Tagged

Distinctive,

unique,

individual!

...or simply identified? Known? It's there somewhere, whether hidden away and forgotten
or loudly singing wearing a pink boa. Somewhere...the desire to be labeled, marked:
recognized.

To commit to a location. Whether it's the space between my last thought and my next or tiles in a sidewalk thousands of miles away constantly affirming a sence of place. That label.

"You are here."

So that once people see there is no question. The question has been answered and that answer announced. A simple and proud answer.

Voices warning: "don't be a generalist," "the middle drops out,""commit to one thing and do it well."

How?

Make a choice? When everything is open and wonderfully tempting? I certainly remember how way leads on to way. I know that when I save the first for another day it's unlikely that I'll pass that way again. Innumerable thoughts and desires--opposite and opposing and messy. What will I ever do with all of them? No, I can't just get rid of some and hold onto the others. I know, I know. I know if I choose, the ones I keep will be better than before--shiney, polished, clean and beautiful.

But I don't want a few precious gems in a case.

The warnings continue: "you can't have it all." It's true. I can't have all of them, polished and pristene--maybe in a beautiful velvet bag or display case on a pedestal. But it's ok. Better than ok, in fact.

Through the confusion and amid the voices I think I can almost make out a rhyme--or a reason? Somehow I begin to accept the multitude of mismatched pieces that troubled me before with their differences. Maybe the opposites won't tug and tear at each other until I'm left with the bland, dreaded middle ground. The light and dark could stay distinct but balanced. Thousands of tiny pieces might come together and form one pattern. The peices won't fit, but come close. You couldn't call it seemless. It's not perfect or pristine. In fact, the gaps between--where the pieces don't meet edge-to-edge--they trap dirt, sand--anything that can get in between. Things I didn't ask for will squeeze in to become a part of the whole. It's all stuck in there and impossible to keep clean. When it rains, everything gets muddy. But even after the rain, under the mud, the pattern will be distinct and uniquely mine. Repeating over and over. The path is long, the scenery differs--but just look down, and I'll be reassured--still together, still intact. Together the thousands of pieces tell me where I am. And, if I'm lucky, I'll glance back to see the path behind me as it glistens in the late afternoon sun.