Sitting at the dinner table tonight, my sister looks over at me and says, “You look like you’re waiting for something to happen.”
In the past I’ve had a predominantly internal locus of control. I feel most out of control when things don’t happen. I go out on quite a few limbs, and sometimes do regrettable things, all in attempts to change the course of my life. But most of the time, swinging from one fist gripped to the furthest limb, the course goes just as I’d feared, and just as I’d tried to prevent.
It hasn’t helped to speak up or speak out, to hint or demand. I’m not convinced right now that I have been the author of my last six years, and I’m feeling convinced that I won’t have any more control of the next six.
I’m not waiting for something to happen; I’m waiting for anything to happen.