There’s not a lot of things we can be certain of in this life. Mortality is one of the few. Gravity is another, at least in this dimension.
But there is a feeling of bittersweet timelessness, clarity when you find something that aligns everything in focus for a second (which you then look back on in wonder) – sometimes we see clearer after pain, when we’ve let it wash through us and realized we’re still here. Still breathing. That survival is more than simply existing. Sometimes it is the exact proof we need that we are strong enough to withstand any dark curtain that might drape itself over us temporarily.
Sometimes we have to inflict pain, despite the pain it causes us, to grow ourselves and others. Seeds aren’t sown without digging. In southern gothic literature, they call it the pastoral – leaving what you know in order to look back and see it for what it is, and what it is not. And in that clear air, when the storms have blown out the atmosphere and clouds, we can see the valley floor. What we’ve been standing on, and what forms our foundation, and that which, despite time and erosion, we can be sure of, in ourselves.
That still, small voice that tells us what direction to go forward, and that sometimes a loop is a way to start again. To come back to where we began, and know it for the first time.
I can see you clearer. I can see myself clearer. It’s as if the clouds are blown away, and I can make out both hills, valleys, and all the warmth, growth, and history therein. There is no right choice, no wrong choice. Once we embark down the trail, we can’t see the birds eye view anymore. We are in it. But we can hopefully hold onto and trust that moment of clarity, when we stood atop the mountain summit and saw for miles, that there was a path. And it was wide enough to share.