I was outside reading the bravest memoir of the last decade, the scathing Blow Your House Down by Gina Frangello, listening to wind chimes I’d coveted before bringing home. These particular windchimes used to live outside of a small retail shop downtown. When it was closing, I was walking by and lucked out at their everything must go sale. Most of them annoy me. There’s only been one other that I would have liked to hear daily and it was left 2000 miles away another lifetime ago.
What is a wind chime without wind? Pretty, at best. Without wind there is no song. This seemed like a glaring metaphor for finding your purpose in life. We all need wind in order to sing. We need to figure out what moves us and stampede in that direction. Because more and more often these days, it seems like if you don’t carpe fucking diem, you might not get a chance to tomorrow.
Don’t wait. Whatever it is that brings you joy, go towards it now. If you’re not even sure what that is anymore, I fucking feel you. Commit to trying shit out until you find what brings music to your soul. No one else will be able to deliver it to you. Life would be far easier if they could. To quote Gina; we are all only one strange leap away from becoming inconceivable to our former selves. I’m not sure if that’s hopeful or devastating; but it’s undeniably true.