Any response I can feign is stifled. Stretching with a creak, I pull at the question until it tightens, with nothing in my sights.
“The heart is an arrow”, Leigh Bardugo says. It is elegant and precise when given direction. It is goodness, and beauty, and truth. A foot upon a line and balanced. A readiness gripped and gazing, raised and slowly lowered. A body brought together in right angles and clean axiis, finally released. A mind remaining and then returned.
I have looked for an effort I can put the weight of my worth behind. A task. A project. An ikigai. An energy in the movement of all I do. I am reckless without a mark. Too taut. Too eager. Too clumsy. Too restless. Too ready to launch at anything that moves. I am something feathered captive too long in a quiver. I have recoiled in response to loss. My safety has turned to severance. Actions turned anxious without an endeavor.
There is motion and there is motive. There is a difference between the two. There is reactivity and there is response. There is a space that satisfies a deeper need.
The real problem isn’t the mechanics of aiming. The problem is not knowing what you’re aiming for. Our lives are simply a series of iterative measures made in an effort to find the mark. The heart, like an arrow, is equal parts discipline and art. It requires an awareness that is open and without illusions. A self lost and offered-up completely. It demands an aim without an ego.
But, too many of my sentences center and start with “I”…
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