Dear Wandering Soul,
How the future you envisioned for yourself has deceived you.
Life isn’t exactly where you expected to be, well neither is mine — so we’re in this boat together, whilst we may wish to sail in separate directions eventually.
I read that the term “Rain Dogs” implies that dogs as a species are unable to find their way back home in rainy weather, hence they must settle in and remain calm — once the rain clouds evolve into sunshine, they resort to their primal instinct to guide them back to comfort.
I don’t know how true that is, or if it was just a story a lover of dogs wrote to comfort those who’ve experience loss of the human being’s best friend.
Yet, regardless, the analogy feels true to the human soul; in it’s essence we too are creatures constantly wandering through life in search of meaning, and a sense of belonging.
We like to dream big, and there’s no harm in it — I once dreamed that I’d grow up to be an aviator, my room was filled with airplane models and I had an encyclopaedia on how they function.
That dream came crashing down, when I learnt that my vision had deceived me (quite literally); even the doctor marvelled at the brilliance of the rare disease where one experiences blindness during day-light, but can see clearly during the dark.
My mechanism for coping with it was joking that eyes were in fact quite “racist”, and it gave me a decent excuse for wearing sunglasses to shield my eyes from harmful rays and causing offence.
Viewing the world through this polarised filter, I had to figure out what else I was good at — and it took a while.
Don’t we just hate the people who seem to have it all figured out?
As though they were born with a map to navigate them through life the day that they detached from the umbilical cord.
Whilst, here we are — still wandering.
All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes, a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.
— "All That is Gold Does Not Glitter”, J. R. R. Tolkien.
I might need to snapchat Mr. Tolkien and request assistance, because I am wandering and I feel lost.
It doesn’t feel all the bad, to be lost.
To not be able to figure out what it is that we were put on this earth for.
What is our purpose?
Are we a special breed, like the “rain dogs”?
Waiting for the storm to wither, so that we may too resort to our primal instincts and find our way to shelter…?
…Or are we courageous explorers, who aren’t afraid of being lost.
We take pleasure in it, feeling lost tests our willingness to survive.
We find meaning, we discover what’s within; the substance that fuels us.
In being lost, we find purpose — driving us to the director where a map was not necessary.
The once hopeful aviator, now a humble professor — who once had the pleasure of flying in a concord, and felt sick to the stomach.
Not realising, all along — the loss of vision was blessing.
Aviation still inspires me, but the pleasure remains in having discovered my passion for writing; which moves me.
Only in being lost, could I have discovered I was not much different from the analogy of a “rain dog”; momentarily unable to find my way home — it was the patience to withstand the storm in it’s passing, through which I found comfort.