Sometimes Survival Is Just Finding Somewhere to Stand

Moving Forward With Intention When You Cannot See the Way Forward

By April Louann Mitchell

There are seasons when you know exactly where you are going.

There is a plan. There is a path. There is enough light ahead to see the next bend in the road.

And then there are seasons when none of that is true.

The ground changes. The familiar becomes unfamiliar. Things you believed were settled suddenly are not. Home can feel different. Relationships can feel different. The future can feel different. Even your own place inside your life can become difficult to recognize.

Those are the seasons nobody particularly wants to write inspirational sayings about while they are actually living through them.

Because when you are standing in the middle of uncertainty, you do not necessarily feel inspirational.

You may feel angry. You may feel exhausted. You may feel displaced. You may feel disappointed. You may feel frightened. You may feel grief for something that technically still exists but no longer feels the way it once did.

You may not know what happens next.

And sometimes the most truthful thing you can say is: I don't know how I'm going to get through this.

I have been thinking about those words. Not as surrender. As honesty.

Because Mystic Dragonfly Creations and the Dragonfly Archive have never been built around pretending to know things we do not know.

The Archive has never feared the words: I don't know.

So why should life be different?

Perhaps there are moments when we need to stop demanding that we know the ending.

Perhaps the question is smaller.

What do I do next?

Not next year. Not forever. Next.

Sometimes Survival Is Just Finding Somewhere to Stand

I keep thinking about stones.

That probably surprises absolutely nobody who has spent any time wandering around Mystic Dragonfly Creations.

I pick things up. I look at them. I wonder about them. I turn them over. I ask questions.

And stones have taught me something I didn't understand when I first started paying attention to them.

The landscape is not nearly as permanent as it appears.

Things move. Water moves them. Pressure changes them. Heat changes them. Earth covers them. Erosion exposes them. They fracture. They weather. They are carried from one place and deposited somewhere else.

Sometimes the thing we find sitting quietly in one location has traveled through processes we cannot see written plainly on its surface.

Yet there it is.

Still present.

Changed perhaps. Marked perhaps. But present.

There is something about that I understand differently now.

We talk about resilience as though it means remaining exactly the same despite everything that happens.

I don't think that is true.

Nature doesn't seem to work that way.

Survival often involves change.

Sometimes survival is simply finding somewhere to stand long enough to decide what comes next.

Moving Forward Does Not Always Mean Moving Fast

We live in a culture obsessed with the dramatic comeback.

Something terrible happens. Then comes the transformation. Then the music swells. Then the person rises stronger than ever.

I understand why we love those stories.

But real endurance is often much quieter.

Sometimes moving forward means getting out of bed. Sometimes it means making coffee. Sometimes it means taking a shower. Sometimes it means answering one email. Sometimes it means feeding an animal. Watering a plant. Cleaning a room. Picking up a paintbrush. Writing one paragraph. Making one decision.

Sometimes it means doing absolutely nothing heroic.

You simply refuse to disappear from your own life.

That counts.

I think we underestimate the dignity of ordinary continuation.

There are days when simply continuing requires enormous energy.

The world may never know.

Nobody applauds.

There is no photograph. There is no announcement.

But something inside you says: Not today.

Today I am still here.

Today I will do the next thing.

Intention Is Different From Certainty

I have been thinking about intention.

Not manifestation. Not pretending everything is wonderful. Not telling ourselves that if we think positively enough, nothing painful will happen.

Life does not work that way.

Intention is different.

Intention does not require certainty.

You can have absolutely no idea how something will turn out and still decide who you want to be while you walk through it.

That may be one of the few things we actually control.

When everything around us feels uncertain, we can ask:

What do I want to protect? What do I refuse to become? What matters enough that I will continue carrying it? What can I put down? What deserves my energy today? What does not? What is mine to solve? What isn't? What can wait until tomorrow? What must happen now?

Those questions are not glamorous.

But they create footing.

And sometimes footing is enough.

The Dragonfly Does Not Carry the Pond

There is a reason I keep returning to the dragonfly.

A dragonfly does not carry the pond with it.

It does not control the weather. It does not command the wind. It does not insist that the water remain still before it moves.

It responds. It adjusts. It lands. It lifts again. It changes direction.

There is an extraordinary amount of movement contained in something that looks almost weightless.

Maybe there is a lesson there.

We do not have to carry the entire environment in order to move through it.

We do not have to solve every person. We do not have to repair every relationship. We do not have to predict every possible outcome. We do not have to know exactly where we will be standing six months from now in order to decide where we will place our feet today.

We can move with intention without possessing the entire map.

When Home Doesn't Feel Simple

Home is a strange word.

We usually describe it as a place. An address. A building. A room. A bed. A garden. A kitchen. A familiar chair.

But I think home is also a feeling.

It is the place where the nervous system expects to rest. The place where ordinary things belong. The place where you know where the cups are. The place where you can move through the dark without turning on the lights. The place where your things have stories. The place where your body understands: I am allowed to be here.

