It feels like my future is locked up right now. I try to peep through the keyhole to see what is next, but I have no clue.
That door is locked. It cannot be opened until the time is right. And the tie is not right. No matter how much I want to know what is going on right now. I wish for the daisies to shimmer and shine, I want the magic to come out, but instead I am stuck not knowing what will come.
Soon, it has to happen. Soon I will be able to see more than through a keyhole and walk over the bridge of this life and enter it.
When I get there, I wonder if I will look back on this time and remember how much I both wanted to know what was in store for me, but also how much I want to live in this moment, here and now, and enjoy it.
It is a scary prospect—crossing over a new bridge. Yes, it probably will not collapse, but you don’t know that for sure. And yes, it is possible to come back—but do I really want to? Right now is fun enough, and right now I am ok—but only because I am looking forward to that change that will be my new life.
I am excited. Time is rushing toward me like water under that bridge. And as much fun as it would be to stand on the bridge for a while and play Pooh Sticks—sometimes you have to start living. It is merely a crossing point.
The only Cross I want to stand in is the promise. But I have to take it out. I have to share it and go out. Not stand on this bridge and look dreamy while watching the sun set.
So. Looking and crossing and waiting and bridging and hoping that I didn’t drop something important with that last Pooh Stick.
It is interesting—to see whose stick pops out from under the other side of the bridge first. We wait to hear news of friends that know what is going to happen next. We get excited with then when they hear of acceptance, appointments, further jobs, more school, new relationships, changing relationships, and new hopes. And yet, some of us are still standing on the bridge, waiting for our Stick to pop out too.
It can be incredibly lonely—standing on that bridge. Not knowing where it will lead. Not ever really knowing if you have to jump off the end, because the part coming up to the road where you are supposed to go has washed away—and still—that is where you are going. And so, to stand and wait for someone to come build the bridge back, or at least give you a hand and a ladder, or to jump…
I’m partial to jumping. But I don’t know where it will lead. I suppose I’ll have to wait for the door to open.