Early 2013, my heart longed for Ithaka, to begin the long journey away from this me, from the stop-gap, from the some day, from the once-and-future potential. To stride into the now and the possible and the gratifying work.

I had the maps, I had the wisdom of sages and gone-befores, I had the tools, I had the desire, I had no fear of failure, no fear of success.

The ship didn’t sail. Time and commitment and sleeplessness and obligation and wait-your-turn tethered me, leaving deep, ropy grooves that couldn’t be rubbed away.  Those that grounded me and anchored me also give me flight and breath. In-spiration.

2013 was the Not Now. 2013 was the Their Now, the It Goes Too Fast, the Don’t Blink, the You’ll Have Time, the Get That Fixed.

The Harvesting of Love and Family and Guiding of Little Minds and Souls.

The Creative Fallowing.

In elongated December shadows, I want to wrap gloved hands around steaming mugs of coffee and look out the window at a frozen lake. I want to swaddle myself in hand-knit bulky wraps of somber colors so I can wander through moody landscapes.

I sometimes want my journey to be less of a spiral, up or down.  I see the vista, I have the keys, the terrain doesn’t scare me. I’m still ready.

Always, the patient long-view ends up tamping down the childish Right Nows and Not Fairs, the ever-maternal understanding and sorrow that this too shall pass, that this 2013 Me is more important than the desire to wander for hours on the page and on the stage and in shadows and in footlights.

My Ithaka is not an island, but a skyfull of clouds.  They hover, reshape, permit interpretation in those delicious moments when we lie back and give attention.  My looming Ithaka is, for now, the stuff of jokes and sticky hands and serving and teaching and practicing patience. My Ithaka is wild and untamed and shapeless, sometimes ominous, usually airy and free-form.  Always always when it makes sense and seems manageable, it changes.

2014 I build wings on my caravel for travel to many abundant Ithakas


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