(Note: I wrote this over the Labor Day weekend, and I've been debating about whether to post it until just now. Please let me know what you think.)
The remnants of a hurricane blow through northern New England leaving the sky cloudy and the ground damp. The temperature isn’t quite cool enough for a bath, but I take several anyway to escape to that clearly defined warm space. The endless possibility leaves me at a loss for where I fit into the huge landscape. While my place is so well defined in other people’s minds, it is unclear in my own. The empty space of a long weekend extends the uncertainty. So I write to see what I write in the hope that the formality of the words on this page will reveal something that seems to escape the informality of my mind.
The rapid movement of the work week is easier. It leaves few unfilled spaces and little time to recalibrate my purpose and meaning in the universe. But somehow that place of reflection is always where I return to over and over, year after year. Given enough time and space the same question reemerges. The mind that asks it may be different, but the question remains remarkably the same. I, of course, have answers. But none that I choose to attach myself to.
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