The Myth of Arriving.

I always want to believe in the myth of arriving. That living is static.

I put life into a box, assuming I know her– her answers, her predictable rhythm and how she works. I expeditiously learn the game, the rules (specifically the short cuts) only to race to the finish line and show the indifferent world “I’ve arrived!”

Once “I arrive,” the beginning of my end commences. This is where the construction and maintenance of my comfort cubicles and rituals begin. I take out my cozy metaphorical pillows and rituals of “stability” to convince myself that life is known, the flowers have bloomed, and my “hard” work is done. I now can check out.

To most, it doesn’t look like this from the outside. From the outside, it looks like I’ve got it made. It looks like raises, a full garden, opportunities and empty external validation.

Sometimes I’m convinced a select few see and know the house of cards. They recognize the sadness and know intimately the emptiness. They see themselves in it and call bullshit. These few create a practice of learning and knowing their own bullshit. They work daily to create a community of honest mirrors in their life—not an echo chamber. 

Inside though, I know deeply the grass is AstroTurf, the flowers are from Michaels and have no roots and the “hard” work never happened. That the real “hard” work is staying awake, being honest with myself and knowing that I never arrive.

To witness a child charge into the world is the opposite of static. There is a deep understanding she is changing, unfolding, becoming. She demands, “Measure my arm. It grew overnight,” with an earnest desire to know the growing. Knowing it is her nature.

What happened along the way— when I began to seek numbing comfort over painful growing?

When did I forget that my letting go, my releasing, my dying is intrinsically linked to my creating, my evolving, my living?