It’s all of it, this life. It’s the pencil skimming in earnest, and it’s the empty-handed. It’s the newborn idea, now plump and round. It’s here and now; it’s then and there. It’s exploding hope, and it’s fear that tastes metallic in my mouth. It’s the known and the unknown.
The surface tension breaks, the change flows.
What a beautiful thing it was to read all your generous, kind, affirming words on this post. I've read and reread every one. Change can be exciting and freeing. It can also be uncomfortable and scary. I understand. May I just say this? There's a beauty in change that I hope to never miss. Thanks for coming with me.
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