While I was in New York I got to spend some time with the instructor of the pilot, a fascinating gentleman from Dallas, who, upon first glance, might not strike you as the untapped resource of blissful conversation he is, but once cracked, becomes a wealth of knowledge and entertainment. It was then, grabbing dinner with my colleague, one with life experience and, much to my surprise (though not by accident), familiarity with my writing, told me that given any new found free time I might have, that writing is one thing I should not give up. Granted, this is a man that was convinced I was a black belt in karate based solely on the way I present myself and speak, but I still valued his opinion.
I have long-time missed writing, but over the last few years, I just haven’t been inspired enough to sit down and figure something out. After everything I put in, it seemed like there was nothing else I could wrap my head around and twist my fingers through to spit out something that I deemed shareable. That’s not to say that my life was stagnant. In fact, if you’ve known me over the last two years, quite the opposite can be said. But in a way, I felt defeated. Not that I had lost, or that what I had produced was a failure, but simply that I thought I could do this forever. I always knew writing was immeasurably challenging. I didn’t realize that it would be so easy to give up.
I find myself on the other side of a crossroads in my short life. In a variety of ways, my life has changed in the last two months more than it had in the last two years, and not just because I gorged myself in New York and have some work to do in the gym. In a way, I had lost a lot of who I was. I didn’t hate who I was or the life I was living. I don’t regret any decision I made. Something just felt different. It’s not uncommon for me to peruse some of my textual history, from the spattering of posts over the last few years to the 4x12 years in my hay day and all the way back to the notes I used to leave in the Wal-Mart of the social networking sites. Sometimes I miss who I was, sometimes I miss what I was doing, but most of the time I miss the act of carving my thoughts into a consumable medium and putting them out there, wherever there might be.
It’s important to be able to pick something up that you once left behind. Whether it’s scheduling time with friends that you’ve grown apart from, dusting off the guitar and plucking some strings, or dashing your fingertips across a laptop keyboard, just because it was once important in your life doesn’t mean it can’t or shouldn’t be again. Life, by definition, is constantly changing (don’t look that up). Change can mean both good and bad, but change also means opportunity.
It was nice to check my suitcase at the Southwest counter and walk through security with nothing but the clothes on my back, ear buds in my pocket, and a book in my hand, although that’s not entirely true. Much to my frustration, I forgot my book at home, but much to my relief after checking three different book stores in the airport, not quite knowing what I was looking for, I stumbled upon the newest collection of one of my favorites, David Sedaris. It had been a long time since I had that much time to myself, where, after what can only be described as magic, I would end up in a completely different place than where I had left. As I read through short stories of a man that has truly mastered the art of the written word, once again descending across an array of massive buildings, stacked together like books in a library, a stranger to my left and a stranger to my right, awkwardly peering just past their face and out the window, catching a glimpse of my next five days, I felt a sort of comfort that I haven’t felt in a long time.
It’s good to be back.
