Flashes of truth and passion make me falter. Falter as I fold washing and make beds. Falter as I prepare meals and earn money. Can the two unite? Is it possible to live in this world, serving family and place, while also departing into the space where none of it matters?
Can I be true to this inkling of separation, this hint of otherness that makes no demands. It waits while I wash and scrub and wring. It sits as I run to and fro. And when we do meet, I am startled by perfection. Joy that is felt bone deep. Sureness that comes from nothing it is meant to. And the truth I see leaves me softened, hopeful, hungry.
This space is my one percent. Yet it fulfils more than the other ninety nine. I imagine others with this same leaning, those that choose to follow hard and true. Those that can not relate to life lived in place. A place with rules and expectations. The brave that shirk them all and choose to live the one percent full time.
I am not that brave. But I am also not satisfied with a fraction of the tantalising, breathtaking, whole. I have found my portion, I have named it and claimed it as mine. And so, brave or not, I will daily remind myself to listen and stop and give it space and time to grow.