Tell me of the well-worn path in which you’ve lumbered, year after year, to arrive at the place of your dreams,  and I’ll tell you to open your fist, soften your grip, and veer off, away from that dusty rut your feet know so well. Explore the outlying brush, the thickets, the mossy bogs, the dead trees fallen from some mighty storm. Explore the terrain that terrifies you.

The destination of our dreams is not a separate place, tucked away at the end of the journey. The destination is the journey; this pinpoint in time, right here, right now. It’s the mud and muck. The snow and ice. The scorching heat and the dry long days that threaten to destroy tender living things. It’s the incandescent joy, the overwhelming happiness, the sublime touch of your lover’s hands. It is everything. For your treasure is simply, your life. This breath. This exhale. This next breath.

Tell me your dreams and I’ll tell you that you’re living them, right now, no matter how far off on the horizon they may appear to you. Because you’re on your way. And the path can’t be torn away from the destination. They are one and the same.

 

 

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