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.
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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