Another year is about to pass. Many of us are thinking about where we’ve been these past twelve months. What events have happened? What did we experience? Were there good times? Certainly there were, but the larger question is, were we mindful of those times? What happened that was not so good? Those happenings too, are certain, because life is a mix of good and bad. Again, were we mindful of the times that made us suffer? What did we learn this year? To learn from life is a gift and we must be attentive students.
I am not one for resolutions. To me, if I want to change my course, my trajectory, it is within my power and control to do so at the moment that I decide. A new year turning on the calendar has never dictated that decision. That seems like a life that would be wasted waiting for a moment that might not come because we are never guaranteed tomorrow. We have the present moment, the now, and that is all we truly know.
I have been in a deep state of reflection recently, that is what death does to me. I have been here before but nothing like this. I am not looking back on the year for the sake of dwelling on the past, but actually looking back at a lifetime to see how far I have come in order to have more vision about where I am heading. There is peace in attempting to resolve your past and navigate your future.
I sent an old friend my novels over the holidays. He is someone I lost touch with, which was mainly my doing. See, I have a stubbornness where I can place a wall up at a moment's notice. I am not sure if it is self-righteous behavior or truly just plain stubbornness. Either way, it’s a part of me that I try to keep in check as I get older. I wrote him a note inside the cover of my first novel that said, “To an old friend that is part of many of my best memories.” It’s not that I had forgotten about him. Oh no, I thought of him almost daily. In reflection, I believe that I was afraid to lose him, like I did a good friend so long ago from suicide, and so I decided to mute the potential pain. Certainly, there were other reasons, but this seems to be the one that haunts me most often. Death can do that. It can make you close others off because the pain is so great that you never want to feel that way again. However, when you remove the living from your life, it is as if they are dead. Without their presence, their laughter, and their faults all on display, they may as well be dead, so why fear losing them from a death that has not even happened? Life doesn’t make sense sometimes, and neither do I.
I have done the same with past jobs, leaving them and placing the wall up. I have had such a good thing going and then I end it. I tell myself It is most likely pride, realizing that when I am even a witness to injustice happening that I feel the need to take a stand and flee, falsely thinking that my departure will bring awareness to any inequalities that may be happening. Damn, what an ego I can have. Perhaps, if I would have stuck it out, kept trying to make positive change, then I could have helped the establishment more. I had people this past year thanking me for helping them grow in past places that I have been. I guess I didn’t realize I did. The ego sometimes fights with humility. However, in a recent conversation with a local superintendent I realized that my departures from places were not really about injustices or any other reason except that I was bored. I had accomplished enough quickly and needed something else. He concurred that he often feels the same. It’s why I stopped apologizing for not letting much grass grow under my feet. When I reflect on the journey I have been on: being in the military, working in supported employment, human resources, teaching, being a dean of students, and back to teaching, I realize that I am fortunate to have such diverse experiences where I have met so many wonderful people along the way. I learned from all of them and miss many. Still, I wouldn’t have it any other way, even though it has impacted my damn tenure and may keep me working a little longer.
People often ask me if I am writing a new book. It’s often difficult to answer. It’s not that I am not. I am always writing. It is the follow up question that stops me from answering which is, “What is it about?” Most writers, when they try to explain what their books, stories, or poems are about, find themself babbling in embarrassment because the words don’t come out right and makes them question if they should continue writing the piece they are pouring their soul into, or should they abandon ship? That’s why it’s good practice to not talk about it very often. Many musicians do the same. It’s why they tell people to interpret their songs however they want. They don’t give away the meaning. Those are usually the best songs. Right Mr. Dylan? However, there’s the other side where it depletes you when no one seems interested in your writing. Your writer’s ego sets in and you wonder if anyone even cares about anything you write? Yet, let’s face it, most people don’t think about you and they certainly don’t think about writing, so why do we worry so much about what anyone thinks? That’s why I try not to talk about the books I am working on and just stay true to myself, enjoying the process of creating. Actually, I am just trying to enjoy the process of living.
2023 is the year my mom died. I have to confess, I knew it would be this year well before she was given two months last July. Why do those oncologists have to be so damn accurate? The reason I knew it was my mom's year to die is because last New Years my mom told me, “Hon, I think this might be the last New Year I see come in.” We were always open to one another about death. She was right. I remember last spring I told my wife and therapist that I had accepted her death the best I could. See, I was grieving for her long before August 31st. I just had to march on and be with her in the moment the best I could. When the business of dying came to her and she was given those two months, I commenced to write her letters. It was my way of spilling my guts to her about what the process of her death was doing to her youngest. It was my confession to her, and when she asked me to post those letters because they might help others, I was hesitant. However, I tried to be a dutiful son and shared them to the world in her honor. Her death tore me apart. I documented it, mostly, but left out some of the darker parts. They were the parts I could not confess to at the time because I didn’t want to alarm anyone. I have been told recently that “Isolating yourself wouldn't be good.” That’s exactly what I wanted to do. I have had no desire to see anyone, but I knew deep down that I still had roles to play. I am a husband, a friend, brother, and son-in-law. I am a teacher and an author, and I knew that if I did what I wanted to do, which was head off to the mountains and leave the world behind, that I would also lose what I have built. I would simply become a memory, one that is breathing and has a beating heart, but a memory nonetheless. Yet, isn’t that what we all become, a memory? Grief is a complex puzzle, one that can never be solved because there are too many missing pieces, or the pieces keep moving. The truth is, my mom’s death has ripped apart my soul and it frightens me at times. Though, I am here, surrounded by love. I sometimes forget to accept the love I have because it is love I don’t feel I deserve. Self-worth is something I keep working on. It’s not self pity, but past trauma from a man who had his last new year in 1994. That’s the depression talking. It’s a dark, mean son of a bitch, even if it is me. Mostly, I just miss my mom. I miss our talks and everything about her. I miss her hugs. I ache and should. My grief is real and I will figure out a way to normalize this conversation as well, like I have tried to normalize talking about anxiety, depression, and suicide. People are afraid to talk about hard things. Hell, many are afraid to do hard things. It’s why we have cushioned the world. It makes for a soft landing. I’ve learned more from pain than comfort.
I find my faith in the woods. It may not be a church but I surround myself with what God created. The trees stand tall and sway on windy days, and the animals tread lightly in the day and stir in the evenings. I often find myself trekking to the middle of the trees, away from any groomed trail, sitting on a rock that had been there for hundreds of years. This is where I contemplate my life and the journey that I have been on. It’s where I become curious about the darkness that comes to visit every so often, and I stop asking “why” to questions that will never be answered. I do not foolishly bargain with the reality of what life has to offer, which can sometimes be tragic. Instead, I sit, breathing deep in meditation, feeling the earth below my boots and realizing that I am the most fortunate man in the world. I have gotten to see another year come. I am loved, walking a path that I either create or have to adapt to, and the pain that I have felt all of my life has allowed me to build the resilience to change course when I need to. My mother liked to tell me, “You walk to the beat of your own drum.” Here’s to another year of dancing to the sound of that drum.
“To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.” -Ralph Waldo Emerson
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