Two years ago, I wrote about chasing The Next Best Thing(s). I wrote about feeling tired of it all, the constant chase for things that are dynamic and morph into something else; never-ending. I wrote about planting roots. I wrote about a place to call my own. I wrote about home. I wrote about coming home. For good.
Today, at a bus stop near Central Station in Sydney, a city that is both foreign and familiar, I had this thought: what happens to a person is a combination of fate and choices. If you want things to happen to you, you need to get out there and make them happen. If you want something, you need to desire it strongly enough that you’ll work for it. Opportunity doesn’t just knock, you need to seek it out like your life depends on it. But if for some crazy reason it does knock on your door, you darn well best hold on to it. This world is large and I am an insignificant dot not even visible on any map, yet I want so badly to be a large part of it.
It is so very difficult, increasingly difficult, to convince myself there must be roots before branches. I need to settle. Settle. The word rolls on my tongue reluctantly. My shoulders suddenly feel heavy with unspoken weight. Funny, while I am too much like my mother; it’s Dad’s yearning heart that I take after.
Oh my fickle heart.