The day I launched this blog was the first anniversary of an eight-day manic episode that upended my life. A few days ago, at about 4 p.m. on Jan. 27, I marked the approximate moment I recall coming back to earth – I still wasn’t alright for a months afterward, but that was the time I settled back into something akin to a typical state of consciousness.
I noted other events in my mind during those eight days - remembering where I was, who I was with, what scheme I was pulling at the moment.
But even as it was important for me to honor that time, to give it the respect in my life it deserves, it is more important to pay attention to this moment, to the here and now - and to what is just coming into sight, fuzzy on the horizon.
The trail looks good. It’s time to walk on.
And for me, that means I need to continue reveling in the absolute wonder I find in every experience. My life began to turn around in August, and by early October I was back to a place where I felt like myself. It was shocking, in a way, and it was a transition not without its own bumps and bruises, but I’ve been me again now for about four months, and that’s a good thing.
And, actually, I can’t even say I’ve been me in one important sense – gone is the core of bitterness that ran my life for years, shading every experience. I’ve fundamentally changed from a glass-half-empty guy to a glass-half-full guy. It’s like a switch has been flipped. Black, ugly things no longer hang above me; now there’s only sky.
Old stresses don’t bug me anymore. I more easily roll with the punches – or I at least let myself feel the blows that do land, take a moment and move on. And I don’t get down on myself. I’m happy. I feel like the full me for the first time in my life.
Time heals, folks. Time heals. So if you’re out there and you can’t see the light, just know it’s there. The tunnel ends, and then you come out into the sun. And you’re new. You’re tough. Like snowmelt backing up behind an ice jam. Hang in there.
And of course the journey doesn’t end there. There’s always work to be done. For me, now, that means taking care of the basics, staying productive on several fronts and avoiding small-stuff hassles – there are many battles in life not worth fighting, and I have to keep reminding myself to ignore them.
But I’ve got a great advantage in my family and the amazing friends I have around me – we all help each other along the way.
And on that note, I want to close this with something I learned in a geology course back in college. It’s stuck with me.
Carbon, that basic building block of all living things on this planet – imagine that for a moment: the immense, thriving biomass feeding off itself – is not native to this planet. Carbon is an element produced by stars, but not by our sun. Those twinkling giants high above us, those mysterious nuclear powerhouses burning away in the void, are our makers.
That carbon that flakes off as dry skin or grows into a foot was made in the inferno and then floated in clouds for eons, until the lonely little third stone from the sun drifted through the dust. And here we are, like so many dolls stuck together with clay. It’s something, it’s really something. We all share the same origins – we are all brothers with the birds and sisters with the rivers, because we all have the stars in common, way back at the beginning.
And a physics lesson I’ve always loved is the notion that, at the subatomic level, boundaries don’t really exist between one thing or another. Dip yourself into a pool, and in a small but significant way, you and the water are not separate. So when the wind brushes your cheek, remember it’s a part of you and you’re one with that air – and that same breeze is one with the wind that touches all us, everywhere, all the time.
In times of separation and pain, it helps to remember we are all here together. Everyone and everything is connected. We are never alone.
Be well.
