me, i see paths. i see the possibilities. i don't see what will happen. i see the road i need to take. to where? wow. i'm not sure i can even answer that. here's an example.
for years i asked the universe (god, creator, mama goddess, whatever you call your higher power) to make me a writer. well ok. i'm a writer. then i asked to be an author, as in a published writer. ok, been there, done that too.
i also wanted to be the red baron when i grew up. i too desired a doghouse that could turn into a sopwith camel.
then i expressed to the universe the desire to finally make my living as a writer. "this," i said, "is the life i want!"
so now the universe, i think, has done me the courtesy of taking me at my word, and has set my feet on this path.
problem is, i'm fighting it. don't even know why. things have been really rough for me the last few years, and i have a very taoist belief that that only happens when one is going in the wrong direction. i know i've used this analogy before, but bear with me because it's a good one, one of my favorites, and it always applies: think of tao, or the way, the path, that is, as swimming in a river. when you're going the wrong way, you're swimming against the current. you hit every rock on the way. BAMBAMBAMlol. everything is harder, everything goes wrong, and no matter how many times you ask why, there's never an answer. because it's just wrong, i guess, is the answer.
so when you turn around and go the right way, suddenly everything is easy. you're swimming with the current now, and it carries you around all the rocks. everything goes right.
add mojitos and gently swirl to mix...
so, now to my point about paths, and about seeing mine. i asked to make a living as a writer. as long as i'm fighting it, and doing everything BUT, my life is going to be impossibly hard, and it's going to get harder and harder with each day.
my only possible path forward is as a writer. there are no other paths open to me anymore, and that's my own damn fault.
wow, well, or i'm psychotic, you know, either way.
ok, all of which ruminating leads me to wonder if i'm just a bit closer to answering the big question: who am i?
maybe i'm just a writer? maybe the angst, existential or otherwise, is pointless. i know how to write, i've gotten compliments and positive encouragement from every professor i've ever written for, i know how to create query letters, i know how to solicit editors. maybe i'm there already and i just don't realize it?
and on that note, off to bed. for some reason, i'm thinking of the good red road, and of walking it as a dream path...
toodles and g'night, all
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