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The first time you get your legs under you, in any endevour, is a duality of achievement and responsibility.

The first motion towards something upright.

Yet despite this success something greater has begun. To step back is to neglect what you’ve achieved; what you’ve made real in the world. Fresh on the scene, yet there’s a strange obligation to continue onward. If you turned around now, would they see? If you sat back down, would they forgive you the false start?

Maybe it’s not like that, though.

Maybe the legs are under you and then not? Sturdy, but untested, lacking the appropriate pins and wedges to secure them in their place? and maybe this is the way of it. Mortise and tenon formed, legs settle in, but they must be removed, adjusted, and replaced. And the process repeats.

Maybe this is simply the way of it:

That your sturdiness does not come from stubbornly standing on first try, but from continuing the process of refinement.

What if you’re absolutely on track,
And all that’s left is to trust…

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