They say it is important that we do what we have come here to do, to live our life’s purpose.
So much of my life I have worried that I would never figure that out—never find the written instructions that spell out exactly the work, the accomplishment, the contribution that is MINE to make.
But really, there is no one thing. There is no roster with names in one column and destinies in the next, all spelled out. There is nothing to be checked off.
And what a good thing that is. How antithetical that would be to the nature of being human, to the nature of life itself.
We are not born only to accomplish a task, and then once that is complete return to the throbbing unformed miasma to repeat the process again. We exist for the more, for living each moment explicitly for the stunning opportunity to discover it, to create it, to leap with abandon into the adventure of breathing and seeing and knowing and loving and dancing and struggling and…
There is no one thing to be or do. There are only the acts of being and doing. Being me. Doing it my way. Each moment, each nuance, each look, each task and test, each elegant spot of grace.
That is the meaning of destiny.