After saying I was going to write more often, I went right ahead and did the opposite.
Right now, it feels foreign to me to put thoughts down “on paper.” I had to trawl through my favorite blogs (a species with only four members) to remember what it is to actually write. As expected, most of the recent posts were about fresh starts and new beginnings. Not as expected was the commonality of the theme of movement—of returns and sojourns and travels and visits.
I miss movement—the far-ranging kind. I dream of the day when I can travel freely again, though I doubt if I’ll ever travel the way that I used to, where the movement was the distasteful by-product of getting to see the exotic. Then, it was the destination that counted, with the transitions between cities and countries the unwanted but necessary expenditure of time.
Now, it’s the transitions that I long for: the long, dreamy intervals, the state of in-between-ness, the suspension from life afforded by transit. Few things are as reassuring as knowing that you’re getting somewhere and not having to do anything about it. My life now is dominated by initiative—by the generation of outcomes through action and will. I would like nothing more than a few blessed days marked by the utter absence of initiative, of giving in to inertia, of not having to maintain the constant vigilance that comes with running a business.
Anyway, it wasn’t my intention for this post to be an exercise in wistfulness. But there it is. And once again, I’m clearer to myself than I was before.