Delayed

I didn’t think that I needed to be reminded. But we all need the reminders.

The reminder came to me as I was sitting in the terminal to the airport, waiting for the flight that had already been the replacement to an earlier flight that was cancelled. This new flight became delayed. So delayed that I got to my destination several hours after the rental agency closes and not in sufficient time to allow me to simply shuttle to and from my hotel.

It’s a reminder that life will never go as planned.

I was travelling for work on my day off. It was a choice so that I could ensure that I would be able to be at my destination first thing in the morning. I still made it there first thing in the morning, but it required nearly 18 hours waiting in airports.

A lot of stress passed through me in this time. Sleep would not come easily. How could it? Noisy airports and uncomfortable seats made sure that sleep would be kept at bay. Further stress came from this knowledge. But I’ve endured worse; I will endure worse to come.

Sleep didn’t come but in small spurts as I spread out on a bench in the ticketing area at the airport, waiting for the rental place to reopen. When it did, I was second in line (behind another gentleman who was in an identical spot to me) and got in and went.

I made it to the hotel at the early morning hours of 6:20am, checked-in, took a shower, ate some of the complementary breakfast, and ran back out, out to go to work.

Again, I’ve endured worse, and I will endure worse to come.

This new job is something that I wanted. It was a break from the daily politics of running a department in a high-volume manufacturing facility to instead act as a resource for help. It involves plenty of travel, and I was sure that I would be OK with that.

I still am. However, another reminder was hidden in here: I need to be better with what I love. Family. Friends. Writing.

For too long, I have been thinking that work is just this necessary evil. Like it or hate it, work had to happen. A deeper question needs to be asked though. Is it fulfilling?

To me, writing has been fulfilling, at least in the sense that I feel is the meaning of that word. When I hear people who have read my stories and enjoyed them, oh the feeling is nearly indescribable. It’s euphoric. I need to do more of it.

Although writing is a “solitary” profession, I have spent more time doing it around family and friends than any of my other work. Much of that passion also comes from sharing, a behavior that over time, I’ve allowed for the growth of fear prevent me from doing that. I love hearing about what other people enjoy, so why am I worried about sharing what I enjoy?

Getting time to think about all this while dealing with the struggles of things going wrong was very therapeutic. Things will go wrong; that is a certainty. And I endured.

And in my endurance, new tendrils began to form pointing me to the right way. These tendrils were always there, I just needed to be willing to accept them.

Featured image by Suganth on Unsplash

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