“Go forth on your path, as it exists only through your walking.” Saint Augustine The water-based corollary is that a ship at dock can’t be steered. We’re meant to move. Physically, yes, but in this context we’re meant to be working on whatever we’re called to pursue: — a writer writes — an athlete chases higher levels of performance — a creative creates — a teacher learns then teaches — husbands and wives pursue each other — mothers and fathers actively care for what their children need most We need to walk our walks and steer our ships. What are you doing today to make that happen? In your life what’s been on pause for too long? How can you get it off of pause? [Image credit : Thanks to Ludomił Sawicki @ludo_savick for making this photo available freely on Unsplash]
Tag: dreams
[click here for the first half of this story] I gave the guard a long look. “I’m not playing.” His eyes glinted and he nodded to the others. They’d known this was coming and were prepared. In a second my arms were twisted back and the spokesman used a giant knife, running it straight up the front, to cut my shirt free. He held the knife at my chin for a moment and smiled before putting it away. The two guards released my arms and pulled the fabric down, tossing it to a corner. My heart raced and my headache seemed to beat in time with the blood being pumped through my veins. They probably weren’t going to replace that shirt now and I would freeze come winter. Maybe the table inside held a clean shirt. I still wouldn’t fight for it. The door clanged open and I was pushed inside. I saw the other two men at their doors, already in wary stances. Each of them held batons like the one my friendly guard had hit me with. So much for willow switches. The Director had raised the stakes. I spotted a baton at my feet, but didn’t…
“No.” It came out as a whisper. “The Director requires it.” I glanced at the steel cup sitting at the end of my bed and back to my arms, where the stripes had only just begun to heal. The welts were still red, but my skin cells were doing their job, repairing the damage, and my arms itched. My legs and back were the same. Maybe worse. The last few nights I’d had to learn to sleep on my stomach to avoid the pain of lying on my battered back. I thought about what the Director could do with his requirement and told the guard again, “No. I’m a prisoner, not the entertainment. Find someone else.” “You were the best player,” said the guard. It came out almost as a plea. Like he couldn’t wait to see me in action again. He was a guard in this pit of hell, but it occurred to me that, in a sense, he was a prisoner as well. “You’re playing again tonight. Voluntarily or not.” He had two backups in the hallway. All three were taller and stronger than me. I could fight. I would lose, but I could fight. Then what?…