By some kind of extraordinary experience, perhaps trauma, an illness or severe distress, or even by sheer coincidence or exquisite beauty, some of us become aware of having embarked on a quite unusual journey. And on this passage, this voyage with unknown destination, we are sure to be taking many directions, meeting many kinds of people.
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There are countless roads, wide ones and others narrow, and deserts also, savage mountains and deep valleys, dense wetlands, crazy rivers, and the mighty vastness of the sea. Some tracks are short; others long, some people dangerous or heroic, and many things are indeed hard to understand.
On our way, we’re told many times that we’ll soon “reach the promised land,” but going left, and later right, we never seem to be reaching anything — at all. It’s indeed then that questions arise about the purpose, the best direction, and a competent guide.
But not for long, it dawns upon us that no one has a real clue about the final destination. We realize that we’re alone, on our own, that we need to cope with things ourselves, and that this voyage is by no means an organized tour.
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Our “guides” seem to be badly informed, unqualified — at best — and maybe even frauds. It looks like our promised land, oasis, or paradise is unreachable, or maybe even non-existent — that only an indistinct journey remains as our certainty.
And as we reach this important insight, we halt, reconsider, and repack. With our new load we embark once more — together with those who dream, with those awake, with the whole group, and with our phony guides, but now knowing that the journey will never end, that it will show us many phases, many stages, changing faces endlessly.
That this voyage, in some extraordinary way, will keep repeating itself not having any definite destination, that it seems for all the best to accept its mysterious drift, and travel it as comfortable, and moreover, as wisely as possible.
