It's such a tricky balance, making plans. I don't know how much of what we do corresponds to the way our body feels/acts/reacts, but I'm going to guess that there's a lot of connections there. Right now I'm making plans for the summertime. The Chorus is debuting a new show in England in July, and I've decided to extend my trip so as to travel the continent and explore places that I've never been to. I'm not trying to brag. I just designed my life to accommodate these things. Perhaps it's a good thing that I never developed any long-term relationships when I was abusing my health. Who knows what kind of hinderances could be sewn into the fabric of my existence. On the other hand, who knows if I would have been spared untold years of abuse had I found someone who stuck around long enough to help me clear my head long enough to realize I was in control of more than I thought.
But that's not what happened.
As I was saying, I'm making plans for the summer. I'm assuming that I will still have the same options available then as I do now. And this is healthy. This is what is expected of me from any and all corners of human existence. Because to second guess--to fixate on the unknowable--is tantamount to failure. We are designed for progress. We make plans because to not make plans--to give up--will only lead to an unfortunate outcome.
It's such a delicate balance.
I don't want to live in the past. I don't want to look too far ahead. I just want to be able to stand on that taut wire, with the balance bar held in front of me, and keep upright. I want to stay focused and move ahead steadily and with confidence that I will make it to the other side. I want to believe--no, I do believe--that I will make it to the other side, because to doubt is not beneficial.
On the other hand, to check all available hazards; to consider the potential for error; to wake up and judge the wind speed and the general weather conditions--this is all part of the act of balance and the art of success. I just have to remember that success is a feeling that is organic. It is not bulletproof. It has a shelf-life.
To live in the now is to live in a thin bubble of time, with the immediate future in front of me, the immediate past within arms reach behind me, and with the potential for lateral movement--for stasis--on either side. This is the way I have to travel.
I once told a friend that the way I experience life is that I can't wait for an event--any event--to end so I can race to a place in my head where I can think about what had just happened. He asked me why I did this and I said that, that way, I can frame it in such a way that it takes out the blemishes, the imperfections, the awkwardness, and the uncertainty.
But it also left me in a perpetual state of escape, and that's no way to live.
So these days I try to strike that balance of being on that tightrope of the now. I must be aware of so much, both in what I have done to prepare to get to this point, as well as which direction I am heading, and, at the same time, remain calm enough and adaptable to any shift of wind direction that may arise.
If I go too fast I'll surely fall. If I try to go backwards I will be making obsolete the progress and the plans I have for the immediate future. And if I stand still too long I will start to fixate on why exactly I am here.
We are designed for progress.
One day, one minute, one second, one letter, one punctuation mark, and one blank space at a time.
Thanks for reading.