Choice by Choice

“Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced.”
―James Baldwin

I began with resentment. I was angry at life and at people. It took me nowhere. I sat. I wrote. I cried. The crying did not break me. It opened a room I had locked. Healing began there. Slow. Honest.

I watched the old pattern. I try and try. I push. I tense. Anger rises. Then I call it fate. The cycle feeds itself. What breaks it is simple. I stop. I breathe. I look within. I ask a clean question. What is mine to do now.

I am not a child. I cannot hide in blame. Life meets me at full power. Bills are due. Work must be done. Bodies need food and movement. Words must match actions. This is not punishment. It is the ground. To stand on ground is dignity.

The adult is not a scolding voice. The adult is a steady hand. It keeps the promise of yesterday. It turns toward pain and listens. It pays what is owed. It does not wait for perfect mood. It moves in small honest steps.

Trust is not a speech. Trust is a pattern. I do the thing I said I would do. I do it again tomorrow. I keep my word with my own body. Discipline is not cruelty. Discipline is a warm spine. Eat in a way that keeps you clear. Move in a way that keeps you alive. Sleep like you respect your soul.

There is a screen within. On it I project story after story. The hero. The victim. The judge. When I face the mirror without story, I feel the raw edge of truth. I am afraid. I want control. I want to be seen. I want to be right. I bow to that truth. Then I take the next sincere step.

Outside events move like weather. They are not mine to command. Inside is my craft. What I practice grows. If I practice outrage, I become a flame that eats its own house. If I practice patience, I become a fire that warms and forges. Pain is part of both. One burns me down. One builds me up.

Is it worth it. The work. The effort. The slow rebuilding. I ask this when the weight sits on my chest. The answer arrives in plain clothes. Life is all I have. To live it with open eyes is the only wealth. Growth hurts because the shell must crack. The chick does not beg the shell to open. It breaks it from within. So must I.

Attachment ties a rope to what is always changing. It tightens when things move, and life is always moving. Love can hold without rope. It holds like an open hand. It holds by offering space. Attachment is suffering. Love learns to release and still care.

I used to run. I ran from pain into ideas. The idea of being above it all. The idea of being too broken to try. The idea of destiny. Each idea wore a mask of wisdom with the heart of escape. I am tired of running. I choose the room where the pain waits. I sit. I breathe until the knot loosens. Then I stand and handle one small task that is mine.

Tools help. Even machines that think. They can feed the table. They can save time. They can search a thousand paths in a moment. They cannot choose for me. They cannot feel for me. They cannot forgive for me. Tools are oars. The heart is the compass. Conscience is the star. I row with both hands and keep my face toward what I know is good.

Anger is not the enemy. Anger is heat. It wants shape. If I pour it into blame, it scorches. If I pour it into courage, it hardens into a spine. I learn to speak without poison. I learn to set a boundary without hate. I learn to say yes and no with the same calm breath.

There are days of downs and ups. The foundation feels weak. On such days I stay with the basics. Food that does not dull me. Movement that wakes me. Work that keeps the wheel turning. Prayer that is simple. Sit. Breathe. Feel the Larger Face of silence. Then act for the Small Face of the world. Make the call. Write the line. Wash the dish. This is how the sacred enters the day.

Do not trust grand claims, mine or others. Trust what endures when no one is watching. Trust the fruit of a practice. Does it make you kinder. Does it make you clearer. Does it help you carry your part of the world. If yes, continue. If no, release it.

The child in me wants rescue. The adult in me offers presence. Rescue says, sleep and forget. Presence says, I am here with you, and we will move one step. Presence teaches patience with myself. It also demands honesty. I cannot bargain with reality. I can meet it.

The journey is not heroic in the old sense. No armor. No trumpet. It is a daily returning. Return to breath. Return to the body. Return to the next choice. I do not need to win my past. I need to do the next right thing in front of me.

When I fall, I practice a clean recovery. Admit. Repair. Learn. Continue. Shame freezes the river. Responsibility lets it flow again. Responsibility is quiet. It does not post a speech. It does the work.

There is a freedom that grows from this. Not the freedom of getting my way. The freedom of being myself in any weather. The freedom of knowing what I control and what I do not. The freedom of carrying my pain without making another carry it for me.

I keep a short prayer. Let me see clearly. Let me act cleanly. Let me love without rope. Some days it is all I can say. It is enough.

At night I gather the day. Where did I avoid. Where did I face. Where did I add kindness. Where did I add noise. I do not judge to punish. I judge to learn. I place one lesson on the table for tomorrow. One is enough.

I am still breaking the shell. I hear the world on the other side. It is loud and tender. It is unfair and beautiful. It asks only this. Meet me as you are. Bring your whole breath. Then become who you must be, choice by choice.

Is it worth it. I do not know. I live the question. I walk anyway. There is nothing else I truly have but this life, this single stroke on the canvas. When I forget, I return to the first step. Sit. Breathe. Look within. Take the next sincere step. Then the next. Then the next.