As I reflect on this year so far, and on the new developments in our lives (namely the opportunity to move to Vermont and work at our dream school), I flip back to a journal entry made back in January:
Doors open and close around me, and I understand them as what the Universe offers me so that my hope does not die out entirely. Each door sends a slight disturbance of air that fills my lungs with possibility and keeps me breathing for another week or two. I cling to each rung of hope like monkey bars, believe I will eventually arrive at the other side, though it is not in sight.
It is time to be where I need to be, and perceiving that I get a sense of urgency, allow myself to be influenced by so many things; as a result, I lack clarity. The spirit world makes sure that the interval of each opening is not long enough for me to pass through.
When it is the right door, it will certainly be a grand passageway that is unmistakably right, and I will move through it in gratitude and with certainty. I understand these words as both placating and as potentially containing the higher truth that sustains me.
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