I’ve been asking myself lately, when will I let myself be home, at peace?
When will I let myself be healed and whole?
When will I believe I have found that thing I have been seeking all my life?
I’ve started to see that the constant seeking draws the actual knowing of what that thing is further away from me, further from clarity.
How vulnerable it seems that seeking meaning so often engages a broken cultural system in the role of story teller, meaning maker.
Let no one else tell you your story.
Meaning needs nothing from you to just be alive in this moment.
You have found where every sign leads to: here, now.
It is here as I watch the steam from my tea rising into the crisp early morning air, as I forgive all the ways I tell myself I’ve failed. All the “wrong turns” I tell myself, if “right” would have healed the lack I’ve always felt – been taught to feel. As I realize all destinies have already been fulfilled. Not despite, but because of every choice I made, every hardship and pain enforced on me. Not because surviving made me stronger, just because I am here, breathing. That is all. It’s alright. It’s alright to just be and forget you ever knew anything at all, forget you even sought meaning, some elusive knowing, and find joy just in the steam of the tea in the morning air.