All this week I've been looking beyond a concrete beyond, into the sheer insanity of possibilities. It's not, as it should be, "what will I emphasize as a therapist for the next two years, what will my thesis be, how will I develop my skills before practicum?" but rather a complete bypass of this flesh carrying future into plans for doctoral work in what and where, plans for licensure in psychology, plans for research in preferred areas. And then I come back to myself in bewilderment, smiling ironically at how much the child element still sticks around no matter how many rungs up the latter of maturity I've climbed, and find God smiling too as an eternal word benevolently sears my soul: you're a fiction writer first, you know.
What did I lack in all this baseless planning? Not intelligence, prudence, modesty, calculation, resignation, but one very basic, all-important thing. Myself. All this long-term, far-sighted planning is an escape from becoming who we're meant to be. We're cowards and so we clamber towards a cold but clear futurity, away from the healing embers of sacrificial selfhood.
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