William Faulker said, “In writing you must kill your darlings.” It’s not just in writing though. Living at the wide end of the funnel has its pleasures, but staying there too long can lead to overwhelm and exhaustion.

Driving on a foggy summer day fifty years ago two men were ascending towards a mountain pass. As they wound and climbed higher, the misty fog obscured the road’s center-line marking. They could barely see the tail-lights on the car ahead as they rose above the tree line. The driver was squinting, peering intently into the impenetrable mist. Suddenly the passenger shouted, “Right or left.” The driver veered sharply, narrowly avoiding the grey concrete barrier as they passed into a tunnel through the mountainside. Once in, the way was well lit, and on the other side the fog had lifted. Without a bond of trust they would have both been dead. Trust saved them. Sometimes it’s our own intuition that’s the passenger with the voice shouting, “Left or right!” When we ignore it, we experience a kind of death. We sink our own vessels by carrying too heavy a load, or we muddy the water with our indecision.

It takes a special brand of courage to choose when there is no right answer, just left or right, not down the middle.

The sun and moon are eternal travelers. Even the years wander on. A lifetime adrift in a boat or in old age leading a tired horse into the years, every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.

Basho, “Oku no Hosomichi”