We are at a crossroads. As so often happens at crossroads, we have no idea which way to go. Old plans and schemes we jettisoned with gleeful abandon in the past led us here. We look around us in confusion. Our problem is not one of identity. We know who we are. It’s not one of purpose. We know what we are to do. If we falter, it is because of perception.
We kneel here at the center of that proverbial crossroads. Robert Johnson might have walked here. We sift dirt through our fingers, breathe in the musk of history and belonging. This place roots us to the beginning. To every wandering soul who searched for something different. To every seeker who sought to ascend to something greater than themselves. Nothing else makes sense. Above us, crows watch silently from ancient trees. Squirrels peer around the bark in curiosity. We’re not unwelcome here. But we are new. We are different. Another in a long history of wanderers who shuffled through on their way from one place to another. The whispers of our mothers and fathers drift upon soft breezes. The love and struggle of all who came before us, of all those whose lives and existence led to us being, has led us here. In this moment. Do we linger? Do we progress? Which way to do we go? To remain or to become?
Nothing is ever as clear in the moment as it is later. Humans have a way of justifying choices after the fact. Change is coming. Tomorrow will be different from today. As we linger here, catching our breath, resting weary bones for a brief moment, the voices call for rest, to cease our struggles, to just be. We are so very tired.
But that is not our lot. We are too restless. The roads before us beckon. We must move along. We must find the salve which soothes this ache. Perhaps, in that, we have an explanation, if not our answer. The trick is to keep moving. The point is to be. The words we use to describe us are irrelevant. We are. For the moment, that is enough. When you don’t know where you are or where you’re going, any road will do, if the journey is the point.