So what happens when that feeling becomes uncertain?

What happens when belonging and location stop meaning exactly the same thing?

I don't have a neat answer.

Maybe nobody does.

But I have begun wondering whether there is another form of home.

The pieces of ourselves we carry.

The things that remain ours even when circumstances shift around us.

Our work. Our imagination. Our memories. Our ability to notice beauty. Our ability to make something. Our curiosity. Our values. Our voice. Our capacity to begin again.

Maybe sometimes we have to build a small interior shelter out of those things while we figure out the rest.

Pain Does Not Need to Become Beautiful

There is another idea I want to resist.

The idea that everything painful must eventually become beautiful in order to have meaning.

Sometimes pain is simply painful.

Some things should not happen.

Some experiences do not become acceptable merely because we learned something afterward.

I don't believe we need to romanticize suffering.

I don't believe scars automatically make something better.

I don't believe every fire was necessary.

But I do believe we get to decide what happens to the parts of ourselves that remain afterward.

That distinction matters.

The fire does not deserve the credit for what survives it.

The survivor does.

The person who gets up tomorrow does.

The hands that create again do.

The mind that remains curious does.

The heart that refuses to surrender every beautiful thing does.

That is where intention enters.

The Heartstone

When I first began writing what would become Ignivar's Heartstone, I did not understand how many meanings the idea of a Heartstone would eventually carry for me.

At first there was the object. The real thing. The stone that existed before the mythology. The thing I had passed again and again before finally looking closely.

Then came the questions.

Then imagination.

Then story.

The Heartstone became something else inside the world of The Dragonfly Journals.

But perhaps that is what stories do.

We place something real at the threshold. Then we walk through.

The object remains what it is. The story becomes what we need to explore.

Today the Heartstone makes me think about something different.

What is the thing at the center that we protect when everything around it feels unstable?

Not the house. Not the schedule. Not the appearance of everything being fine.

The center.

What remains when the outer structure changes?

For an artist, perhaps it is the need to create. For a writer, perhaps it is the need to tell the truth as honestly as story allows. For someone else, it may be faith. Family. A child. A promise. A garden. A dream. A sense of dignity. A future not yet visible.

Whatever it is, perhaps each of us has some version of a Heartstone.

Something we keep returning to.

Something that says: Here. Start here.

Ignivar and the Fire

Then there is Ignivar.

My flame born guardian.

Keeper of fire, stone, and story.

When a character lives with you long enough, sometimes you begin understanding that character in ways you did not when you first created them.

Fire is an obvious part of Ignivar.

But fire is complicated.

Fire destroys. Fire illuminates. Fire warms. Fire warns. Fire transforms.

Fire can be life giving and dangerous.

The same element can mean completely different things depending on where we stand in relation to it.

Perhaps that is why the image of a guardian carrying fire continues to interest me.

The purpose isn't to pretend fire cannot hurt you.

It can.

The purpose is learning what deserves guarding while the fire burns.

Stone. Story. Memory. The small flame that still belongs to you.

Being a Guardian of Your Own Life

Maybe there are seasons when we have to become our own keeper.

Not because we want to. Not because we suddenly became fearless.

Because something important needs protecting.

There are boundaries to guard. There is energy to conserve. There is a body that needs rest. There is work that matters. There are dreams that should not be surrendered simply because the present moment is difficult. There is a future version of ourselves who deserves to inherit something other than ashes.

So perhaps moving forward with intention begins with guardianship.

Guard your peace where you can. Guard your creative work. Guard your ability to think. Guard the relationships that nourish rather than consume. Guard the small routines that remind you who you are. Guard your curiosity. Guard your ability to recognize beauty. Guard your future.

Not everything deserves access to every part of you.

The Archive Has Never Required Perfection

Look at the things I keep.

They are not perfect.

Weathered stone. Petrified wood. Fossils. Objects that have spent unknown years beneath the Earth. Things with scars. Things with missing histories. Things that raise more questions than answers.

I don't value them because they escaped time untouched.

I value them because they carry evidence of having existed through it.

Perhaps people deserve the same generosity.

You do not have to emerge from every difficult season polished.

You do not have to immediately explain what you learned.

You do not have to transform pain into wisdom by Friday afternoon.

You are allowed to still be processing. You are allowed to be angry. You are allowed to grieve. You are allowed not to know. You are allowed to say: This changed me. And not yet know exactly how.

What Can I Do Today?

When the future becomes too large, make the frame smaller.

Today.

What needs doing today?

Maybe today needs food. Maybe it needs rest. Maybe it needs work. Maybe it needs a phone call. Maybe it needs a walk outside. Maybe it needs ten minutes with your hands in the dirt. Maybe it needs paint. Maybe it needs silence. Maybe it needs a plan written on a piece of paper. Maybe it needs one decision you have been avoiding. Maybe it needs absolutely nothing except making it safely to tomorrow.

Not every day is for conquering.

