Once upon a time, I wanted to write a book about shidduchim, and I thought I’d structure it around my hero’s journey. Because the narrative arc was so evident to me. I had started out in life innocently enough, then hit an unexpected snag, which had led me onto a journey where I had all sorts of interesting experiences and important breakthroughs, and became a new person and learned a lot along the way, and then the clouds parted and my prince rode up on a white horse. I used to think that my story was going to make sense like this. I used to think it was going to be a story with a degree of generalizability, because it was coherent and even archetypal.
And on some level of course it makes Sense. To Someone. Not to me. Because if this was a story that made sense to me, happily ever after would have happened about three dozen plot twists ago. It would have happened when I started therapy, or started therapy again, or went back to school, or moved, or moved again, or after a trip to Eretz Yisroel, or after a major humiliation or dark night of suffering — one of the hundreds. It would have happened. It would have happened after I said, yes, I will date a person who ____ (was not my ideal dream picture in some way). It would have happened after I said I would date the person with a child. With two children. With two teenagers. Who live with him. It would have happened after I said I would move to Eretz Yisroel, to Europe, to South Africa. If this was a story that made sense, it would have happened.
One of the greatest challenges in my life right now is this feeling of having lost the plot. Previously, I usually had specific tasks that had to be taken care of (like changing career paths, finding a new place to live, addressing challenges in relationships etc.). I no longer have that clarity. It’s been a kind of eerie feeling that has persisted throughout this year. A story without a plot. I don’t quite know how to move forward from here?
https://www.all-worthwhile.com/the-empty-pot/
YOU are the real flower.
🤍