I’m standing on the very edge. (No, fretful ones, I’m not jumping off any literal cliffs or bridges; read on.)
Where am I? What new chapter in my life is this? All I know is that I’m on the edge. Can I set up a hammock here and just rest a while, swinging perilously and thoughtfully, admiring the view? That’s what my heart is drawn to do. I’ve run so far, and I’m so out of breath, just to arrive at this edge; I came crashing through the midnight woods, my feet are all cut up, and my hair is full of twigs and leaves.
Surely I can stop running now? The demons that clutched at my heels all through the woods are hanging back for now, and this edge that I’ve sought, without knowing that it was my destination, is right here in front of me. I can see it; I can run my finger along its sharp margin.
I can’t hang out here indefinitely, of course. There are choices to be made, or not (and not choosing is a type of choice). I would rather have my choices be somewhat conscious and deliberate.
My choice right now, then, is to lie down, close my eyes, and let the wind rock me. I will catch my breath. I will not analyze. I will not strive for answers, or control. Wind, come curling through my mind; blow out the dust; whisper to me of all that is true. Along with clearing out my mind, fan the flames of my heart; burn away the doubt; let the heat warm me down to my fingertips; let the light of the fire be enough to read a poem by.