Today is Friday January 13th, 2017. Two weeks into this year and I’m comfortable saying I’m at my lowest point. This story begins with heartbreak – heartbreak that I won’t mention here. All that’s left is to make something of it. All that’s left is to take some meaning from it.
Bad news on Friday the 13th – yes it is cliché. But the meaning of it, the meaning of it is clear. I’m not young anymore. I’m not young enough to be as dumb as I am. I’m not young enough to not do things that I know that I should do. I’m not young or naïve enough to beat myself up for the things that I should do that I don’t.
I’m too old to still be trying, to live in between outcomes and results and be okay. I have to decide on action or decide on inaction. I’m not young enough to operate on inertia.
I’ve made some progress, have some directionality to my life – driven in large part by not myself but of course my wife. I don’t take myself seriously enough because yesterday I was young. But I’m not young anymore today. And with each day that I live, I’m going to take myself more seriously than the last.
The Stillpoint lives in me, in my heart, threatening to burst, waiting to escape. My Mind shifts slowly but surely, like the Plate tectonic beneath the earth. It will be uncomfortable. But I’m not young enough to be okay with comfort all the time.
Can I count to 52? Is it such a burden, a mountain to scale? Can I take myself seriously for 52 weeks, seriously enough to revisit myself over and over again? And if I do that, if I revisit myself over the course of this year, will I like what I see? Will I like it more than if I turned a blind eye to myself, or less?
I wonder if the hardest part isn’t already over, having written these final words as I count to…