why
and when
and why is it so hard to find something with meaning and purpose?
Some days, those questions are too hard and I imagine curling up in an armchair, safe from the world, in a cozy sweater, hot tea steaming nearby, hidden in a small curved room full of books and art and companionable solitude.
I think of chilly October mornings and clear bright morning light streaming in through rounded windows; shades of golden mustards and warm browns and rich russets; scuffed wooden bookshelves; of inky words trailing across well-worn pages; halls and corridors and winding stairs. I think of whimsical watercolors and spines of cheery children's books; hot chocolate in short round mugs; sloping dark letters arching and furling across parchment; lovely lettering of wit and wisdom.
I wonder how and why and when to make that real...to find success and sustainability in something so dear and precious when every posting calls for years of experience in a very particular field. For now, it is enough to build a life and do work. To shape moments of meaning, beauty, and fulfillment where I am right now.
I’ve learned how to more gently handle the question ‘why not me?’ —nine times out of ten, the answer is either myself (and a matter of getting out of my own way, not letting fear stop me from answering the question) or simply, ‘not the right time.’
It’s a sort of gentle growing—a sort of living out the questions, as Rilke says. Eventually you live into the answers.
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