I like to think that I am a wanderer. Maybe sometimes I am, maybe sometimes I like fulfilling my restless heart with taking a journey to I don't know where. Getting lost and then getting found can be a magical way to travel.
Until it's not.
Until it becomes circling self again and again.
Until the wandering takes you nowhere.
Here's some hard questions:
What if I choose wandering because it is easier than naming a destination and charting a route to get there?
What if I am resisting the work of actually getting somewhere?
What if I am wrapping ugly avoidance in pretty language?
I'd like to avoid these questions. It's not easy to take such an honest look at my motivation and behaviors. I am tired of going around in circles though, tackling the same issues over and over, making little to no progress because I don't really know where I am going.
I thought I would know by now. At fifty-one years old, I feel like I should know what I want to be when I grow up. Maybe I do. Maybe I am just scared to say it aloud. Maybe I am intimidated by the work it will take to get there. Instead of facing my fears, I have been choosing to create some beautiful smoke and mirrors. Keeping up appearances.
I choose to believe that a magical, mystical life is not incompatible with living a life focused on accomplishing some goals, reaching for a dream, getting shit done. Now, if I believe it, then I must act like I believe it.