The Dance

I feel like my long campout is finally over. I actually emptied the garage. Well, it’s not really empty, but it’s not full of packed boxes either. Boxes are opened, either emptied or sorted and repacked, stored in places where they can be found reliably, and the floor of the garage has our exercise machines and Karisse’s loom, and on the other side my shop and where I store my outdoor gear. Even though not all the pictures are hung on the walls in the house, something about having my stuff in its place gives me a sense that I have finally stopped the yearlong camping trip.

Part of being human is to live in the tension between camping and home. We are always on a journey to a place where we will no longer journey. We are always in motion toward a place of rest. In one of Charles William’s novels, The Greater Trumps, little figurines of the Taro dance incessantly around a circular playing board—except for one figure who stands in the center of the dance at rest. That figure is The Fool.

We say that the only constant is change. We say it with a little shrug of the shoulders, in quiet resignation, but there is deep wisdom here. To be at peace on the journey is to look the fool, but ultimately, it is the key to the dance.

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