I have a corner apartment with windows on two sides (in three out of four rooms). In spite of being on the third floor (the top), it takes a long time for it get hot. But once it does, it takes a similarly long period to get cool again. So it’s still hot in here. Like, doing nothing more strenuous than typing in the lightest cotton outfit I own, and still I sweat. I hate air conditioning so this is my own doing, and really just an observation of the current state of affairs.
I planned to write about another play tonight, but some hiccups with the library mean I only have one of the collections I was writing about (the wrong one). And my haphazardly applied precision was made very uncomfortable by the prospect of posting out of order. However, that same misapplied precision is also sad that I broke my posting rhythm, and so here are these words.
I believe the years of effort have paid off and I can consistently pick my true voice out of all the noise in my head. The compass is surer about my personal north, I believe it, and can sometimes even feel the magnetic tug. It is a direction, mind you, not a destination. I have no idea where I am going. But I am familiar with my “you’ll know it when you feel it” feeling. All I am trying to do is string as many of those as close together as I possibly can.
My true voice does not always get the last word. Sometimes I find myself headed due south and that magnetic tug starts to feel more like an angry churn; or a ball and chain; or the proud of Dante’s Purgatorio, laboring under large stones (though mine are more often guilt).
Whether a course correction or a step a long the path, there is nothing but change. Minute, unseen shifts in my psyche, or grand upheavals in my life: change. So I feel myself now, shifting…emotional weight to the other metaphoric leg; emphasis; attention. And all that change requires forgiveness for what I leave behind and shed; exploration of the choices I yield to; always remaining ready to dance, because the next change is coming.