I talk a good bit (both in writing and in person) about my belief that the journey is more important than the destination. It's not that I think having goals and striving toward purpose is without merit; it's that I believe the process by which we travel from one point to another teaches us about life, ourselves, and everything in between. There are lessons of every size, shape, and color to be learned along the way, prepping us for our eventual landing point, whether or not that's at our original goal.
For me, that path is rarely straightforward. There are twists and turns and loops, and sometimes it zigs or zags so far that I can't tell that it even is the path.
For a long time, I saw it as a path I was stepping onto, my life laid out before me like the Yellow Brick Road. What I've finally! come to realize is that I'm creating this path as I go. I'm the bricklayer, setting each cobblestone into place as I move through my time and space, and I completely determine where and how this ends up.
Life is what happens while I'm collecting those stones. Sometimes people give me pretty, smooth rocks to lay before me. Sometimes I get a little windfall and buy some nice flagstones and fit them neatly together. And sometimes I have to go backward, retrace my seemingly smooth, even steps and dig along the edges to find what I need to make my way. Those are the rocks that are often jagged and rough, the ones that will scrape my knees when I crawl along them blindly, determined to take the pain and scars as long as I know I'm moving ever-so-slowly forward.
And then there are the obstacles, the things that block my path. They could be huge, giant boulders that seem insurmountable. They could be crawling creatures of all kinds that waylay me with fear or loathing, and make me compliant in my own psychic paralysis. Or they could be an overgrowth of beautiful lushness that entangles me in its sweet-smelling vines.
Ultimately it's only I who can clear my way. Slowly I've learned that I can step on bugs and wrangle snakes, I can machete through the dense, dark jungle, and I can chisel away at the looming megalith and use its rubble to pave my passage toward my ultimate terminus.
It's never easy with me. I'm complicated and difficult, and I often thrive on—and utterly luxuriate in—my own complexities. Anyone who knows me well will tell you that I'm more likely to blow my own world to Hell than to let anyone else do it for me. So I may be battered and bruised when I finally get to where I'm going, wherever that may be, but I will arrive giddily exhausted and secure in the knowledge that each fragment of my path—from the first polished pink pebble to the final charred capstone—was chosen by me, each a profoundly simple lesson learned along the way.
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