On My Way

Sure of who you are, and in no hurry to explain it.
 
 
On My Way is what it looks like when you know exactly who you are and don't need anyone to notice.
 
I was driving one late afternoon, in summer, with the sun sitting low and the air still warm. My camera was on the front seat. An echidna walked out onto the road in front of me, so I braked, parked to the side, grabbed the camera and ran after him. He had somewhere to be, and he wasn't going to wait. By the time I caught up he was in the long, burnt yellow grass, which is a hard place to photograph an echidna, because in summer he almost disappears into it. I framed him tight and kept the road out of the picture. Later I took the image to black and white and washed everything around him out, so that all that was left was his determination.
 
What stopped me was how little he cared that I was there. I was the anxious one. I was racing to get the frame before he left, working out how to hide a road. He was marching along on a mission, paying me no attention at all, completely and utterly himself. I've met an echidna like that before. One rummaged through my carport once, then put his small hands up against the glass and looked inside my house. I wish I'd had the camera. I didn't have words for it that evening. I only knew I wanted to follow him.
 
On My Way is for the days you're second-guessing the direction you've chosen. You don't have to explain it, defend it, or make yourself smaller so other people feel comfortable. You only have to keep walking as the person you already are. Live with him long enough and that certainty starts to feel familiar, like something you've always had. On an ordinary hard day, look across the room. He's still on his way.