Boxing the Compass

Summer Solstice, and in this moment I am where I am supposed to be at this moment. Right here, where I am supposed to be, at the center of the compass rose that designates the cardinal directions for the orientation of my mappings. And I can name the directions of the rose, boxing the compass, and I am comforted by the splendid renderings.

Summer Solstice, and in this moment, I am not where I am supposed to be. I’m in a moment without compass, without bearing, on unprecedented ground, alone, with no compass rose as guidance – in a moment between what I think and what I feel. In a moment turned towards turning inside; towards where there are no readily apparent answers, because the coordinates of such directions cannot be mapped, the questions can’t even be formulated.

- The Fool