Nestled into a familiar nook of a library that should be brighter, given the windows just above my line of sight, I'm settling into my writer's blockâright on time for my scheduled session: Saturday from 1-4 PM. The twist, however, is that I'm a month late, having missed April entirely. Lately, I've been reflecting on years gone by and the regrets that linger after their departure. Yet, there's a part of me that believes I can do better by myself.
So what have I been up to? Living life, as usual. Turning 40, working on changing teams at work, and the other activities that fill in the hours between. And while those experiences alone are enough to make you feel the time disappearing, although it's been manifesting itself in other ways as well.
Early April I took a trip to Brampton for a Wheels on the Bus show. They were hometown favourites of mine that I haven't seen play live in close to 20 years. It was a reunion of sorts, heading down with a friend I grew up with, and running into a handful of others who either made the trip themselves, or never ventured far. The night made me simultaneously feel young and old. I let myself get well and truly carried away with the memory of youth and after hours of rambunctious vibing and head-bobbing (head-banging's lighter alternative) I walked away with a sore neck that would stick around for the rest of the week. It was a great time, and certainly well worth the hours of driving there and back for a single night event.
The music was as good as I remember it, but following it, I recognized my emotions afterwards were different. The night made me miss me. The younger version of myself who had things ahead of him. Not that I believe there's nothing left for me -- I'm not subscribed to the societal view on aging to think it's all downhill from here; neither am I naive enough to believe I have more potential ahead than what I've already left behind.
That sounds dark. And maybe it is. I suppose that's up to you.
I started reading Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, by Gabrielle Zevin recently. My friend Vic recommended it to me. If I recall correctly she was quite certain I would be really moved by it, and I am. At about the 80 page mark I've barely made a dent in it, but it has been bubbling up a lot of strong, albeit muted emotions. From the distance in Sam and Sadie's story that I've covered so far I find myself inspired and excited. They're in their youth, and while not free from challenges in their own lives, they're hopeful and looking ahead. Their spirits are not yet dulled by accumulating failures or struggles that inevitably come from years of experience. Seeing them in that state conjures up a similar feeling to the WOTB show. That sense of longing for the previous version of myself.
There's also a song on Undefeated, the newest Frank Turner album, called Ceasefire that does the same thing. It discusses reconciling the expectations of a younger version of himself who he believes is/would be disappointed with the person he's become. On my recent trip to Montreal (for a less emotional concert) I found myself screaming the few lyrics I'd learned at the top of my lungs for about 30 minutes while I listened to the song on repeat. (That feels embarrassing to write out so thankfully you weren't there to hear it, but if you listen to the song I'm sure you'll be able to picture me belting along at the climax of it.) So it seems this is a feeling close to me lately.
As I reflect on these concerts, books, songs, and anything else recently that has evoked these visceral emotions, I realize the opportunity before me isn't just to reminisce but to redefine. Finding ways to reconnect with the youthful enthusiasm of my past doesn't have to be a fleeting, rueful sentiment; instead, it can be a catalyst for rediscovering purpose and passion in my life. By deliberately engaging with new experiences that excite me, and approaching them with an openness free from bitter expectations, I can cultivate a sense of optimism and anticipation.
I want to look forward and eagerly embrace the unknown. I want to allow myself to be surprised and delighted by what life still has to offer. By doing so I think I can bridge the gap between the person I once was and the person I am still becoming, continually finding joy and meaning in the journey ahead.
<3 flurp