Everyone around me is drafting, plotting, planning their lives like it’s a novel. I guess it is, in some ways. Life is, even in the face of adversity, what you make it. It’s all about how you react, what you do with what is handed to you.
I don’t have goals the same way they do. They have plans and goals; they have Point A, Point B, and a road mapped out between the two.
I can’t claim the same.
The most I can say when people ask what I want to do is, “something with words; something with people; something that lets me travel.”
I say, “I want to be an editor, but I also want to be a counselor, but it would be fun to be an interior decorator, but I really would love to teach five and six-year olds, but . . . ”
I keep my dreams close to my soul; my shop I want to own and the books I want to publish. The music I will write and the people I will love.
My goals are of the intangible sort.
My goals are to have loved, to have been honest and vulnerable in my relationships, to have adventured every day, to have created beauty, to have felt all things deeply, to have remained innocent.
I am a kite soaring in the wind, but there’s nothing securing me to the ground. I am a top, spinning and spinning until I am so dizzy I cannot see. I am a coin, a penny in the air, about to drop.
I am a Wild Card.
A Wild Card is a terrifying thing to be.