In this season of my life I’ve found myself afflicted with the same struggle so many writers before me have come upon. The strange and imperfect jewel that is a growing understanding.

I’ve not lost the ability to see the things worth seeing or feel the things worth feeling (yet),
But the ways in which they feel worth saying stray farther and farther from me.

Nevertheless I see the value in trying.

Chronology seems loosened, the strike points of times hammer as it forges the sword of our lives, seem far harder to organize when I look back on it all. The monumental, mountainous, climactic moments of yesterday become peaks in a mountain range that fades in the rear view.

And with the context and clarity of hindsight, The less sharp ridges and waves get lost within themselves as time wears on.

They say it all makes sense eventually,

and that the somewhat predictable (and at the same time chaotic) ups and downs of our day to days give way to an organized and beautiful progression over time. A song that until all the instruments have joined the chorus, sounds like pure cacophony.

That’s the jewel, the front row ticket to life’s orchestra. There was a time when I would’ve had advice for the director. Now I seem only able to sit in awe at his mastery.