The Journey of Life

         While standing at the medication cart the other night mixing a concoction of pharmaceuticals, the flavor of which I

cannot imagine, in preparation for administration to one of the helpless, demented, elderly souls under my care, an

overwhelming sense of futility and uselessness flowed through me. “Is this what I spent two years in school for? And as

I reflected on the toil and labor of becoming a nurse, along with the fear, anxiety, and potential of abject failure attached

to it, I noted with surprise its connection to a sense of wistful affection. Affection directed not at the achievement of the

goal itself, but rather at the process of attaining it. Next to that, the reality of being a nurse seemed a hollow

inconsequential drudgery consisting of nothing more than covering your ass and preserving your license at all costs.

         As is often the case when I’m unhappy, I began to daydream I was home in my office sitting at my keyboard

writing. In so doing several insights revealed themselves. The first was that the clichéd phrase, life is a journey not a

destination, though cliché holds a great deal of truth. I clearly saw the path I took to get where I was from application to

graduation and all the strife and struggle in between. It was as if I had absorbed the emotional impact of a novel at

once. The second was that the first could be applied to writing. I could see struggling with words, wringing them into

something readable and profound was also a kind of journey containing the same fear, anxiety, and potential for failure

as the one I took through nursing school. The “end” of an endeavor is no more an ending than going to sleep is an end

to life. It is only a short break before picking up the pilgrim staff and moving on. Apparently becoming is more satisfying

than being. And, so, I pick up the staff and set out to become.