Destiny

Walk any path in Destiny's garden, and you will be forced to choose, not once but many times.  The paths fork and divide. With each step you take through Destiny's garden, you make a choice; and every choice determines future paths.  However, at the end of a lifetime of walking you might look back, and see only one path stretching out behind you; or look ahead, and see only darkness.
Sometimes you dream about the paths of destiny, and speculate, to no purpose. Dream about the paths you took and the paths you didn't take... The paths diverge and branch and reconnect; some say not even Destiny himself truly knows where any way will take you, where each twist and turn will lead.
But even if Destiny could tell you, he will not. Destiny holds his secrets. The garden of Destiny. You would know it if you saw it. After all, you will wander it until you die. Or beyond. For the paths are long, and even in death there is no ending to them.
~ Season of Mists - Neil Gaiman

This is one of my favorite beginnings to any story, though the beginning of Season of Mists holds a special place in my heart. It is certainly one of my favorite Sandman novels, which makes it one of my favorite books overall. Choices are an interesting quandary, in retrospect. With an omniscient God, sometimes I have difficulty reconciling predestination and free will, though that's a philosophical topic too deep, perhaps, for this setting. But I can't not believe in a semblance of free will, for without free will, I'm not responsible for my misdeeds nor, even, for my righteous ones.
So, assuming I must claim responsibility for my actions, and the consequences of such actions carry me along a lane in Destiny's garden that cannot be unwound, I often deliberate overlong about meaningful decisions or happenstance in my life. This is not always detrimental. However, I'm also something of a personal perfectionist. It may matter little whether my friends  live perfectly, choose perfectly, behave ideally, but this is my life. With careful choices and faithful movements, should I not be able to live perfectly? Write perfectly? Be perfectly kind or loving? If the possibility exists, with enough rigor and rigid control, surely perfection is not out of reach for the rest of my life, right?
I don't actually think these things. But sometimes, in the aftermath of foolish choices, I wallow. I read a particularly insightful blog post the other day on this topic, and I'm going to shamelessly quote it here: (on the topic of a spiraling downward of shame)
...And you’re not allowed to shame spiral, either.
Why? We both have a life to live. Words of wisdom to offer. Gifts God has given us. And once you and I allow ourselves to be shut down and chained by guilt or mistakes, we are rendered ineffective.
And we both know who does that.
So let’s not let that happen to us, okay? I’ll make you a deal: If you don’t let it happen to you, I won’t let it happen to me.
Let nothing silence you. You have things to say.
And God still likes you.
(Thank you asparaguslane. I appreciate your words and the tactfully blunt way in which they are spoken. I wish I had your talent. For now, I'll just borrow your words)

No one is perfect. Sometimes I feel like I just see my foibles too clearly, like muddy palm prints on crystal-clear windows, or droplets of blood dripping into a glass of clean water (that was a bit gruesome.. make it blue dye). Now that water is undrinkable. Spread it around in 10 gallons so the blood is so diffuse you could not dream of tasting it, and still I'd know it was there, polluting. And it is in these times that I'm thankful for my friends. I often mistrust their kindness, misinterpret it as lying on my behalf, as flattery. Friends don't flatter, they compliment.
But, the reminder is there. I do have things to say, and God (and my friends) still likes me, loves me, even when I make mistakes, and then more mistakes, and even when I make the same mistakes again. While I've not shame spiraled recently, I remember times of having done so. Thankfully, my friends are wise, gentle, and knowing. What I want more than anything is to be there for them when their shame spirals begin, preventing that slippery slope and catching them when they fall. I want to do more than just pray, though sometimes the distance is too great. I want to be there for my friends on every branching path their walk through the garden of fate takes them. Then, when we reach the other side, I want to celebrate at our faith and faithfulness to each other.

Harold and Maude - Biased Critics

I wrote previously regarding critics. I have a definitive lack of trust in people, sometimes. It may sound strange, but this particularly refers to people that I’m proximal to. I don’t distrust their integrity, or their honesty regarding most things, only those commentaries upon my own person.  I don’t think this characteristic is exclusive to me, but I’ll pretend like it is for the sake of explanation.

                Say a good friend of mine, Harold the Hippo, saunters up to me and notices I’ve purchased a new pair of glasses. I feel a little self-conscious about them, and no one else who’s seen me today has mentioned them, perhaps they are reluctant to admit they aren’t particularly flattering on me. Harold the Hippo, however, is staunchly in favor of them. “Top of the morning to you, Ben! My, those glasses look keen perched ‘neath your brow.  What a splendid style! I heartily approve, my good fellow!”  He’s a good friend, Harold the Hippo, and I know he means well, but why should Harold argue in favor of said googly-goggles while everyone else avoids the topic? Certainly he’s only flattering me. Do these framed lenses obviate my protruding nose or embellish my lazy eyes?
                Surely you jest, Harold. You humble me with your words, but I pray thee not lie on my behalf, I stutter.

                Harold stammers in shock, trying to entrench his opinion, desperately digging. His frantic fight for proving his compliment is valid only solidifies my own self-conscious fortification. My discomfort increases. Shortly thereafter, another friend, Maude the Giraffe, also approaches in the wake of Harold’s ashamed retreat.

                “Why, Ben, I do believe you’ve invested in some new article. Hold a moment, tell me not. Is it not these fabulous rims so excellently framing your eyes, matching your irises and masterfully showing off your greatest features without ostentation? Well chosen, my good sir!”

                Thank you Maude, for your kind words. I wish they were honest, I really do. But you are simply taking Harold’s side, trying to cheer me up. I should never have worn these glasses, I think.

          

                While extreme, I believe this pattern of thinking and reacting comes naturally to me. People say, “you’ve performed so well!” or “this story is really fabulous!” This only makes me more competitive, as I believe them not. Why would I believe people who love me? Does not their love cloud their vision?

I think that everyone needs a critic who has no reason for niceties, no obligation towards the person in question. Unbiased, perhaps a little critical: these are the people I want to evaluate my writing and give me an authoritative explanation of where my weaknesses reside, and where my strengths lay. My mother would love my writing even if she couldn’t understand it (which, most often in my stories, she may not… my fault). So would my best friends. Without impartiality, what hope have I of improvement?