Hard to Find

I have been struggling with terms of 'arrival' and 'departure'; with being stuck in-between and searching how to 'get there' even if I don't know what/where there is. And then my friend K sends me the answer in an email - "maybe life is just limbo". By definition life is an in-between state: you are born, life happens, and then you die. If you do not believe in life before birth or after death, your existence is lived in-between.

Then I read Jonathan Harris's "Navigating Stuckness":

I thought of my life as a series of chapters, and I realized that each time I’d been majorly stuck, it meant that a life chapter was ending, and that a new one needed to start — like the stuckness was always a signal indicating imminent change. My life has had a bunch of different chapters, each one beginning with the fresh-faced idealism of a new approach to living, and each one ending with a period of stuckness and a moment of crisis.   

Hopefully the moment of crisis can stop dragging itself out for as long as possible and turn into a new chapter soon. I think it has already started: I found a job, I found people I enjoy hanging out with, I founded a language tandem and don't complain too much about it permanently raining anymore.


Jonathan Harris has also done numerous interesting projects, so check out his TED talks (on The Web's Secret Stories and The Web as Art), the I want you to want me project or his Cowbird profile

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nothingwrong

He said that by writing, one takes away the opportunity for another to write the same. Therefore, when writing one has to be considerate and reflexive. Weighing every word, making it count. I write because it is my act of courage for the day. It is wrapping my world in words and presenting them as a gift to whomever would want it to take it, even if just for a moment.

Others have touched with words for far longer and far more eloquently.

For instance: 

Sonnet
by Elizabeth Bishop

via Song of America

I am in need of music that would flow
Over my fretful, feeling finger-tips,
Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,
With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow.
Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,
Of some song sung to rest the tired dead,
A song to fall like water on my head,
And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow!

There is a magic made by melody:
A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool
Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep
To the subaqueous stillness of the sea,
And floats forever in a moon-green pool,
Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.