We move through the stations of our days. We don’t always choose the path we travel toward a destination we can’t guess. We do what we can.
Some days of not-knowing bother me more than others. I like being settled. I like surrounding myself with a certain amount of order. I like having a plan—even if it’s one that I choose to ignore. Facing weeks of “what’s next”, looking down the barrel at the end of a book that remains elusive, not the tomorrow I would have chosen for myself.
That sense of imposing order—even a little bit of it—upon chaos: I know what that’s about. It’s the illusion of control in a world that, to borrow an analogy from David Emory in The Spiritkeeper, is like standing at the edge of a diving board in the dark. No way to know how far you might fall, no way to know whether the pool is empty. Living for the moment is a wonderful thing. But not always.
In the chaos, an occasional gift of perspective. A knowledge that, in the book as in the jumble of boxes and the piled-up possessions, order can and will emerge. Eventually. Things will sort themselves out. Ideas, like physical objects, will be where they belong. The elements that make up my life will be findable again.
But for now, I am stuck in the boxes and tape and what-the-hell-comes-next. The ending I’m looking for isn’t in sight.
The trick is not minding it.