Somewhere in the scurry of my old life, I started dreaming of a slower, more peaceful existence.
“How had I gotten to where I was?” I would wonder. So full of anxiety and fear. So lost. A place where a quiet and contemplative life was not on the table. Where chasing pleasure and distraction was the thing to do.
Since I started dreaming of that calmer life, it’s slowly materialized.
I have that quieter life now. But I’m still slowing down, and at times, everything in me wants to rebel. My body wants to go back to old habits, old routines, where everything was loud and busy.
The writer’s path makes so much sense to me.
And though it’s hard to get going sometimes, I see myself in this for the long haul.
Remembering that what I want isn’t “out there” is one of the most difficult parts for me.
That idea—that everything we want is somewhere other than where we are—is so baked into the modern world that I sense it as a physical reaction. I notice that when I wake, my body is riddled with anxiety as my life’s trajectory angles deeper into greater solitude.
I sense it convulsing with all my unresolved fears and nostalgia for the past.
It’s ironic that I have everything to gain by taking this path. I know I will be healthier, happier, and possibly wealthier by continuing down what is the road less traveled. Aliveness is everything, and it leads to all great works—why is this simple idea so difficult for me to express with any success?
The answer, I presume, is that it challenges that “out there” idea I mentioned earlier—the archenemy of my current philosophy.
What we want isn’t out there; it’s right here and now.
