Alice and the Cheshire Cat: Live with Intent

There’s a scene I keep coming back to. Alice asks the Cheshire Cat which way she ought to go. The Cat asks where she wants to get to. Alice says she doesn’t much care. Then it doesn’t matter which way you go, the Cat says. He grins. The grin hangs there even after the Cat is gone.

I used to think that exchange was a joke about being lost. Lately it feels like a quiet instruction. If you don’t name the place, the path will name you. If you won’t choose, something else will—habit, noise, the nearest open door.

Some days I catch myself moving like that. Answering messages. Walking the same streets. Saying yes because it’s easier than no. The hours don’t argue. They just pass. By evening, I can’t tell if I lived the day or the day lived me.

The Cat wasn’t cruel. He was exact. Tell me where you want to go. Then I can help. If you don’t care, then any road will do, and most roads will take you somewhere you didn’t mean to be. That’s the part that sticks—the grin that stays after the body leaves. The trace of a choice I didn’t make.

Living with intent isn’t a slogan. It’s small and ordinary and stubborn. It’s deciding what matters before the world decides for you. It’s drawing a line around your morning, even if it’s just ten quiet minutes with a cup and no screen. It’s choosing one thing to move forward and letting the rest wait their turn. It’s saying no without apology, and yes without resentment. It’s going to the place you said you would go, even when it’s raining and no one is watching.

Maybe intent is less about a grand plan and more about a direction you’re willing to return to. A north you can find by touch in the dark. You won’t always walk straight. The road will pitch and fork. You’ll get it wrong. That’s fine. Course-correct. Ask again: Where am I going? Do my steps match my answer?

I think about Alice, standing there at the crossroads, the Cat’s grin floating like a sign. She could have said anywhere. Instead, she learned what a question demands in return. Not perfection, just clarity. Not a map, a compass.

So this is what I’m trying: name the thing. One thing. Hold it in place long enough to give it weight. Act in its direction. When I drift, notice. When I stall, start small. And when the grin appears—when the day tries to choose for me—remember that I can choose back.
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Live with intent. Even if it’s quiet. Especially then.