Transition. Change. Movement.
I tend not to like these words. My flesh crawls at the thought of rearranging my set way of operating. It is a situation I must be forced into. Nevertheless, in those times of unavoidable transition, I will shift and wiggle and find a new path to trod. This new way will become comfortable again rather quickly, and soon become my cherished normal. For all of my wailing and warring against the flood waters of change, I know through experience that all is well on the other side of it. Most of the time, change is for the better. So, why do I still not like it?
I am jealous, in a way, of those of us who can take the scalpel of deviation over their lives constantly. They pull away every clinging vine that tethers them to old ways that don't work efficiently and rend the dusty veils of comfortable inactivity until they are not held back by anything. They are lean machines that chug onto a destiny greater and happier for the loss of baggage.
But the truth of me is that I love the old things too much to go free falling into the undiscovered beyond. Give me my antique desk and four walls to clouds and kites any day. (Unless the kite was owned by my great grandmother, then we will talk.) I crave solidity. Change rails against solidity. I rail against change. Its quid pro quo, really.
