I decided a couple months ago that I would know my life was well lived when I reach my 50s-60s and you could walk into my house, sit in my living room and *feel* the warmth and see the traces of a life well lived. It’ll have pictures, keepsakes, books, art work funky patterns and well-placed pillows that are all the tell-tale sign of someone who has been places, seen things and who has met a ton of people that have left them inspired. I don’t want to be well-known, I want to be someone to know. You’ll see it in my living room.
Everybody is nothing until you love them.
The Promised Land holds for me exactly what the name implies; a promise of something greater. Something I have not yet achieved, but a *thing* that is guaranteed to fill my life with joy and bestow upon me a shield of armor that deflects all weapons formed against that mean me harm.
The promised land isn’t money, it isn’t material things, power over other people, it isn’t every wish granted and it isn’t someone else. It’s me loving me and everything I am and being at peace with everything I am not. It is all the has taken root from the seed grown within me and all the delicious fruit the frightfully designed seed bears.
The Promised Land is walking with my head to the sky, breathing the magnificent wind that feels my lungs and my nose with the everlasting scents of triumph. Only in the promise land will my war-torn neck find the strength.
Outside The Promise Land I keep my head to the ground and watch my shadows dance beside me and in front of me, when they should be behind me. I look on as they move rhythmically a tired jig of fear. They weave in and out amongst the shadows of strangers as they walk by. Outside The Promised Land I wonder if you too are watching shadows dance. I wonder if you carry the pain that prevents your neck from lifting the head it’s been charged to direct high.
Inside The Promise Land creativity leaps from my fingers because I am no longer scared of my craft. I no longer fear the process of decay that I wrongfully believe will happen once the fruits of my labor hit the air.
Inside The Promised Land I will look into a mirror and no longer weep at what looks back at me. The eyes I meet, I will love. They are who I am and I am who they see. I will no longer stare into an abyss of glass waiting for something else to appear. In The Promised Land who and what I see is enough.
In The Promise Land I will rest for a moment. I can sprint the rest of the way, instead of jogging. The heavy load I carry will be lifted. Before I step foot into The Promise Land, I will leave it all behind.
The Promised Land is not the end of my journey nor is it a beginning. It’s just someplace I have to get to or this path will be in vain.