I recently turned 38 and life, of course, deviated from the one set in stone paths, the direction at that time I knew was it, I knew was my only way. I am not complaining or disrespecting the station I find myself within. Despite vowing to never remarry, I subconsciously and consciously find myself living with the perfect woman for me and I write these words while Leroy lays at my feet, sound asleep. As I have aged physically, I find more time is spent in reflection, digging back to my roots, looking for inspiration, looking for who I am.
Like everyone, many unexpected events occurred altering the path, presenting new choices and options for going forward. At times, thoughts of retreat permeated the mind and each day.
Through all of the setbacks (divorce, grandfather’s passing, mother’s battle with cancer, brother, personal battles and demons), desperation and coming to the tipping point of throwing hands into the air and yelling “I am lost”, “I do not have any more answers”, I have persevered by people held close and one engrained, undeniable purpose: writing.
Even this essence of myself wavers in and out of dark and light, which in itself powers words and direction. Without the purpose, without the outlet to allow the steam boiling and building inside I would not have survived the deep flooded valleys. By this statement alone, I know my path from here and the purpose handed to me through the universe.
I think about people I have met and loved, and where they are today. Time has created gaps, ridge lines, and valleys. I lament time slipping through open fingers and my inability to close the fist, my inaction allowing things to pass and spill upon the barren ground. I will right (write) these wrongs.
