I woke up at 2am last night, convinced that something was wrong. The world is eerily quiet when you’re panicking on your own. I checked the hobs and the iron which I hadn’t been using; and, on the way back downstairs, did that thing when I thought I was at the bottom but wasn’t quite. My legs buckled as the floor disappeared, and my heart skipped a few beats.
I have been thinking a lot about life recently.
After coming so close to losing it, I am desperate to make every second count. I am beginning to realise that death, something I’ve always been horribly afraid of, is also the context that makes life so achingly beautiful.
This is right, I think; but I’ve been going about it all wrong.
I have been so fixated on doing something important. On finding my “purpose”. On squeezing every minute out of every hour out of every day – that I have slightly crumbled under the pressure and forgotten that life is also about living. It is also about having fun. And sometimes not having fun, but that’s part of the deal.
The realisation lets me breathe and changes the direction.
There’s no point trying to make sense of life if I’m not present in it. Little chance of me working out what I’m here for if I do it in isolation, or end up chasing my tail seeing whether this – or that – or maybe that – is what I should be doing…
And so I have decided, for the moment, to stop looking and start living. To trust that the answer will emerge if I focus on the action, rather than the outcome; and if I follow the energy, rather than try and direct it’s course.
This means living with an amount of uncertainty and the possibility that I am going down the wrong path –
But I don’t think I’ll find any answers if I’m always trying to work out the meaning or wring out a purpose; and I wonder if we find these things in living – rather than in looking – and in embracing the things that we enjoy.