“Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real.”
― Cormac McCarthy, All the Pretty Horses
It's raining in Devon; and driving to work was replete with accidents, white vans trying to wreak havoc and ponds to trap the unwary.
I decided not to hit the keyboard at 5 am. Instead, in the pissing rain, I took Alfie out; it was nice to hear the bird song and not being ensconced inside my small, sometimes overly-warm office.
As is my way, I've an audiobook on the go. No surprise — to me at least — that I've dialled in (again) to the wise words of Stephen Jenkinson (the book is Come of Age). It's a long listen but every time I play it, I find a nugget of wisdom that slowly burrows into my psyche and makes the me think carefully about my life and where I'm headed.
Actually, it's not so much where I'm headed, it's where I'm at, namely the second half of life. It feels, post 40ish, that I've passed the point where career, money, keeping up with Joneses and all that other ego-driven stuff has dropped out of view, only to be replaced by a more thoughtful, sometimes quieter persona.
But what do I want to do with this passage of my life? Or, to be more accurate, what drumbeat am I marching to? Truth is, as these slightly self-absorbed posts lay testament to, I don't really know.
Oh sure, as you'll know by now, I don't want to be devoured by law; and, yes, I want to see the world — or the UK at least; but how, in all truthfulness to my soul, do I want to live?( Collapse )