It seemed appropriate to break my near 4-month hiatus from this sweet little space on the eve of Thanksgiving.
Typically I find myself here when I’ve been smacked square in the chest with some enlightened thought or experience, but, really, that’s just not the case today.
I don’t know what my deal’s been for the last few months. If you could see my post-que (the place where I write things until they’re “ready” to be published), you’d see that I’ve been prolific in the most basic sense.
I begin and I begin and I begin again…but I would never reach a satisfactory desination…and so my nonsensical little posts never made it into the mad, great world of cyberspace (and into the laps of you lovely folks).
I spend a lot of time here postulating about life and love and how the world works, and over the last few months I think I’ve been simmered down and humbled into realizing that I have absolutely no clue what I’m talking about 90% of the time.
Last week I ended a fairly long journey (one that I haven’t had the time/energy to even begin writing about) when I boarded a plane back to the grand city of St. Louis from the tropical oasis of Florida.
I love travelling. And not just for the leaving and the arriving and the short-lived treading of water in a new place.
I love it for the plane rides.
I love it for the grid-like view from 30,000 feet and for being, quite literally, higher than the clouds.
When I’m up that far it feels like I’ve removed myself from the heavily concentrated canals of life. And I know with certainty (I’m optimistic) that I’m going back down there to hang out and participate again; but for just a bit I get to be above it.
When you’re up there you get a good sense of how complex life really is.
I don’t mean that in the way you probably think. Because living life, in all of its random goodness, isn’t the complex part.
Yes, it’s at times difficult and confusing (exclamation point)…and hard.
But the real complexity comes in the way of moving parts. And when you’re tens of thousands of feet above it all, that becomes something annoyingly obvious.
When I’m up there I’m overwhelmed with the inability to understand how it all manages to work so flawlessly. Every day those grids light up with life and the freeways move with the urgency of the driven and everything just…goes.
My mind wants to magnify it all; to zoom in on one car driving down one interstate…inevitably on its way to some destination I know nothing about.
The person in that car likely has a love for something and a past they’re worried about and bills to pay and so many of their very own thoughts and worries. And whoever they are, they are just one, single, very tiny moving part in the middle of that massive grid.
It’s absolutely mind-blowing to even attempt imagining the grand capacity of this world and its inhabitants.
The one thought I had that rang out among all of the others on that flight was thank God I don’t have to deal with any of this.
Thank God the only duty I have is to wake up, breathe, and fulfill my obligations as one, single, very tiny moving part on this earth. Because, honestly, we’re not designed to handle much else. We’re not designed to get it or understand it.
We’re designed to participate in it.
I used to be a strong and whimsical advocate of the divine notion that everything happens for a reason.
But, lately, I’ve decided that everything just happens. And tomorrow, God willing, it will all happen again.
And some days, it will feel like it’s all happening to you. But, really, that’s not the case. It’s happening to all of us. Every day. All the time.
So, on this Thanksgiving, that is what I’m thankful for.
I am thankful for the continuance of happening. That I wake up and find myself in situations that allow me to be an active participant in the movement of this sweet, big, completely befuddling life.
And, above all, that there is someone much, much larger than myself at the helm…guiding and controlling and allowing for safe, quiet landings.
Happy Thanksgiving, all.
I’m hoping to be gracing this page with many more words in the coming weeks.