The changing of seasons echoes changes of all kinds. A kind man once thanked me for sharing my story of change. For someone who seemed so strong, I was amazed at the thoughtfulness of those words. How disarming was that response. It highlighted the fact that when faced with one choice or the other if you want it, there is always a third choice.
Having spent many years in the northeast we experience change in the most severe ways. Some big changes were overshadowed by certain songs and even though they had nothing specifically to do with what was going on, somehow, there was a warning of junctions ahead too incredible to imagine.
When the rules of the game change, what will you do? When the game changes, what will the rules do? Is it upon convenience that you ride out on a lifetime of conviction? Then one day, you stand looking out through a plate glass window at a car in the parking lot. The feel, the smell, and all of the sensory feedback come together, what will you do? Does everything change?
I have been thinking about change a lot lately, it is the season for it. I am also coming to the end of developing over 20 rolls of film that are 15 to 22 years old. Seeing photos of my children back then that I have not seen yet really underscores how quickly time has passed and even though I was there every day for them, I cannot help but feel that trying to give them a good life has somehow stolen something from me that is so precious.
My memory is like an express lane on a turnpike. I have a detailed grip on what happened in childhood, teen years, and even 20s, but from the 30s on, things start to get cloudy. There seems no way to access those local lanes. I don’t accept this, and I am working hard to find my way into those days. I know I can do that.
There is a great release when stories and memories never written are suddenly released to the page. I can tell that this graduation allows other memories to move into the forefront. That brings me comfort. There is however a subtle panic deep within me. Like unprocessed wood in the yard, and winter skies and snow off in the distance at an undisclosed number of days away.
As I look back on all the stories of long ago, I marvel at the reckless courage with which I barrelled into a new frontier never knowing if I was going to a better land. I think this happened because although I saw time as a predator, I did not feel the inevitability that it really is.
When you grow up, does it mean that you no longer do this? Or does it mean that your spirit is broken and tired? Is it honor? Is it weakness now that you no longer jump into the fire, however absurd. However absurd, it may seem.