Ending an Era
On my desk is a Colts convertible, given to me by my mother on my 23rd birthday. Nearly six months ago I was on site at Habitat, building a house for the Cunninghams in the middle of nowhere, Indiana. Where am I now?
I just read an intriguing book called "The Natures of John and William Bartram." It's a terrible historical monograph but a good insight into father-son relationships, the struggle with mortality and the pain of invisibility. I know that as a 23 year old I have accomplished very little in my life. As an amateur historian, I have accomplished even less.
Reflecting on one's own mortality is scary and intimidating. Thinking back on all the mistakes, the miscues and the missed chances magnifies that fear by ten. What if? and Was she? are all the questions that pop into the wandering mind of a hopeless romantic, of a man not lost but lost in what he should be. I guess the scary part for me is that I found myself comparing myself to William Bartram, struggling with my potential and my father's successes, constantly hoping that I can be recognized for a legitimate contribution to society; an everlasting monument to my own legacy, not to the legacy of my father.
When I was 18, fresh out of high school, I aspired to be my father. I started in Business School and then found that my true passion was my own dream, not the dream of my family.
I should not regret as much as I do, I should never think about the constantly moving hands of mortality; instead, I should embrace the time that I am given on this Earth. Why are we, why am I continually obsessed with my own fate? I am more convinced than ever that an inner peace, such as one that William found, is a good part of loving life. Relationships, familial or otherwise, are the rest of that equation. Without strong relationships, the whole ship lists.
Decades from now, the world will not know what I am. Will they try to piece my life together from nothing but birth records and deeds? What I do know is that I love my friends, no matter if I haven't talked to them in years. I grieve at my inability to make plans with friends, to spend time with people and I especially regret not making more plans during high school, to not break a terrible relationship with a wonderful girl in college. I wish I had more time with my grandfather before he died, with my uncle before he crashed.
What life has given me is more time with the others. Some friends may not talk to me anymore, not care if I exist or if I fade into the ranks of the homeless of Indianapolis. Life has given me a second chance, even if I haven't survived cancer or a car crash. Everytime I wake up, I have won my first battle.
I just read an intriguing book called "The Natures of John and William Bartram." It's a terrible historical monograph but a good insight into father-son relationships, the struggle with mortality and the pain of invisibility. I know that as a 23 year old I have accomplished very little in my life. As an amateur historian, I have accomplished even less.
Reflecting on one's own mortality is scary and intimidating. Thinking back on all the mistakes, the miscues and the missed chances magnifies that fear by ten. What if? and Was she? are all the questions that pop into the wandering mind of a hopeless romantic, of a man not lost but lost in what he should be. I guess the scary part for me is that I found myself comparing myself to William Bartram, struggling with my potential and my father's successes, constantly hoping that I can be recognized for a legitimate contribution to society; an everlasting monument to my own legacy, not to the legacy of my father.
When I was 18, fresh out of high school, I aspired to be my father. I started in Business School and then found that my true passion was my own dream, not the dream of my family.
I should not regret as much as I do, I should never think about the constantly moving hands of mortality; instead, I should embrace the time that I am given on this Earth. Why are we, why am I continually obsessed with my own fate? I am more convinced than ever that an inner peace, such as one that William found, is a good part of loving life. Relationships, familial or otherwise, are the rest of that equation. Without strong relationships, the whole ship lists.
Decades from now, the world will not know what I am. Will they try to piece my life together from nothing but birth records and deeds? What I do know is that I love my friends, no matter if I haven't talked to them in years. I grieve at my inability to make plans with friends, to spend time with people and I especially regret not making more plans during high school, to not break a terrible relationship with a wonderful girl in college. I wish I had more time with my grandfather before he died, with my uncle before he crashed.
What life has given me is more time with the others. Some friends may not talk to me anymore, not care if I exist or if I fade into the ranks of the homeless of Indianapolis. Life has given me a second chance, even if I haven't survived cancer or a car crash. Everytime I wake up, I have won my first battle.