Some days are for conserving. Some days are for observing. Some days are for preparing. Some days are for leaving something alone until you have enough information. Some days are for action.

Wisdom may simply be learning which day this is.

Look for the Next Stone

One of the things the Archive has taught me is that discovery rarely announces itself.

You find something because you were looking. Or because you finally looked at something familiar differently.

Maybe moving forward works the same way.

We keep expecting a giant answer.

Instead, perhaps we need the next stone.

The next useful piece of information. The next safe place to stand. The next person who can help. The next small opportunity. The next sale. The next reader. The next painting. The next morning. The next choice.

Then another.

A path can be made from very small things.

Creation Can Be an Act of Endurance

There are times when creating something can feel almost ridiculous.

The world is chaotic and you are painting. Life is uncertain and you are writing a story. Something hurts and you are photographing a stone. You have problems to solve and somehow you are thinking about dragonflies.

But perhaps that is precisely why creation matters.

Creating says: There is still a future.

Why make something if there is no tomorrow to receive it?

Why write a page if nobody will ever turn it?

Why plant something if you cannot imagine spring?

Why paint light unless some part of you still believes light matters?

Creation is not denial.

Sometimes it is evidence.

Evidence that some part of us is still facing forward.

The Books Were Never Really About a Stone and a Fox

Yes, there is a real Heartstone behind the beginning.

Yes, there is Ignivar with amber fur, a blue blaze, and fire.

Yes, there is mythology. There is an Archive. There are strange discoveries. There are stories.

But beneath all of it, I think The Dragonfly Journals have always been circling something deeply human.

What do we keep? What do we remember? What do we protect? What do we do with things we cannot explain? What happens when something forgotten is finally seen? What happens after fire? What survives? Who keeps the story?

Maybe that is why these books continue changing meaning for me even though I am the person who wrote them.

Life keeps asking the questions differently.

If You Are in a Hard Season

Perhaps you found this article because you like stones. Perhaps you follow Mystic Dragonfly Creations. Perhaps you read The Dragonfly Journals. Perhaps Facebook put this in front of you for no particularly mysterious reason.

Maybe you are having a wonderful week. I hope you are.

But perhaps you aren't.

Perhaps something in your life feels unstable. Perhaps you are tired. Perhaps family is complicated. Perhaps home doesn't feel as simple as it used to. Perhaps you have been carrying something privately that nobody looking at you would ever guess. Perhaps you don't know what happens next.

I am not going to tell you everything happens for a reason.

I am not going to tell you pain is secretly a gift.

I am not going to tell you to smile.

I will tell you something smaller.

You do not have to solve your entire life today.

Find somewhere to stand.

Decide what matters today.

Protect what needs protecting.

Do the next necessary thing.

Then look again tomorrow.

Move With Intention

Intention can be quiet.

It can sound like:

Today I will not abandon myself. Today I will protect my energy. Today I will make one thing. Today I will ask for help if I need it. Today I will not make a permanent decision from a temporary storm. Today I will pay attention. Today I will tell myself the truth. Today I will remember what I am building. Today I will take one step toward it. Today I will remain.

The Dragonfly Perspective

Maybe that is what moving forward from a Mystic Dragonfly perspective means.

Observe before deciding. Distinguish what is known from what is feared. Do not invent certainty where none exists. Look closely. Protect the Heartstone. Respect the fire. Keep the story. Travel lightly when you can. Land when you need to. Move when it is time.

And understand that changing direction does not mean you failed to fly straight.

Dragonflies were never designed to move in straight lines.

Where the Books Begin

If something in this essay feels familiar, the doorway into The Dragonfly Journals begins with Ignivar's Heartstone: How One Forgotten Stone Awakened the Dragonfly Archive.

Book One began with a real object and the questions it inspired.

It is the first doorway into the Archive.

Read or buy Book One on Amazon

Order a signed Book One paperback from Mystic Dragonfly Creations

Book Two continues with Ignivar: The Flame Born Guardian: Keeper of Fire, Stone, and Story.

That story moves deeper into Ignivar, guardianship, fire, stone, memory, and the mythology that grew from the Archive.

But begin with the Heartstone.

Begin at the place where looking became questioning and questioning became story.

Begin small.

That seems appropriate today.

Join Me on September 27

If you would rather step into the Archive in person, join me for An Afternoon Tea with The Dragonfly Journals on September 27, 2026.

View the September 27 event details

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The Archive Continues

I do not know where every path leads.

I no longer think that is a failure.

There are things we know. Things we suspect. Things we hope. Things we fear. And enormous territories marked: I don't know yet.

The Archive has room for all of them.

So does life.

Maybe endurance is not knowing exactly how you will get through something and getting through this particular Thursday anyway.

Maybe survival isn't always a triumphant ending.

Maybe sometimes survival is just finding somewhere to stand.

Then standing there long enough to see the next place.

And when you can:

Move.

With intention.

The stone remains.

The fire burns.

The dragonfly changes direction.

The Archive continues.

— AVRILIS