LOST. Lost. lost.
I have to wear my work belt? I just always did. It’s the right thing to do, isn’t it? Pride. Doing a good job. Having the right tools. Those tools are me. Those tools are my mind. Those tools are my life. They define who I am.
The people in the well-lit room . . . they have no work belts on. So I’m supposed to take my work belt off before I walk over there? Enter unarmed? Hide my identity? Hide who I am?
But I pretty much stole the key to get in here. That guy, he’s waving me over to fire me! Why was that key hidden in a light fixture anyway?
As if some new force took over, I unbuckled my work belt. Strange thoughts and questions whizzed around in my mind. Is this work belt not needed!? Is my identity really tied to this work belt?
After hanging the belt over the guard rail, I felt lighter, more nimble, more free. But also more scared, as I began worrying about being seen without a work belt . . . my work belt.
The beckoning arm continued to summon me. I was lost. So, so lost. No idea of an escape route came. No bridge to build, no plan for demolition. No work belt was around my waist.
The word ‘dying’ came to mind. Then ‘giving up’. ‘Vulnerable’. ‘Powerless’. ‘Nothingness’.
But . . . underneath it all, down at a foundation I had never known existed, there was a calmness, along with a sensation that something immense was in some way attached and responsible for this episode in which I was involved.
Lost? Yes. Helpless? Definitely! But now saddled with nothing but a feeling that the future had a bit more in store than a work belt.
There was not a new drum to march to now. There was NO drum. No expectation, no worry, no hesitation, no agenda – and no offering.
Just a kind arm saying, ‘We got you. Come on over.’
– – – – – continued tomorrow – – – – –