There is a city called Should, and I am not there yet.
I’m circling it like someone who’s heavyhanded with a dry erase marker because they secretly like the smell of it. Here, I say, is where I should be, as I stipple the board ferociously for emphasis.
The city, as I understand it, is full of tidy homes, reasonable to-do lists, and music—more music than there are ears to hear it. Even when you can’t manage to listen, it plays and rejoices in itself anyway.
And if I’m hearing the rumors right, citizens breeze easily through their days on five hours of sleep. They roll out of bed and into gratitude like it’s a pair of house slippers, and wrap themselves in a robe of perfect community. Creative projects run through the heart of Should, like rivers from mountain springs—fresh, invigorating, life-giving rivers.
The map is clear, the inroads make sense, the terrain feels traverseable with the supplies I have on hand. And the city is ready for me: a light is on and a bed is made for me.
The problem is that I can’t pinpoint where I’m at on the map. I have a destination, but between all the valleys and plains and mountains, I have no bearings. My usual solution has been to go straight in one direction, as far and as fast as I can, to see if I can at least find the edge of the map. But when one map ends, another one begins and we’re back in the same boat.
But maybe, it’s this: I’ve been so focused on where I should be, that I’ve forgotten to enjoy where I’m actually at.
I’m closer than I think.
Next Steps: Drink a glass of water, clean your desk, and put on a fresh pair of underwear. It’s a new week.