37 feels big.
Like I’m on the edge of the possible.
But it also feels incomplete. In transition. Like there’s more to say and more to do and more that won’t be good enough.
But more to do, just the same.
The joy, I’ll find it.
It’s in the making, in the meantime. In the moments in between.
Because the end might not be beautiful — the dragon might be too long in the claw, or its wings may not take flight.
But just the same, I’ll find the roar on the top of my tongue, the fire before the flame.
I’ll create.
