Once, as a precocious teen, I wrote about the difference between being alive and living. And I see that all around me, especially from monday through friday, are individuals who are alive and nothing more. Sadly they are resigned to this existence, finding victory in survival. “We’ve survived until December”- they say. Survived. As if life is a combat zone. A drive-by. An accident. My profession must be more than something I survive. My day must be more than a finish line. I’ve got to find a way to live.
Each time I carve the line in the sand, a demarcation of my boundaries between what I will sacrifice and what must remain sacred, the tide washes it away. The next time I mark the spot where I will not cross–You are here, and here you shall remain–I find cause to tip the balance. And once again, I’ve left myself out of the equation of care. But I have re-committed to myself, I’ve made a promise to treat myself better. This time I’ve chosen not to write it so close to the shoreline. The sand indeed feels good between my toes.