On a curve,
if you fix your eyes too close to the hood,
the car begins to answer your anxiety.
Every inch feels urgent.
You tug left.
Then right.
The back end sways gently —
just enough to remind you that you are over-managing.
You correct the correction.
Fishtailing.
Nothing catastrophic.
Just unnecessary tension.
The road was never unstable.
Your focus was.
My dad said, look to the far edge of the turn in the distance.
Not to stare.
Not to force.
Just let your gaze rest
where the road opens again.
The horizon doesn’t twitch.
It doesn’t panic.
It simply steadies
whatever rests on it.
Your hands follow your eyes.
They always have.
Perfection is the paint line ten feet ahead.
It is the exhausting, impossible standard.
We would all love it.
It just happens to be too hard.
We pray, “What would You have me do?”
And instantly the lane narrows into performance.
Holiness becomes a maneuver.
Righteousness becomes a checklist.
We brace ourselves like toddlers
reluctantly handing back a toy
grumpy, resentful, compliant
and call it virtue.
But the grip tightens.
The back end sways.
Anxiety rides shotgun.
Focus on the overcorrection in front of you
and it feels like intense gravity.
But…
Lift your gaze to the horizon,
and the weight vanishes.
Sometimes clarity is like those old computer-generated images from the early 90s:
At first it’s just static.
Colors swirl in a pattern that seems meaningless.
You squint, you focus, you strain.
Nothing emerges.
Then,
if you soften your gaze,
if you let your eyes rest in the right way,
something rises
a dolphin shimmering in three dimensions.
You cannot make it appear by force.
You can only allow it.
The spiritual journey is the same.
We demand the dolphin, and it disappears.
We chase perfection, and the image flattens into noise.
Shift the question.
Not, God (Higher Power, George, whatever resonates), What should I do?
Rather: Who would You have me BE?
The change is subtle.
But the body feels it first.
Shoulders drop.
Jaw unclenches.
Breath lengthens.
Urgency lifts.
The thousand anxious branches collapse.
The path may still fork.
The choice may still be difficult.
It may even defy rational pros-and-cons.
But clarity emerges.
Alignment rises.
Sometimes that means giving back the toy.
Not because you don’t want it.
Not because it’s a chore or a rule.
But because you remember
what you really want.
And that something
that horizon,
that integrity,
that quiet higher-frequency clarity
is rocket fuel.
Once you taste it,
it is addictive.
Toys lose all gravity.
All their weight.
Sometimes alignment asks for boundaries.
Sometimes it asks you to stay longer than convenient.
Sometimes it asks you to leave.
Sometimes it asks you to rest,
even if you feel undeserving.
It is not performative.
It is not perfection.
It is truth, lived from the inside out.
God… who would you have me Be…?
The car stops fishtailing.
The dolphin emerges from the static.
The road straightens,
not because the turns changed,
but because the gaze shifted.
Your hands follow your eyes.
They always have.
The horizon waits.
It does not judge your speed.
It does not measure your grasp.
It simply holds steady.
And now the road and the dolphin and the steering wheel converge.
The curve, the static, the toy, the breath —
all point to the same truth:
Focus lifts.
Alignment rises.
Integrity guides.
And suddenly what once felt impossible flows intuitively.
The same hands that flailed now glide.
The same eyes that squinted now rest.
The same heart that feared loss now knows
gravity was only focused in the wrong place.
So the question loops back:
Where are you looking?
At the paint lines?
At the toy?
At the impossible standard?
Or at the horizon?
At the self God is shaping within you?
Lift your eyes.
Breathe.
Gaze softens.
Let the static resolve.
Let the wheel straighten.
Let the dolphin rise.
Be.
Are you ready to see what emerges when you finally soften your gaze?
If this resonated with you, consider subscribing to receive notifications of new posts. Love. Amy.
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