Summer 2013. My family plans to move. I pack my things, say farewell to home, and move to school. But then plans change–don’t they always?–and we don’t move after all. Now it’s summer 2014 and I’m home again: My things in boxes, trying to fit two rooms into one.
Taking Graham Hill’s advice that fewer things leads to greater happiness (a lesson I’ve learned again and again in Belize and Alaska and Mexico), I told myself I’d get rid of enough stuff to make everything fit–and to have room left over to live.
But all this stuff? It seems infinite. And that’s the beginning.
Time’s gotten away from me today, hasn’t it? I got up, read a bit, did some dishes… and then played Tales for about four hours. But with all my free time, that’s alright, right? Anyways, after that I had to finish the dishes I had put on to soak. So I once more played some music, got into position, and while I was scrubbing away, I considered all the things I could be thankful for today.
Have you ever seen the future crashing down before you?
Notice I have not said crashing down around you. That would imply an imminent end is becoming, slips of predictions passing into the permanence of the present moment. Instead I am speaking of the future itself, that which we can dream of and look toward but can never touch, can never taste, can never truly understand.