Life’s probably best lived in fiery anticipation, hot on some trail against buffeting opposition, and worst lived behind any windbreak. The fire in my belly thrives on a steady injection of warm anticipation. Without the opposing force, I can become complacent, I might even stand haughtily tall or, heaven-forbid, lean back in phony repose. Nobody gets anywhere resting behind the laurel bush.

Last Spring, I decided to finish painting the house The Muse and I left after the bankruptcy. This was a fool’s mission, certain to cost more than it would ever return, but it also became my own personal cause celebre. I was up to something for the duration, completing long-unfinished business with escalating passion.

I doubt that the specific cause ever matters as much as having a cause does; some probably fool-hardy mission resisting some invisible opposition, holding the warm anticipating of successfully over-coming something. This is the stuff from which worthy legacies emerge.

The absence of this epic drama, for me, produces stuck-ticipation, that hollow space where nothing compels anybody and nobody, not even the future, seems to care less about where I’m going and when—or even if—I might ever arrive. It’s almost like not even being alive. How I escape from this windless mire always escapes me there. That cluelessness could be confirmation that I’m there, pesudo-safely tucked in out of any wind, withering on my vine.

No pill or prescription cures this ill. No doctor has a cure. Some unlikely inspiration might turn the tiller into an unlikely gust. I try, then, to trust in the unlikely.

Drag me out of my shelter, burn down my musty home. None of us thrive on the leeward side like we do when we’re windblown.

©2012 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: Unstuck Stuck Consulting