For me, Fall is often a time of sincerest retrospection and introspection.
While many consider the advent of a new year the best time for glancing back and making the necessary adjustments for moving forward, there is something that autumn brings to my attention that no other time does. To my mind, it is the chief instructor of man’s eldest lesson, taught by that old bugger, Father Time - the Art of Dying Well.
This year, I find myself extra attentive to the lecture, listening closely to each leaf that falls, as though the message it carries is of infinite importance to me. I cannot help but believe that it is.
In one week, I will turn 30 years old.
Before I begin to say what significance this holds for me, I feel I must address anyone of any generation older than mine that would seek to admonish me, either through an attempt at comfort or well-meaning mockery, and ask that you refrain from doing so, at least before you have heard me out. I am confident enough that my feelings on the matter are true enough to be stated, and also subjective enough as to be true for myself, even if not for the population at large.
As I’ve said, I will turn 30 in a few days.
That means I’ve been here for roughly 946,684,800 seconds, 15,778,080 minutes, 262,968 hours, 10,957 days, 1,565 weeks, and 360 months.
I know that, for the most part, this is still a young age. I do not, in reality, think of myself as being very old. The “death of my twenties,” as a mere collection of numbers, doesn’t really bother me, and I am not, I’m glad to say, approaching this as a millennial. In other words, I do not think being in my thirties will be icky.
Now that’s out of the way, this is how I feel:
I feel like I have wasted so much time.
There. There it is.
I think about time more than anybody I know.
At any given moment, I am assessing my current self, weighing that against all previous versions of myself, and filtering both of these into a system of concrete decisions to become the ideal version of my future self.
And I feel like I’m running out of time.
If that seems absurd, do the math.
Realistically, if I’m blessed, I have already lived approximately 1/3 of my total lifespan, give or take a few years.
That’s what plagues me. It isn’t the inevitability of death. I’m fine with that. I’ve been dying since the day I was born, and so have you. No, this was always a one-way ticket, and that’s okay. What kills me is how fast the train is moving.
Bottom line: I feel like I haven’t accomplished anything noteworthy, and that’s a lie I wake up to every day. Mostly because, if you don’t know this about me, my biggest personal aspirations, my dreams, are to be a husband, a father, and a writer.
Don’t get me wrong, thanks to Jesus and my unspeakably amazing wife, I’ve got one out of three, and Lord willing, the second part of that will happen in the next couple of years.
But the writing, well - I haven’t made any concrete steps towards pursuing the writing in a very long time. That’s what has made this upcoming birthday a two-edged sword, for me. Ridiculous as it may sound, I have not written anything notable in quite a long time, to the point that I’ve come to identify as “The Writer Who Doesn’t Write.” I can’t ignore or deny the fact that, for the first 30 years of my life, this has been true.
But.
The other edge of the sword – the sharper one, I hope – is that I’m determined now, more than ever, to make the next 30 years different, to make them better, and to write more than I ever dreamed possible.
So, in conclusion of this post, and as an introduction to all future posts, I have decided to revisit and revamp my blog, in an effort to push myself creatively and sharpen a few skills that, much to my shame, I have allowed to grow rusty and dull through disuse and an endless barrage of excuses – none of them very good.
It isn’t that the need to write has left me. I feel it almost every day. The drive is strong and always has been – like a fire in my bones.
But fire needs something to feed on in order to grow, and I’m starting with this blog, as well as a few personal projects that may or may not make occasional cameos online. I haven’t decided yet.
This seems like a natural place to sign off, and would be, if I didn’t also have one more thing I feel I need to say before I can move forward and make a habit out of blogging – a disclaimer, of sorts.
I have said most of my excuses for not writing are not any good, and that’s true. There are, however, exceptions - one or two experiences from my life that I would like to have the freedom of writing about; weighty things, that, to my mind at least, required time to pass before they could be shared openly. Truth be told, though, I have been quite hesitant to write about these, publicly at least, for fear of appearing to bring a negative perspective to the names and reputations of the people, places, and events that have been a part of my experiences, as it is likely that there will be readers who have known me long enough to read between the lines.
I have questioned myself, many times, trying to determine if these are things that really need to be written about at all. After all, Wouldn’t it just be easier not to share these intimate things on a public platform, rather than risk offending anyone? At times, it has seemed so.
In the end, though, I cannot deny that these experiences, and the people that they involve, have shaped who I am inextricably. I simply would not be who I am without them, and if I intend to be a writer, which I do, then I must have the freedom to write about my life.
I have resolved, therefore, to be as kind, and as vague, as possible, and will do my best to tell only as much of my story as belongs to me, and me only. If I seem to fail in this at any time, with every ounce of humility, I apologize in advance and beg forgiveness. I do not harbor even the smallest desire to bring harm to anyone. My only wish is to be allowed the freedom to tell my story. That is all.
Finally, here are those experiences which it might become necessary to any reader to have a simple knowledge of:
First, when I was 19, I met a girl, and fell completely in love. We were together for close to six years and were engaged for a year after that. We broke up, and it was not my decision.
This experience, and its aftermath, altered me significantly and continues to influence my life even now, four years later. Since then, through a handful of scattered interactions, we have, I have good reason to believe, made peace. For my part, I can say with all my heart, I wish her every happiness and blessing in the world.
Second, I began teaching middle school in the fall of 2014. I taught for three and a half years and quit mid-semester in December of 2017. My leaving had absolutely nothing to do with the administration or any fellow teachers, and I feel I must publicly and clearly state that I feel nothing but respect for these people.
Though relatively brief, this period of my life changed me more than I could ever have expected, and, I anticipate, will be the focus of many of my early posts from now on.
Whew, now that’s out of the way.
Let’s write.