“You can get so confused that you’ll start in to race down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace and grind on for miles across weirdish wild space, headed, I fear, toward a most useless place: The Waiting Place.”
When I was given an obligatory copy of “Oh, the Places You’ll Go!” as a graduation present in high school, I have to admit I only read the title and tried not to make it obvious I was looking for money inside the card that accompanied it instead.
As the 18-year-old recipient of that bound fortune cookie, I never anticipated not succeeding or losing my way or traveling “for miles across weirdish wild space” in search of signs and answers.
But now here I am nearly a decade later, just as Theodor predicted, wandering inside “The Waiting Place.”
Since leaving my job as a newspaper reporter three months ago, I have worked as a clam digger on Cape Cod and traveled to the left coast for a necessary adventure with a very dear friend. In a month, I’ll be flying to Bangladesh to visit my brother and volunteer for Habitat for Humanity. It all sounds so exciting when it’s jammed into a couple of sentences, but the truth is that I’m having a difficult time learning how to navigate and embrace the days in between the destinations; the days in between the answers.
When you no longer have the security and convenience of a job title or relationship status or home base to make your introductions and get your bearings, it’s very easy to only want to return to the places you’ve been. And so I’m back to this blog… but I’m here with the hope of reflecting just enough to move forward.
My mountain is waiting.