Last night I returned to my big yellow weekly writing group. It's been 3 or 4 months since I've read one of my poems or stories outloud. When I do that, I connect with how much I love writing. I love it.
The prompt this week was from a book on love and somewhere in it was the phrase "longing for destiny". I got to thinking that sometimes the search for destiny can take you to the wrong place:
It’s a bus to nowhere, really.
It’ll stop for you, transport you somewhere else,
Accept your token and save you the effort
But you won’t find destiny there, if that’s what you’re looking for.
Once or twice you might think you have—
You might settle in with great hope,
Ready to let love and longing
Tumble onto you like a box of cherrios—
One circle and another filling the circle bowl you call your life.
Over time you may travel a number of buses
And any one may be your portal
To rich ground where you build your home,
Where you fall into a softened corner
And find your cherished place.
You wish. You wish it works this way. That’s fair.
But wishes aren’t like bus routes.
Wishes wither in the moments of now.
They require nourishment that comes only from the future,
And there is no portal to pass through
That will take you there and back.
The right moment. The right person. The right place.
The right job. The right time. The right break.
Right is what makes this wrong.
All of it.
When you decide right in advance,
Your possibilities cool like reheated toast.
Forget the endless bus routes.
It’s about today Now. Here. This moment.
This couch. That’s all of it.
You show up. You notice. You try.
And then you let the universe steer
Into the night. That’s plenty. That’s enough.