If living has
taught me anything, it’s taught me that I’m no soothsayer. I’ve always relied
heavily on my intuition, but intuition and a clear vision are two separate beasts.
It’s an odd juxtaposition; my instincts rarely wrong me, but the confounding and
unknowable destinations that my instinctual paths build remain just that—a sort
of place that I can sense but never see clearly until I stumble forward and
fall flat on top of them. I’ve found that each time I think I’ve etched my
path, each time I feel like it’s written, I learn all over again that it isn’t.
Maybe my karmic life is like the phoenix, destined to live and burn and be
reborn in its ashes. I’ve lived lives where I could close my eyes and picture a
destination, where I could practically see who I could become, what I was becoming, only to have one small
pebble start an avalanche and to be given the terrifying and humbling foresight
to pack and rebuild. There’s nothing quite so transcendent as being destroyed
so that you can become more than the sum of your shattered parts.
