welcome to the story.

an email i wrote to one of my best friends who is frustrated with life and having to wait on everything that she wants. as i have been there, i wrote . . . and deep in the forest, a young girl began to sing an enchanted song that reminded all who heard that life was still unfolding before us like an unworn sweater that is unpacked out of a suitcase. and so it is. no doubt life is frustration. not having and knowing everything you want and need. what lies ahead tomorrow and the day after that and 10 years after that. it stays hidden. almost teasing us because of our lack of intuition or discernment of the future or whatever you want to call it. but we're not sister cleo who reads palms down the streets. we don't have any magic looking glasses. all we have is faith that things play out. and work out. and do so in a manner that is worthy of our patience. but thats where the beauty of life comes in. waiting and acting and playing and falling and stumbling and enjoying. tossed from one side of the spectrum to the other and then back again. believing that it all works out and doubting it all with every fiber of our heart. back and forth we go. swinging on our swing. free as a bird that is tied to the ground. a heavy fog that refuses to rise. a kite that is no less grounded than the largest of all mountains. all the while enjoying the decisions and moments and the present that is always shaping our future. so in the middle of all that we get to do what nothing else on earth gets to do. we get to enjoy life for what it is. despite the hum-drumness. despite the things that make us weary. despite not having who we want when we want them. but they're there. doing the same thing we're doing. waiting on us. figuring out life. learning and growing so that they are prepared to meet. and with that we wait. and we wait. and we wait. and then we wait some more. patiently for our life to unfold. a story that is still being penned or penciled (whatever your preference) or in this modern age - typed. waiting . . . once again . . . like an unworn sweater that is unpacked out of a suitcase.