Most times we begin with some idea of where things will end up. We’ll commence a task with some sense of a conclusion; the endpoint is the motivation for the starting. ‘I’m going to read this book until I finish’ (or decide it’s not for me – still an endpoint). ‘I’m going to cook this meal until it’s ready to eat.’ ‘I’m going to buy this coffee with the purpose of drinking it.’
Even if we don’t realise, there’s usually some sort of plan – ignition on, seatbelt fastened, car in gear, mirrors, look, drive. Many of our plans are automatic – the act of showering or walking from here to there. Even in the case of tasks that may take some extra thought – using the ATM, following a map – we are setting some sort of process in train to achieve our aim.
Our days would be fairly rambly, or downright impossible, without a sense of where we’re going. Those destinations don’t have to be particularly special. We can be going into the studio to work, we can be striving to successfully put out the rubbish. Of course, there can, indeed, be grander plans. We can be striking out to be rich by our fifties or fulfil a dream of travelling to Paris. We can build our lives around being a good person or reaching any potential that may be lying dormant.
But on the very odd occasion, we start something without a single thought about what it’s for, how we’ll manage it or what the result will be. We creep along, a step at a time, oblivious to any goals or strategy. And thus, we chug away, let our thoughts wander, keep writing and, all of a sudden, it’s been two years.
In gentle celebration,