As I finish writing in the last couple of blank pages of a lake journal I started in 2015, I find myself deep in contemplation this morning about how much has changed. About how much has stayed the same. About how I have made so much progress, and no progress at all.

This journal is filled with moments of quiet joy, deep pockets of pain, an air of expectancy, and bittersweet memories. Its pages are covered with words, hopes, dreams, feelings, needs, desires, questions and confusion. It’s seen every season – literally and figuratively – the sound of the wind, waves and wildlife deeply embedded.

I’ve been paying attention to what catches my attention, and I think I am on the verge of telling my story to untether me from my story so I can write a new story with a brave new ending.

I’ve grown weary of this world, one in which I am not met with the passion, joy and vibrancy that I try to infuse. I am reminded that I am meant for more than most can fathom, that my calling and purpose here are different and it requires a different approach. I’ve tried to fit in, but it is exhausting. I wasn’t meant to fit in.

I never take for granted what the lake teaches me, the renewal it brings, and the space it gives me to think and feel deeply without reservation or apology. If I allow it, the expansiveness that is Me can swallow me whole and transform my life. The question is: Will I allow it?

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