Anyone who really knows me, which most people don’t, they know I have a few passions in life. Outsiders would, and have said, knowledge is my passion. Those closer still would say computers, or Christ. Another level in and you might hear about my car, or motorcycle. Closer still and you would hear the less heard of things, such as Taekwondo, hand to hand weapons, really neat toys, or something of that nature. One of the deepest, however, is writing. To say it is a passion is really an understatement, it is more of an addiction, something that fuels me. It is so much a part of me, that when I meet new people, I often judge them by one of their written works, be it a memo, paper, or just plain fun. Now when I say writing is my passion, I don’t mean it in the sense of writing papers for class, I mean it in an almost spiritual way. The infusion of one’s ideas, dreams, being, into a work of written art. The power of words completely astounds me, and I often wonder if I have chosen the right profession for my life. I, of course, don’t feel that I am capable of sculpting the right mental picture with my pattering fingers on the keyboard to really be any good at it, but that is why blogging really drew me in. It gave me a medium to express myself through this beautiful, and complex language. Lately, however, my eyes have been covered by rose colored shades at the idea of pouring my soul into a work of words. My heart has been burdened by the weight of the world, and I now feel like I know what great load Atlas bears upon his shoulders. But no more. Far too long have I sat idly by and watched the world, wanting greatly to comment on its progression through this universe, but feeling that the creative spark is a waste, lost to the deaf ears of the multitudes who could care less. I know not how many people read this, or how many people care to. But, respectfully, it isn’t about the reader, it is about the writer, and the soothing of a troubled soul, like the calming of the waters when Christ uttered the words, “Peace, be still.” So, intrepid reader, though I know you not, and perhaps you know me not, we shall continue this dance of words in the ballet of life.
Tonight I sat and did something odd, something typically I would consider a waste of time in this busy world. I sat and browsed through Facebook. I didn’t peruse the pictures of my colleagues of a college age, rather I took a stroll through the virtual streets of my hometown. As some may know, I graduated high school in 2001, yes, I am old. It has been a long journey to see the completion of my college journey, and it is not over, by far, but one part has. As I walked through the lives of the people from my hometown, one overwhelming fact hit me hard. I didn’t know any of them. In fact, most of them, when I graduated, were still in middle school, some in grades lower than that. What I did see, however, was the transition.
The American Heritage Dictionary defines transition as the passage from one form, state, style, or place to another.
While DeRidder is no longer my home, I still claim it, I sometimes still long for the familiarity of it, the knowledge of exactly what is where, and who is who. However, it has transitioned. It blossomed, grew, changed, and is no longer the place I knew, but the place of these people. I thought of all the things I used to do. Walking down Texas street at 2:00 in the morning with my friends, the light casting long shadows on the ground, and our rendition of the untouchables. The memories of that place are dear to me, and I know I could not trade my life there for anything, but just as it transitioned, so have I. I moved to a new place, and new way of life. At times this new place, which I now claim as home, seems so foreign to me, so devoid of that feeling of familiarity, but I know when I look back on this place later, I’ll feel the same way I do about DeRidder now.
The problem with transition is in the process, we forget what we are changing from. We forget where we come from, who we were, what we did. I’ve grown as a person. If you think I’m a nerd now, you should have seen me then. In changing who I am, I’ve forgotten who I was, where I came from. That is why my heart is filled with sadness when I think of my hometown, because part of it is lost to me, forever. I only have it in my mind, and slowly those memories will fade, and with it, so too will the DeRidder of my time.
Lately I have been keenly aware of my mortality. Our time on this earth is so short, fleeting, when compared to the ages that have come and gone before us. As I watch the transformation of my life, I wonder where I will be in a few years. What will I be doing when I turn 30? For most that age is far away, but really, it’s only a blink of the eye away. Then comes 40, and 50, suddenly you are 60, then 70, and all you have left are memories of transition. You remember how things were, then they changed. What is the solution? I haven’t a clue. For once I feel like I have no real words of wisdom to pass along, no real purpose or meaning to why I am etching my words to page. But I can say this, don’t forget who you are, where you came from, and why you are where you are. Our past is what molds us, shapes us, into the people we are today, and if we forget why we don’t wear our hair long, or why we can’t stand the smell of tequila, or why when people look at us we stand as tall as we can, as proud as we can, and as fiercely as we can, we declare ourselves, then who we are today is not worth the time it takes to think about it.
