Day Fifty-Five: Destiny
Let’s go back.
What gets in the way? That was the question I just asked. When you sit, when you write, when you inhabit the beast of your body, what prevents presence? I was going to list the many thoughts that bluster into morning, washing up on shore: The intricacies of the wood stove and trying keep the fire going all night; the stairs I’ve been hired to build and how I’ve decided to settle the issue of the landing height; I could tell you I drank tea at five yesterday and it kept me up half the night; now I’ll be tired by two. I could tell you I made plans with myself to drink coffee on the beach as the sun rose this morning, and here it comes so I better hurry. I could tell you money; time; anxiety in general. But then it came to me as I was making toast, having thought I was too hungry to tap into whatever it is I’m looking for. Well, it isn't hunger, or money, or time, or sunrise.
The tide comes in; the tide goes out. The sun rises behind coastal mountains and probably the dog will get wet, even though she near froze last night after swimming. I drink my coffee; I breathe the air. Sometimes we make mistakes. Sometimes they are the same mistakes over and over and over. Sometimes destiny scrapes your face across the sand until you beg for mercy, until you refuse to beg for mercy, until you become something greater than mercy.