I am writing this on a Friday morning and in a few hours I will be hitting the road for a weekend long adventure. Other than clothes, all I am packing is a book to read and a book to write in, no technology for entertainment or distraction.
At the same degree that I aim to rest, I intent to find some clarity.
In his 30s after a lot of pain and suffering, David lay on his bed with little hope of living past the week and all he could do was look back at his life, his childhood that was littered with abuse, the brutality his body had endured both by the world and at his own hands, up to where he was now bedridden. And he could do was smile; he was at peace.
What he had done for the most of his adulthood was to systematically interrogate and rewrite any limitation he’d come to believe about himself. His tank was dry as the desert he’d once run in and he was better for it - he had lived through hell to find his heaven.