Speculation

I would sit on the terrace with my coffee and journal each morning to greet the day. It was the first thought that crossed my mind when I opened my eyes. I had no inkling as to what it was I wanted to write, no grand story laid out in my mind, no elaborate tale waiting to be told. I had no idea what the day would bring, nor any desire to speculate on it. I reached for my pen.

The same man would appear each day with the rising sun to make pancake shaped patties out of mud. They lay on the roof of the hut below all day, baking in the sun. I had no idea what they were for, what creation he was planning to make of them, what their destiny would be. Nor did I have any desire to speculate on it.

The children made their way to school in their little uniforms and enormous bags clinging to their backs. The girls all wore little red bows in their hair. They looked like illustrations, perfectly drawn children who had wandered out of their storybooks and into our world, bounding down the dirt road in search of something more. I too, was on such a search.

And I can’t define it, what I was looking for, or what it is that I found. I can’t explain the journey of my life as though it were a storybook. The concept of time seems to slip from my reality. Everything in my life feels as though it were both yesterday and a thousand years ago, a lifetime ago.

I think about my friends who have come so far. So many of them are on the verge of deciding their futures. What will they do next? What will become of them? The musician who just stumbled upon the opportunity of a lifetime, the scholar who’s just decided there’s law school in her future, the travelers who are planning their next big adventure across the globe.

And then there’s me. It’s not that I feel as though I need some life plan. It’s not that I’d like to have some specific future I’m working towards. It’s just that, I’m not at all certain of what I want, and for whatever reason, I’m allowing that to define who I am. What do I want to be when I grow up?

In my mind, not having an answer to that question means that I wouldn’t even pass the first grade if I tried now. Why was it so much easier to think about where I’d be half way through my life at age 6 than it is at 21? Everything was so certain then. Everything was easy and possible. Everything was just the way it ought to be.

But maybe now, uncertainty is the way it ought to be. Yes, it tortures me, but it also allows me to dwell in possibility and a future filled with open doors and opportunities. It allows me to dream the same way I did in the first grade, allows me to change my answer with each passing day, allows me to believe, with all of my heart, that anything can be.

And I do believe that. Maybe my life isn’t meant to have a destination, and maybe I just need to be okay with that. Maybe I just need to be defined as the woman without a plan, to write my pages as they come, to surprise even myself with my ending. Maybe that’s my story.

Those final pages remain a mystery, a blank canvas to be filled with interesting tales and people and adventures. Those final pages are waiting and they don’t seem to mind how long I take to get there. I have no idea why they wait, nor do I have any desire to speculate on it. I am grateful for their patience.