What's Goin On?

Prayer, Pathways and Second Chances

There once was a time where I knew where I was going in my life, of that I am sure.

From those recently past days, I have notes and drawings and piles of self-wrought scripture, to follow without doubt as to the destination or the nature of the path I took.  Everything was crystal clear, and if it wasn’t, I reassured myself that I would sort it out later.

Except now here I am, unsure, again.  Everything had been so carefully constructed, all of my plans: a bullet-proof glass house with iron rod supports – it was beautiful, but impractical.  And I watched myself shatter the whole thing in a fit of despair.  Now, I thought – I think – I will build one of brick and mortar, a structure made of wood to contain the threat of foundation shake, and a basement to keep rains and hail from taking me down.

Except now, there is no shelter.  Fertile earth below, but no easy break from the wind.  To begin again, entirely, is a near Herculean feat, one that I romanticize even as I watch myself struggle to build confidence in my own internal compass.  What do I want?  I don’t know.  What will it look like?  I don’t know.  Where will I be in five years? I don’t know.

Elevator speeches were always something of a trouble for me anyway.  Still, I found myself praying last night, truly, with my hands clasped and a feeling of serenity chiseled out like a cocoon around me with every unaltered thought spoken.  I have not prayed in years, and I am still not sure to whom it was (What name is yours?  What shall I call you?), but asking for a blessing and protection felt good nevertheless.

I did make the decision to move back home – to a house made not of glass, but of stone – quite shortly after having written about it.  It was a humbling decision, but in the back of my mind there lay a voice – perhaps mine, perhaps. . . – telling me this was the way to go.  Things fall into place only when gravity is ready to move them, but I can be sure that it will happen, I think.

And what of this prayer that I did?  What do you say to a presumably all-knowing being, except “I am sorry, after so long”?

I said, the pain was worth this feeling now.  That the lessons, all, were worth it.  The experience of insanity, worth it, to understand the cost of the label itself.  The experience of academia, worth it, to understand that it wasn’t what I knew it could have been.  The experience of peace, to know where I might be directed next.

Now, I am not a religious person, insofar as I adhere to one doctrine or the other.  Hell, until a couple months ago, I was entirely, uncomfortably agnostic (now I am only uncomfortably theist).  But I do trust my intuition and the sensations my body experiences when plunged into a less than forgiving environment.  But I do know that I am learning patience and peace.  And that capacity – after the year I had, y’all – I am near certain, is an act of God.

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