I keep dreaming about windows. Long, wide, enclosed porches or rooms, with dozens of windows, lined up in a row. I am concerned about the locks on the doors. Or maybe it is the windows themselves. They stand naked, and bare, unadorned with curtains, or drapes, or even blinds. I see them, lined up in regimented rows, and feel unsettled. I am supposed to do something, but I don’t know what it is. I awaken, still feeling confused.

I think the windows must be a metaphor. I have been somewhat adrift for the last five or so years, trying to figure out where I fit; hoping to discover my purpose. It hasn’t been clear. I took a different career path; I tried on different shoes. They did not fit. And so I stand here, nervous and uncertain, wondering what could be on the other side of all those windows.

I know what my passions are. My family, my God, writing, photography, the wonder of nature and the glory of the Universe. I know that I am reinventing myself, day by day, and I want to be better, stronger, more at peace. And I want to be useful. I do know how to put pen to paper. (Or fingers to keyboard.) And so I will. At this moment, I choose a window. It looks small, and smudged, and I must squeeze myself through it. I don’t know, yet, what is on the other side. But it is my window, and I am jumping through.

Follow my journey on my new blog:

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