Bookends
A life in the middle
January, the unwritten month of new beginnings. What is it about a new year or new day that tricks us into using that as a reason to start over? As life rolls past like the endless view seen out of the window on a long drive, it’s that end of each event that begins to reveal the milestones of our journey. It’s between the bookends of life’s chapters that we spend our time, reading, writing, and anticipating the next one.
For us, the restless ones, we’re never truly satisfied, and always on a journey. Our chapters seem to drag on with no ending. It starts as day turns to night and seemingly never ends as 1 turns 365. The writers block becomes an infinite triangle as the searching turns to longing.
It’s here in our willful privilege that our stories stall. Like being locked in a cage searching for a way out, its only once we retrace our tracks, that we find what led us here and how to escape. It’s the examination of a life once lived and the juncture that presents only more of the same. It’s unfortunate that we still unwilling reside in our mindful privilege.
So, with this realization of our limitations, we must make a choice. We are the author of our lives and must write the story. That bookshelf we stare at, is looking for answers, it calls for us. The story needs an ending fitting of a life once dreamt, a completed story to be nestled warmly between the two bookends on the shelf of our life.
"We are the author of our lives and must write the story. That bookshelf we stare at, is looking for answers, it calls for us. The story needs an ending fitting of a life once dreamt, a completed story to be nestled warmly between the two bookends on the shelf of our life"...so true!