Certainty in life (other than death and taxes. And a cat sitting on a magazine when you are trying to read it) is generally a good thing, because certainty suggests that, good or bad, at least you know what you are dealing with. Overt certainty, like coming home and finding a bill in the post that you know has to be paid, is an easy thing to manage. Certainty that comes from within oneself, though, which provides no tangible direction or advice, is a whole different kettle of fishy hoo-ha.
Like the other day when I was driving in my little car and I knew with certainty that it was time to give my life a shake up. A change of pathway, if you will. The road less travelled. It felt, I imagined, like Alice felt when she found herself falling down the rabbit hole. She knew, with certainty, that she was falling, that she couldn’t stop herself, but that at some point something would stop her, hopefully a soft grassy tussock, a pile of squishy cushions, a trampoline maybe. And not a bed of nails, or elephant poo, or a tiger sitting at a table, napkin tucked into his collar, knife, fork and a dash of Worcestershire sauce at the ready, just in case she needed a spot of seasoning, you know, to make her more agreeable to the tiger palate. She didn’t know that a Wonderland was waiting for her, did she? Do you think she would have been more careful around rabbit holes if she did?
Anyway, it came to me, clear as a bell, that it WAS time for change. The exact thought was, ‘What on EARTH am I doing? My Wonderland is waiting to be discovered.’
It’s a big thing, this business of looking for a Wonderland. I mean, it might already be here around me, and I can’t see it because other stuff is getting in the way. Or it might be that if I change a few things then Wonderland can start spreading itself out into the newly emptied spaces. I know for a fact that the Queen of Hearts needs a big old area to swing her mahoosive queenly bustle and her croquet flamingoes. But the Dormouse, well, all he needs is a tea pot. A tree for the Cheshire Cat. An impossibly large mushroom for the Caterpillar. Do you get my drift? The best thing about making your Wonderland is that you are in charge of how it shall be.
Isn’t that exciting?
Like the other day when I was driving in my little car and I knew with certainty that it was time to give my life a shake up. A change of pathway, if you will. The road less travelled. It felt, I imagined, like Alice felt when she found herself falling down the rabbit hole. She knew, with certainty, that she was falling, that she couldn’t stop herself, but that at some point something would stop her, hopefully a soft grassy tussock, a pile of squishy cushions, a trampoline maybe. And not a bed of nails, or elephant poo, or a tiger sitting at a table, napkin tucked into his collar, knife, fork and a dash of Worcestershire sauce at the ready, just in case she needed a spot of seasoning, you know, to make her more agreeable to the tiger palate. She didn’t know that a Wonderland was waiting for her, did she? Do you think she would have been more careful around rabbit holes if she did?
Anyway, it came to me, clear as a bell, that it WAS time for change. The exact thought was, ‘What on EARTH am I doing? My Wonderland is waiting to be discovered.’
It’s a big thing, this business of looking for a Wonderland. I mean, it might already be here around me, and I can’t see it because other stuff is getting in the way. Or it might be that if I change a few things then Wonderland can start spreading itself out into the newly emptied spaces. I know for a fact that the Queen of Hearts needs a big old area to swing her mahoosive queenly bustle and her croquet flamingoes. But the Dormouse, well, all he needs is a tea pot. A tree for the Cheshire Cat. An impossibly large mushroom for the Caterpillar. Do you get my drift? The best thing about making your Wonderland is that you are in charge of how it shall be.
Isn’t that exciting?
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