A journey that belongs to a lifetime is not taken in a day. Even the plans set for a single morning often begin to move before their purpose has had time to speak, intention pressing forward with its own impatience. What lies near may be seen with some clarity, holding its shape long enough to invite confidence. The ground allows it. The path opens. But when the eye presses farther on—drawn toward what waits ahead—the air changes its temper. It thickens and gathers. What once appeared firm loosens under the gaze, and a fog rises slowly, bearing authority, deciding what may and may not be seen.
The horizon waits there, neither advancing nor retreating. It does not yield itself to attention. It holds its distance, listening, and what lies beyond remains withheld, folded out of reach. Sight alone does not grant passage, and the more the gaze insists, the more the horizon keeps its counsel.
To live without intention offers no answer either, to yield entirely to the wind and move only as it allows, carried as the dandelion is carried, held until the breath arrives that frees it from the stem. A child at play encounters it in that moment of waiting and lifts it gently, running through the grass so that the air they stir becomes the force that sets it loose. The white crown drifts, giving up what it holds as it goes, each small life drawn downward in its own time, guided by gravity’s long patience until what remains settles briefly upon the ground and is taken back into it.
Some of what is scattered does take root. The earth receives what arrives without question. Yet what falls without care is seldom returned to. What begins may live, but little is asked of it beyond endurance, and there is scant hope that it will be brought to fullness without a hand that remembers where it was placed.
The thought then turns toward the opposite pull, where the wind is resisted and the course held fast. Here a life is shaped with firmness, its direction fixed, its end imagined and pursued by will. Sails are set against the air. The bow is pressed forward. Intention gathers and resolve hardens. The sea answers. It takes its due. Cargo is given to the depths to keep the vessel afloat, and still the storms rise. There are hours when the waves speak more strongly than command, when the helm grows heavy in the hand and the water insists upon its say.
Between these ways the motion settles, neither drifting nor forcing, but learning how to move in company with what resists and what carries. The course remains toward the mark, yet allows the season its influence. Ground is chosen where truth is known and set firm, standing against the hidden pulls below—those quiet currents that draw ships toward reefs they cannot yet discern.
Such a way permits seed to be placed with care in soil able to receive it, where tending may follow what has been planted. It teaches the one who travels not merely to survive the sea, but to learn its moods and silences. Direction is kept without demanding sight, and room is left for the One who governs the winds to steady the rudder when the waters grow uncertain. The end is not given early. It remains held by the horizon, withheld but not denied, while the journey is taken all the same—step by step, crossing by crossing—carried forward by a patience willing to move without forcing what has not yet consented to be known.
© 2026 Steven Scott. All Rights Reserved.
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