Yesterday, I experienced something quite similar to almost sneezing. Have you ever had a bout of dancing around a sneeze? Your inhalation is suddenly cut off, followed by a series of staccato like, fractionated breaths. Your eyes close and at the height of the freeze, it magically passes and life goes on. OK, there could be a series of those episodes, one after the other, and suddenly you pick up exactly where you left off, before the feather tormented your sinuses.
I really wanted to write yesterday. I sat down in the exact same spot as this and began my story. I got a paragraph down and really didn’t like it at all. This occurred three times in fairly rapid succession, hitting the same wall of dissatisfaction each time, followed by whacking the delete key.
Listen, I’m no genius and I need help when it comes to writing. I have been in a fairly set routine for the last number of years, primarily due to my work schedule. Habits can certainly be a blessing, allowing you to not think about a host of activities, often developing into fixed patterns carried out by rote. Of course, sensory deadening is an inherent risk of repetition. I try to share what is going on with me, but when the world flattens into a boring landscape, it is a bitch for me to find anything at all worth sharing.
Two weeks ago, I booked reservations on the spaceship of experience. On a certain Monday morning, I landed on a completely new planet. Everything about it was different from what I had known and what to share about it challenged my ethics. I write about myself and not about others and have never felt comfortable poking into their business. I find it fascinating to suddenly parachute into a totally unfamiliar world, stumbling along on a convoluted path to slowly becoming more sure footed.
I had the false starts yesterday because I really wanted to share, but I wasn’t sure how to do that without invading the privacy of others. I will pat myself on the back, call myself a fool or throw my hands up in frustration, treating the page as a mirror, but not as a window.
Changing jobs, however you earn a living, is a huge change. It’s like descrambling the omelette of your life with different seasonings. It’s still you, but you don’t quite taste the same, even though it does look like you.
This major change has intersected a completely separate path that has captivated me for at least a year and outside my awareness for longer than that. It is my age. It feels like critical mass has occurred, the years and the experiences have begun to jell into a new kind of energy for me. It’s the other end of adolescence, when the body runs ahead of the mind. Now, my mind has lapped my body, with an unhappy awareness of its limitations. While my body might now hesitate, the lungs of my mind feel like they are inhaling much more deeply.
Recently, when I have run into people my age, I have sometimes brought up the uniqueness of our circumstance. I have been the age of most you, but you have no idea what it’s like up here. I think extraordinary things can happen to you when you get older and there is value and purpose in sharing the gift of time with others. This path thing I mentioned just before is about being able to write from my special vantage point without sounding like an asshole to the rest of you.
The challenges for me in a new job are different than they would be for most of you. I am not building a career to carry me handsomely into the future. I am a completely non-threatening force and only want to make others look good. My validation is simply making a contribution.
When you are not concerned about your future, because you are already living in it, freedom is yours, if you dare.