At times absence is the best way to move forward; it is only when we are left to ourselves where we may even begin to see where we might be going. Over the last week or so, coincidently with the rise and return and sweet delicious spring, comes the recognition that there are other people out there, people to meet, people to get to know, people to have a sleepover with, people to do all (or none) of the above with. With the rise of life comes the recognition of life, old, returning, and sui generis. So much life in one place forces a pause in the minutes of a given day (in all days if one is so lucky to be afflicted with a bout of the heady simplicity that comes with warm air, barbeque on the back porch, and the general disdain for clothing that only the rise of the vernal stretch of our year can inspire).
Springtime, the season that both defies and defines description. The season where the groggy inhabitants of our globe begin to emerge back out in the world. The season where suddenly members of preferred attraction once again stand in bold and fascinating relief to the whirl and whoosh of the green swaths ubiquitously and flawlessly painted by the hand of Mother Nature herself. Springtime is the season where life has a smell, when the rain provides the medium to coax all that is renewal out of a barren, scarred rock. Spring is our reward for the battery of winter; it is the time when we again heed the call of the sunshine; it is the time when we attempt to photosynthesize, failing yet turning a healthier shade of ourselves in the process. It is the time of both young loves and old flames, the season of poets and adventure, of remembering that the meaning of life has a much to do with money and stability as oxygen does with the vacuum of space.
All bombastic expositions aside, with the arrival of spring comes also the memory of all that would like renewal yet does not have the privilege of being tied intimately and necessarily to life in theory. Especially, I’ve been struck lately by just how many old friends there are out there that we slowly lose sight of: so many truly exceptional individuals who are silently (at least to us) carving their own swaths of existence through the world. These may not even be friends that we held particularly close, yet all the people we went to school, played a sport of just generally wasted some time with, for whatever reason, had a small yet essential role in shaping who we are today.
So how is getting in touch with our past like the glorious spring? Well, as far as I can tell, both set us up to figure out just how we have and have not changed. My time runs short now, for my eyelids are slowly yet steadily dimming the boundaries of my vision, yet still the comparison needs to drawn. Our memories and our past are the seeds of our future. It sounds cheesy, but even the smallest encounters shape who I am now. from the first girl I French kissed, at a LaSalle dance in 8th grade to Comedown by Bush to the girl who took my virginity (I will not say who, yet for those who might care she had an affinity for butterflies and getting high. No more hints) to the first person I threw a chair off a balcony with: every person, in each moment that I have been kicking about this sphere has shaped who I was, who I am, and who I shall be, and as such they deserve to be remembered, and in the best cases, we might just get the chance to restore/create anew a relationship with those we once thought far gone.
So if there is one thing that has really stood out for me as of late is the need to get in touch with those who changed us, and see where they are. I’m pretty sure the point of all this technology is to allow to do that sort of thing (or perhaps our technology is best suited to the perfect beer friendly lazy-boy), and when we get surprised, we get really surprised. For example, I learned today that a girl that I had just a wicked crush on in high school listens to a lot of the same music that I do and now has an advanced degree. Considering I want to be a professional geek for a living (a college professor, for those who don’t know the dirty secret of academics) is I really should’ve been more forward in high school. Another friend of mine recently reemerged after a long absence on the opposite side of the country I ever thought I would find her in; she is still the same girl who got me into Buddhism and my equal through and through when it comes to the “madness to live” ideal. My past reminds me how I got to where I am today, reminds me of what has and hasn’t changed over the years and always, with the rosy glow of memory, reminds me that I have been really lucky to be surrounded with such amazing people for so long. See what we can learn by turning back the clock in the springtime?
