The only thing that matters is the journey. When I set out on my bicycle this morning, I didn’t care when I got there because there wasn’t any there to get to. Eventually I’d end up at home again, but meanwhile — on a perfect summer Sunday morning…
My speedometer broke months ago and I threw it out. Who needs that stuff anyway? I know I’m going fast when I feel the wind in my face and hear the roar in my ears. God invented gravity so I could become a kid again, racing downhill without pedaling. And when I stopped at the top of the next hill to drink in the water, the sun, the summer sky and the quiet, knowing I climbed that bad boy in high gear, I inhaled the joy of the journey.
Who needs the baggage? Who needs the stuff? Where to next? Find the quiet roads (cars count as stuff too) and keep riding — past cornfields where the corn is taller than me, trees in full glory, blue skies, flowers. I could ride forever hearing the birdsong.
I passed a jogger going the other way. She waved. I waved back. I could have said good morning but I had no idea what time it was and didn’t care either because time stopped today. There was only now.
Can you imagine the passion and joy we could bring to our writing if we forget our baggage, if we leave all our stuff home and just write? Write without worrying where we are going or where we’ve been? We can you know.