Is it just another day, or is it the day? Will it be the predictable flow, or will it be a death-defying feat to get home? Stay cool, stay low. Shadows lurk, looking for ways to breach. Something keeps tapping on the glass, looking for weakness and access.
Thinking big, walking tall, and feeling strong is only a dream that is shaken and then falls when you realize it is later than you think. Jumping out of bed, I am taking inventory, knowing that in my commitments, I am already speeding on the highway, looking for a gateway to arrive a half hour ago at my destination.
The arrow is released. It must reach the target. It means everything to me. As I feel the bow string graze the tips of my fingers, every lazy moment I could have done more comes to mind. I could have pressed on tirelessly like one with no limits. It is easy to say in retrospect. I curse the distraction that kept me from doing so.
As the arrow strikes down range, I realize exactly where I fell short. I hate this type of clarity. The drop is still remedial, but there is work to be done. It is similar to landing a plane a mile off the runway, then disassembling it, carrying the pieces through the forest, and reassembling on the runway so that you can take off. It represents how I have done things much of my life. I am getting too old to think there is time to do things like this regularly. But, then again, it is not even me. Once the arrow is released, it is no longer my carnival.
I figuratively slap myself for the "hands clean" idea I just mentioned because teaching and learning never stop. The most impactful teacher deals the cards, and we have to play the hand of the game we begged at the door to get into.
On my side of the canyon, I look for little glimpses across the impossible terrain. I know there is nothing I can do, and I try anyway. I just love and nothing else. It is all I can do now. There comes a time when we can do more, but now, I can only be the sound of safety. It's not much, but it builds something that can be carried forever.
There are many of these sticky spots in the trail. I am busy trying to manage more than I should, resulting in static, white noise, and distracting noises coming out of the woods. Flashes of proper perspective keep crashing in, enough to discern that I must get my head straight.
Almost a decade has passed since I spied through the telescope at the far reaches of space, and discovered the fragmentation of my composition streaming toward the light, requiring me to deal with it whether I wanted to or not. The big surprise is that the answers are indigenous to me on the deepest level. In the most unconventional ways, all the fragments actually fit together.
I know there is no easy way to be better at this. Everything is work, and that is certainly ongoing. I know I treat my life like a class in preparedness for my children, and then sometimes, I get better and sit back and watch them blossom like only they can.
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