The Joy of Shifting
So, I don’t care what you drive. You can compensate with size or speed, sum or sculpted lines. But if it’s not a stick shift, you’re not driving.
So, I don’t care what you drive. You can compensate with size or speed, sum or sculpted lines. But if it’s not a stick shift, you’re not driving.
There’s substance beyond the conquering, below the dreams crossed off life’s to-do list, above the totem pole carved for legacy.
“I’m going to miss this place.”
“Me, too, Tim. Me, too.”
Like Farrell’s Harold Crick, I have lived for the past few months with the premonition that my life is at least somewhat scripted, that I have a choice to embrace destiny or pretend with a sense of control. I have talked to invisible ears, asked questions of ‘the omniscient third person.
I love most of my life. I love living it and talking about it. Reminiscing on my progress shapes big, colorful hopes for the future.
I spent a quick thought about what a job that must be to hang off a 63-story ledge and take pictures of people like me. Then I was falling.
So, as I savored the expectancy, I now begin to savor the reality.
I hope that, as I grow into adult-size courage through spiritual direction and life experience, my childish stunts in New Zealand might make me deliberate less and do more.
What if the view from a parachute changed your perspective forever?
Who knew there were more than a dozen different songs out there respectively titled, “Parachute”?
It’s a lot to brag about in advance. Part of me likes that it will force me to the courage to do what I’ve theoretically wanted to do for years.
So, somewhere in there, I came upon New Zealand. And through a series of eliminations, I determined the only traveling companion who would work was Timmy.