myopathy.

The last 7 months have been about drinking in everything there is to this stage of life.

Before last summer, I had this feeling everything was about to shift— a deep-in-my-bones intuition that this was the time my life would be drawn into a before-and-after in a cataclysmic way. My mistake was in thinking the line was vertical. That it would strike down through a singular point in time.

It’s horizontal. A process. Like everything these days.

I’m a process.

Clearly, the line is horizontal.

I can’t spend my time waiting for something to pass, or waiting for something to happen, or waiting on anything at all.  Because life goes.  It goes whether you’re waiting or not.  Whether you’re being prodded along or striding at speed – it goes. 

And we spend our lives waiting for it.  Because we’re not quite there yet. Because we don’t quite have it all together, so it can’t be it, it can’t be my life.  Because, no, no, this isn’t it. It’ll be it when….. x.  Or when y.  When I finally drop a size.  When I have control of my emotions. When I have the perfect boyfriend. When I feel like this. is. it.

We’re so terrified of taking the wrong path that we don’t even own the one we’re on. And we miss it. We miss our lives. We forsake all these beautiful, raw moments because no, this isn’t it.  We don’t have it all, so we act like we don’t have any.  We discredit our lives – this process –  with our doubt and negligence.  

We wait, casualties of our own myopathy.

I don’t know how anything ends. I don’t know where the it is, or if it even IS at all. I don’t know my way. So I’m just weaving one, the best I know. And at the end I’ll look back and say, oh. Oh, so that’s how it was supposed to go. That’s how it went.

Today is an exercise in faith.

fin.