DON’T KNOW WHERE I’M GOING

I am thinking, as I begin to write this, that where I begin writing is often far from where I end up. I start with one thought, which then leads to another and another and suddenly I’m on a journey. I’m going somewhere. And what is so interesting, as with all the best journeys, since I don’t know where I’m going to find myself in the end, I can simply let go! The process of journeying takes over and becomes the reason for everything.

At some point along the way the destination—and the whole reason for getting there—becomes subservient to the trip itself. When I get a stomach ache or something happens which requires immediate attention, that overpowers any thoughts of the place I am going to end up. Suddenly the destination is gone and forgotten.

Like writing, painting a painting is the same, or writing music—any creative process—or having a job or (let’s go for it) even an entire lifetime. I mean, with a life, what is the point in looking forward to the final destination? Doesn’t it make much more sense, to look to each day, to each hour, to each single action?