<br><br><center>*Until you make the unconscious conscious,
it will direct your life and you will call it fate.*
― C.G. Jung</center>
<br><br><center></center>
<br><br> I had come to Anna Maria island on Florida’s Gulf coast in search of me but so far had not found a direction and instead was succumbing to strange guidance—in brief, I was being led by a seagull named Gus who shepherded me to a small cottage.
A gray haired woman was sitting outside on an Adirondack chair and when Gus saw her he immediately flew over and sat beside her. She affectionately patted his head, and he let her.
<br><br> “Well, hello, there Gus! So nice of you to drop by—and you brought a visitor.”
She squinted up at me and said, “Would you like to sit down?” She motioned to an empty chair beside her.
I decided to go with the flow.
“You must be Roger,” she smiled, “I’m Rose.” She offered me her hand and I shook it.
“How did you know my name?”
“Oh, the Captain said he met you and figured Gus would eventually bring you along.”
I was flabbergasted. “How could he possibly know that?”
“Simple. Gus only knows three people—and now, you make four.”
“Who’s the third person?” I had to ask.
“Oh, you’ll eventually meet her in due time.”
<br><br> I looked closely at Rose. She was in her sixties, or so I figured, with long gray hair and dark piercing eyes. She was wearing a floral dress, and had on flashy earrings and looked like a gypsy. Her fingers were nicotine stained from chain-smoking.
“You’re here to find the pace and rhythm of your life, are you, Roger?”
She said it more as a statement than a question.
“I guess you could say that,” I conceded.
“Well then, you need time to be—to hear the melody and follow the music, the inward music inside you. Does that make sense?”
<br><br> I nodded, fascinated by her perceptions.
“You’re blocked in many parts of your life. What do you do—are you a musician?”
“No, I write.”
Her eyes lit up. “I see—you use words like an artist uses a paintbrush—so, you must paint.”
“But I can’t paint—I mean, I’ve never done it.”
“Before you were born you never lived—don’t limit yourself to what you have done.”
<br><br> This was getting weirder by the minute. “I’m not like you,” I protested.
She frowned. “How’s that?”
“You’re more free-spirited than me—I can see that—you’re unconventional, Rose.”
“I live an inconvenient life, if that’s what you mean.”
“I don’t know what I mean,” I sulked, “ all I know is I’ve disappointed a lot of people.”
I had no idea why I confessed to her but like I said, the whole situation was weird.
<br><br> Rose seemed to be reading my thoughts.
“So, you’ve disappointed a lot of family and friends, have you now? And what’s that got to do with your art?”
I stared at her blankly.
“Life is demanding something of you, Roger, whether you disappoint people or not.”
“But what’s painting got to do with that?”
She took a deep drag of her cigarette, “Painting will free you up to know what you want because right now you are following every one else—you must learn to follow your heart.”
<br><br> Gus had been sitting patiently, but now he rose and flapped his great wings and soared gracefully off into sky.
“You’ve been called, Roger. Gus is a peculiar bird. White pelicans don’t stay in the fall, but he stayed for you. It’s up to you.”
She got up and went into the cottage, leaving me with the cries of the gulls, the moan of the surf and the wild impossible sky.
It was up to me now, she said.
I had no idea what that meant.
<br><br><center>To be continued...</center>
<br><br><center>© 2020, John J Geddes. All rights reserved</center>
<br><br><center>[ Photo](https://www.pxfuel.com/en/free-photo-enrew ) </center>
<br><br>
hiveblocks