I'm sitting outside on my Dad's timber ranch, when I spot in the distance a bird I've never seen before, with a tan body and pretty blue/green wings. I remember that I have a pair of binoculars in my bedroom and I rush inside before the bird decides to fly off.
I bought these binoculars 4 months ago to whale-watch with. Now I've moved to Texas and they've never been used for their intended reason.
Why did I buy them? Did I really think I'd go whale watching on a regular basis? Of course not. I wasn't purchasing whale-watching binoculars– I was purchasing a life that I kept trying to convince myself I wanted.
The first time I saw whales in Washington state, it was magical, I felt tears in my eyes, and I thought to myself, "See? This is why you moved here! This is what you want!"
And so I bought the binoculars. I wanted to be done with it, done with moving around, done with the indecision. But I don't think it works that way.
When I tell myself, "See? This is what I want!" It's always a sign that the thing in question is not what I want.
When something is truly right, I never have to tell myself that it's right. I simply know.
I pull out the binoculars and hone in on the mystery bird. My dad comes outside and borrows them and says, "Ah. Green heron. One of the most intelligent birds on Earth."
Cool, I think. Not telling myself anything. Just being in the moment, peering at a smart little bird hunting in the sunset.