The wonderful thing about the future is that it does not exist. Yet. It is not given. It is certainly not certain. We can to some extent predict what might be, but we don’t know that it will be. And given the oceans of unknowing that we know about and the near infinity that we don’t, the probability of any prediction being completely upended by unknowns is far greater than any future unspooling in a predictable fashion.
This is what I am putting my faith in right now.
Because if I were to make logical predictions for a future that flows from this present moment… to be brutally honest, there would be little reason to stick around. I have never been this angry and horrified and despondent and grief-stricken. But I’m a supreme muddler… I’m putting my head down, placing my feet firmly on a likely path, and trusting in the unknown.
Muddling along does not put much stock in goals. There isn’t a destination. It’s all process. One foot in front of the other, keeping the eyes on the present, with only a few passing glances toward the distant horizon to make sure you don’t fall off the edge of the world or something. There is a good deal of muttering with muddling. But there is also laughter. And full bellies. And contentment. And very few distractions… because there aren’t distractions… given that it doesn’t really matter in the end as long as you’ve lived well.
The trick is to make as much good as you can and then understand that that is enough.
In any case, something unknown will undoubtedly come along and turn everything upside-down. And that too is enough.
And if you need more solid reassurance, there’s this: we are in hell right now. Yes, it could get worse. But it’s just as likely to get better. Especially if you put your head down and your feet on a likely path and your eyes on the world within your reach.
Wednesday Word
for June 29, 2022
moon
mere moonlight
she is the mirror created enchained entrained in wearisome will reflected glowing deflected knowing a skin of scattering and emergent mother mattering no body to call her own she limns his life gifting grace and savor for ephemeral favor bearing faint praise through waning days unseen but in bloody climax eclipsed in his shadow she is cold echoed light old silvered sight and no inherent right to ever walk unfettered under the sun
©Elizabeth Anker 2022
Wednesday Discourse
Wednesdays are open posts. Anything you feel like sharing (except the usual injunctions against foul messaging).
By My Solitary Hearth 
Thank you for this. I needed to read this
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“The trick is to make as much good as you can and then understand that that is enough”
Yes! Thank you. We will muddle through 🙂
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