My purpose of writing is to clean out the cob webs of my life. It is not enough to just be. You have to pass something along. I have done much in my life but little to make waves. What is strange is some would say I talk to much, others would say I am stoic and don’t talk much at all. When I am quiet, I am told that I must be mad or angry. When I am loud and verbose it is a attitude of passion not an attitude rejection of others ideas.
My writing is about my personal struggle, my personal grasping for happiness, my travail for my destination that almost pushed all else out of my journey.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not comparing myself to the great journalistic giants of history, but the more I study, the more I read, the more I understand, I find there are paths, rivulets of cohesive continuity in the chaos. If I just take a moment to look carefully and stop for a moment, I learn. I have realized that it is the journey not the destination.
Serendipity is finding something when looking for something else. It is the discovery of joy along the way. It is the “ah ha” moments we encounter as we stumble along our journey. Serendipity is not luck. It is not finding a crisp 20 dollar bill along the road. Serendipity is having your efforts produce more than you expect. Serendipity still requires effort. It still requires a pointing toward the destination, because if you don’ know where you are going, you have already arrived.
But Serendipity is looking for words to describe a grandchild, the sweet strength in the quiet of a son and in doing so discovering beauty of someone that makes you happy. Understanding is found in the most unlikely places. Serendipity is offering a kind word to a stranger just to get them to smile for a moment, and having them change their mind about suicide. Serendipity is walking the halls of a small hospital trying to do the right thing and be confronted with someone asking to be led to a new path.
Serendipity is writing a description of one person’s life and discovering your own.