Floating nowhere

For quite some time now I’ve had a “video” playing every so often in my mind. It’s never far from my consciousness. I know the object is me, I just don’t know what I want to do about it.

I picture a somewhat battered wooden rowboat drifting not too far from shore. It has an anchor, but the rope holding the anchor is very short so it can never dig into the bottom into the mud to secure the boat to keep it from floating.

The anchor gets tangled in underwater plants at times but the plants can never hold it for long. Sometimes the weather is calm, other times it gets very stormy and the boat gets blown further away from the shore.

There are no oars in the boat. There’s absolutely no way for the boat to be steered. It is at the mercy of the weather.

The boat itself is a little worse for wear. It is feeling its age. It could use a good coat of paint. Barnacles are abundant. It has been broken many times in spots from banging into piers and rocks  and repaired, but the injuries are obvious and have weakened the structure of the boat.

At times the boat seems to be able to contemplate the effects of not having much of an anchor. It’s peaceful to be able to float around the cove and go hither and yon whenever it decides to let the breeze blow it. At those times it feels a sense of relief and  feels sorry for other boats it has seen which are so firmly anchored that there is no chance that they will ever move.

But then when something happens to the another boat, it notices that there are other boats nearby that can be relied upon. They tend to float nearer to the anchored boat, protecting it, and remain there as long as needed. It is then that the old rowboat looks wistfully upon the scene and can only imagine the sense of security the other boat might feel.

With such a short anchor, if the breezes turn into gales, it is helpless. It can only float as best it can while it is battered by the storms. It is often swept far from the shores. This has happened so many times that the boat just accepts its fate and eventually the winds die down and the waves once again bring the rowboat back closer to the shore where it feels more comfortable.

When it was first built, it realized it would never be a sailboat that could sail gracefully through the water. It would never be a yacht with all the fancy trimmings. It definitely would never be a speed boat. It accepted its role and welcomed the occasional times when it could be of use.

But as it became older and more worn, it found it harder to believe that it hadn’t been entirely abandoned and it became resigned to its fate.

It doesn’t know its fate but is becoming more unsure each day that it will be able to face many more storms. It can only “let go and let God” but it doesn’t find the security in that philosophy that it once did.

Namaste. Attic Annie


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