Compass

  

I am no more certain about where my life is going than cattle are about where they're headed when they leave the farm. Achievement unlocked. One point for the easy-goers.
 

I used to have such purpose, such a drive to succeed. When the mouth of the river appeared and I was swept rather unceremoniously into the ocean, I met my new position with an extended fit of crying. Science calls it depression. Whatever. They were right. 


I found a solution to that problem, and I'm damn grateful for that.  


Here I float in the ocean of adulthood, somewhere between 18 and 40, happy for the raft I have and clueless as to where the hell that map went. It's here somewhere, or isn't. Maybe a shark ate it. Oh, I’ve known a shark or two. 


The sun on the horizon is the same it's always been. Ever faithful, it rises and falls without a recognition of my complaints or questions. Oh, this silly ocean, these currents, and this damned floating. 


When you feel like you've lost your compass, it's easy to start spending your time mulling over the problems you have. If you're a sailor and you've lost your compass, you're double screwed. My raft isn't in the best condition, and my telescope went the way of the map -- probably in the belly of a tiger shark because those guys'll eat anything. 


It was in this season of alternating between panic, depression, and malaise that I gave up. I surrendered to the weight of the atmosphere, snuggled up in my raft, and by accident, found a sense of peace unlike any I had ever known. 


It was because I had lost my compass that I became open to the islands on the horizon. Suddenly, I was wrapped up in a tingling air of grace. Potential popped all around me, and I was no longer responsible for solving all the problems of my life in one day. In fact, I realized I had no problems at all. Everything was as it should be.
 

"Not all those who wander are lost" is a hippie-bumper-sticker quote that I've always appreciated. But the peace came in recognizing I wasn't lost. I had to admit that to myself. And this whole time I thought it was to absolve stoners from having to tell their parents when they're going to get a real job! My ship is merely on a different heading and moving at a different clip. Well, that's a much different set of circumstances than my previous perspective suggested. 


It's all good. I still write. I'm getting a day job. I still dream. I still think of screenplays and television scripts. I love my raft. And should I ever come across that shark that I presume ate all my necessary equipment, I'll try to remember to thank him.