It can be tough sometimes to nail down the exact beginning of a thing.
The beginning of a relationship, for instance, (did it begin when you first saw him? when you first touched her? when you suddenly realized you couldn’t stop thinking about him? on a date? in a fight?) or when you first began to enjoy decidedly grown up stuff like I don’t know . . . coffee. Or the opera. Or beets.
That’s why it’s fairly surprising to me that over the past three weeks I have come to discover not only the beginning of the stuff that’s hard to pin down but the beginning of everything.
Enchanting as it may sound to be on a quest of sorts, in one very particular (sometimes frustrating, sometimes lonely, sometimes disorienting) way, calling our spiritual journey a ‘journey’ is radically deceptive.
The thing about a journey is it implies that we are headed toward a particular destination and that getting ‘there’ takes some amount of time.
Probably a long time.
Like the excruciating amount of time it would take to – oh, say – walk barefoot across a barren desert or grow a beard down to your ankles.