Journeys

I’m going on a journey.

As I begin, the air is fresh with a new warmth. It makes me recall summer days and easy moments. I feel lifted, hopeful at this sign of better things and the excitement of what is ahead; the new things I will see as I travel, the good lessons I will learn and, of course, the triumphant arrival at my destination. I feel some level of fear too – the unknown does, after all, harbour the possibilities of difficulty, possibly danger, but I am disinclined to dwell on those. I put my foot forward, take the first of what I know will be many steps and head off towards my intended goal, head high, muscles strong.

Now, I am roughly halfway through the expedition. The weather is turning. Clouds pillow, their bulk blocking out the warmth of the sun, the breeze turning uncomfortably cool and strengthening towards a harsher push upon me. I feel it is a portent. My legs ache and there’s that particular pain which means the skin on my left heel is succumbing to friction. I begin to doubt the preparation I conducted. Perhaps I should have spent more time checking, asking, practising. The map confirms what I already know – I am too far from home to make turning back a sensible option. There’s a growl from behind me, a rustle in the undergrowth; wildlife which I should not be surprised about, but still, the absolute proof they exist, up close to me like this, is a shock. Doubt seeps, like black ink on blotting paper, and I say to myself ‘you were foolish to think you have the talent or the abilities to succeed on such a journey as this; who do you think you are?’

‘Quite!’ I answer. What have I done? What am I doing this for? Why did I put myself into this difficulty? Why did I think I could mimic the footsteps of giants? I recall my hopeful start, how full of excitement my heart was, how confident. The memories mock me and I am defeated. So, I sit down on the trail. Stop, even though I know I can’t stay here in no-man’s land forever - some kind of action or decision is needed. But, underneath my panicky heart, I am at a loss to come up with anything other than this – to sit upon the solidity of earth.

It does occur to me to do something practical, simple – check on my heel, apply one of the plasters I know I packed. Take a drink. Breathe. Look up at the sky and assess whether the waterproof I also packed is needed. As I do, I remember why I chose this journey, this destination. Not for the celebratory hoopla and parties, but for the knowledge I achieved my aim. I goad myself with ‘so what, who cares?’ and agree; probably no one. But – and this is what gets me back up, to take another step – when I reach this destination, it will be apparent where I am supposed to go next.

This, folks, is one of the meanings of life. It is also a metaphor for every single big, hairy, audacious target I have ever set myself; fun at the beginning, scary as hell halfway through, requiring me to dig deep for strength and tenacity I always fear I do not have, gritting my teeth to pull forth the original urge which compelled me to dare.

It is a metaphor for my current quest to secure a literary agent. It is a metaphor for my pursuit to be a better writer – I want to write the truest sentence I have ever written, and then follow that up with an even truer one, and so on, and so on, until somebody recognises that truth and takes it up as their own.

In the meantime, has anyone got any blister cream?

Rachel x