Move Ahead

A goal. A destination. A purpose. Life is filled with markers for all of us, from birth to death we move along a continuum of time, looking for meaning. In the beginning, unconscious or conscious, we encounter a string of firsts. First word. First step. First big tumble. First day away from mommy and daddy. The list goes on and on, seeming to stretch far into the milky way with possibility. At least that is the idyllic version we all hope for in life, that doors keep opening while our drive pushes us higher and higher along our projected paths.

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At some point, and this is where environment and heredity and sheer fortune come into play, we stop. We land at our adult height. Every diploma is earned and filed. We decide on a career. Spouse. House. Family. Repeat as needed.

But eventually life slows. We inhale, exhale, stand still for a bit.Β  This is exactly when we might take stock, reassess, and look forward; wonder, how might we keep the adventure of living going. Nothing excites me more than hearing about someone’s travels and escapades, their career growing and shifting, their new passions realized and materialized. Their desire to move ahead fuels mine.

What’s your secret dream? Hidden passion? What wakes you in the pre-dawn and haunts you in the afternoon? What nags you and occupies your mind while you attend to your day to day?

Perhaps set some time for yourself. Make a list of firsts yet to manifest in your life. Whether you’re 30 or 80, no matter, move forward. Don’t stop. Don’t settle on what yesterday brought you. Tomorrow is awash with too much to squander away. Let’s split impossible into I’m possible, and from there get real misty and impressionist and starry-eyed and utopian. Dreamy.

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Dip into all the wonder you can muster from your third grade self when you knew for certain that you would be a ballerina and a statesman. You would backpack through Peru for a year and view all of Paris from the Eiffel Tower for a night. You’d live for a while like a gypsy in a caravan and cook tomatoes and cheese and adopt a million dogs along the way. You’d send poems to people that could make them cry and laugh simultaneously. You’d walk across a stage, with a spotlight, and you’d be brave. You’d climb tall trees and swim across lakes. You’d speak Chinese or Italian like a pro. You’d never stop learning. Love would be a constant companion, not feared, not selective, but, as your 10 year old self would imagine, love would be infinite. Searching and finding, dreaming and manifesting. That you. Be that one. Regardless of your current age or occupation or situation. Live. Move. Ahead.

 

** This post is inspired by, and dedicated to, my dear writer friends, Kathleen and Sara, who have ventured through life longer than I have, and who never have stopped striving, continually setting and fulfilling goals, without regard for societal limitations. I can’t imagine better role models than these amazingly beautiful, smart, and captivating women. Love my snowbirds!!

4 thoughts on “Move Ahead

  1. I’m turning 40 in a few months. I did not expect to dwell on it as negatively as I have been. Perfect timing. Thanks so much πŸ™‚

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  2. Reblogged this on Nine Cent Girl and commented:

    Every morning this week, the whole of my world was shrouded in mist, and not a lacy-like fairy mist, but a thick veil of velvet whiteness covering the road in front of me. I drove into it with only faith directing my course. And all the while, all around me, on the news, in my workplace, along my twitter feed, in private conversations and in large national debates, everywhere, people were lost in their own misty disasters. I didn’t want to write about all that though. So I took a walk and felt the heat of the sun with the suddenly cooler breeze, saw the dirt road stretching up ahead for miles, and thought, here, now, one must feel hope. This post, written a year ago, inspired by two fabulous and courageous and inspiring women, came to mind; came to save me from the despair facing our hurricane battered islands and coastlines, our country split by that divisive businessman turned president, and our personal distress as varied as all hell. This reblogged post could save me from writing about all of that. This post lifted me up, might lift us up. If that is the work of literature, of books, of words, then for now, let that be the work of Nine Cent Girl. Reposted with hope. Faith. Always, love.

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