Time moves forwards, as do we, sometimes looking back, but forever eternally moving on and on. It is a healer, a cliché, an enemy, a friend. Time is a tool, an usurper, a disguise. In the moment, time can be hated and loved, derided or respected. The passage of time can break and heal and break once more.
These arrows, pointing forever into the future. Chilling yet enveloping, a cruel heart softened into an embrace. Time has slowed for me, dragging me through illness, through uncertainty, through anger and impatience. Yet it carried me, even as I fought, gently eddying me along invisible currents, to a shore I had no idea even existed. That riptide took me places I thought I didn’t want to be, swirled me on a journey I didn’t want to be on. I couldn’t see the end. There was no land. No island. No sandy, idyllic beach awaiting me. Until now.
Time is once more picking up, but this time I feel that arrow firing, bullseye through my soul, trailing a wild bird’s feather, piercing straight and true for maybe the first time in my life. Instead of being aimlessly buffeted along, I’m finding now I can work with the ticking clock of the universe. I feel I want to take that jump, that path carved for me, created in these past tumultuous years.
I have a direction in study and education. A realisation in how I wish to earn a living, and I am grateful to have a new position back with the charity I truly love working for. Finally finding spiritual feet in old ways, in respect for nature and interconnectedness. Working on a project with my husband, allowing us to grow and learn and adventure, following that forward arrow in our own ways but still together. I find honour and new meaning in simplicity, in minimalistic ideas, and grow in the space I create. And words. Always words. As time slides inevitably on, words begin to fall from my fingers once more, slowly at first. Tentatively. Shyly. And then some more.
And then some more.