I’m sitting on a ridge of Precambrian rock, millions of years old. There’s a forest growing around me. Young deciduous trees. Old coniferous growth. A fallen piece of driftwood – it must be driftwood – there’s nothing around that appears to be missing a limb. Musta been here a long time, judging from the moss growing on it.
I enjoyed my drive up yesterday. Four hours just to pitch a tent for the night. I think the trip was worth it. Plenty of other ways I could have otherwise spent that time, but not many of them would have led me to this particular headspace.
I made a list in my mind of every single problem I think I have in my life right now. There were a handful that remain unresolved.
I let them sit there a spell as the miles rolled past me. Acknowledged them, but didn’t pick at them. I let them percolate like campstove coffee. They always taste better when they’ve had time to wash over themselves.
After letting ’em cool, I took my first sip and discovered they needed more depth. Something to get at the root of ’em.
I drilled down. Hit bedrock.
The single greatest cause of anxiety in my life is me disappointing myself.
Doesn’t get much simpler than that. Time to make another list. Set goals and find some way to measure my progress.
As evidenced by some of my accomplishments this year, I can be that kind of person in short bursts. It’s time to be that somebody with greater regularity.
Imagine what that would taste like.