… And where’s the next trail?
It’s never pretty to end something that isn’t working. At least I’ve never been known for having tact. Often, runaway feelings take possession of my mouth (or fingers, if I’m typin’.) I’m not proud. I’m human.
Doing the hard thing with dignity: In 10 years, I had amazing experiences as a provider/teacher/helper in my field. To end with a sour taste in my mouth would be heart-breaking. I’m pausing and breathing, rather than typing a PM while anxiety is high. Never was one to solve anything with an ounce of detachment. But I’m sure it’s for the best if feelings, when typed, are for personal, cathartic purposes only.
I lost sleep last night just to come to that conclusion this morning. Also made bittersweet friends with the fact that I’m stepping off a decade-long path. Sometimes we are looking DOWN at the dirt and stone, trudging along. Ahead, is there a smoother trail? Better view? Or a cliff? It’s strange how quickly grief can turn to relief when you’ve decided to stop and look UP at the surrounding terrain. I believe I’ve found the next color Blaze and that makes walking away from the last one a little easier.
There’s no map, Friends and Confidantes. Just bootprints, determination and possibilities.