Oh the places between here and there.
It’s not quite spectacular white winter or lush green spring. It’s that place where you’re not young or old. Neither starting nor finishing. We’re neither here nor there, but on our way somewhere.
If only I knew where somewhere was.
It seems my map is lost and I’m forced to trust the road rolling out in front of me. I step one proverbial foot in front of the other and pray that I’ll get something, anything right. If only I knew how long this season would last, I might find it easier.
But it seems the timeline is off somewhere cavorting with my life’s map.
The nebulous not-quite-thereness rubs me all wrong. Like a deep tissue massage that’s more pain than relaxation, I know it’s probably good for me, but, at the moment, I’d rather skip it.
Can you relate?
In this place of waiting, I’m trying to find purpose, reason, but I’m finding that worthwhileness might not be the point.
I’m reading that ease, image, and convenience have supplanted real meaning. And that my in between place (the thing I’d honestly like to skip) is teaching me perseverance and strength.
And so I settle in for the long haul I’m terribly unsuited for and push through. Knowing, hoping, trusting that “there” isn’t so very far away after all.
