journal notes from the deck this morning ~
How much does habitat dictate habit? The unsettled are hard pressed to settle on routine. Routine being predictable; comfortable. It’s all stomping out small fires, then. The forest goes on with its fecundity. Every new day the deck floor must be cleared of branches and leaves. Wind and squirrels have been nighttime travelers. What if nothing is meant to be utterly dealt with and accomplished completely? The journey counts much more than arriving? And what was once atop bucket lists and to-do manifestoes suddenly slides, sometimes right out of sight. Every morning a renewal of sorts; of projects, person and purpose. Maybe the person most prominently of all. And surely this is thus always, but comes to one’s attention when uncertainty is at its highest frequency? Some materials rearranged much like Theseus’ new boat (<< link) of supposed new parts. Straw men and spectres. Are we ghosts haunting ourselves? Keeping your head down, every morning arises anew. Empty sockets refilled by experiences ghosted through with persistent memory. The disordered soul. The greatest fear then might be a solidity. Flux being the nature of things. Static being the abberation. Does the new and newness of place remind us with our perplexed persons seeking the routine to escape the unending query: who am I? What have I been sent to do, accomplish? Maybe nothing. Maybe only this day. Maybe this one day, aflame with possibility.