Time is a strange thing.
What I mean is a second is only a second and a minute is only a minute. Better yet, to take this further, an hour is an hour, and a day is a day, but time is always moving, and the clock is always ticking.
It always amazes me how time is always the same; however, if time flies when you’re having fun, what does this say about time when fun is far away and pain is close to the heart?
It’s amazing to me how a year can pass and somehow, you look back as if time never moved—or maybe time moved so fast and last year seemed like it was another lifetime ago.
How many times have we looked back and shook our head because in fairness to the truth, we have no idea how we survived the worst.
How’d we get through it all?
I can think about where I was this time last year. I can think about the challenges I faced or where I was, where I slept, and how I faced a series of new dilemmas.
I can think about the difference between me now and the way I thought about things back then. Despite the odds against me, I can say that I have improved and somehow, I am alive and well, and I’m still kicking, regardless of what took place.
I have seen time-elapsed film of flowers that sprout from the ground and then bud, blossom and bloom, and how the film show this from birth to death, or as I see it; ashes to ashes, dust to dust, the body comes, and the body goes.
I can remember the times when I was small or like a sapling, I was only growing and the concept of, say, me at the age of 51, or about to be 52 was inconceivable.
I swore to myself that I would never grow old. I never thought that this would be me.
I never thought that I would hear my bones crack when I stand up or let out a yelp when my back aches and I get out of a chair too quickly.
I never thought I would have to think about things like health insurance or retirement plans and I never thought I would think about my blood pressure or my cholesterol.
I never thought about my future because worries like this belonged to old people.
Or so I thought. And now I am older.
So, maybe I wasn’t wrong.
I am passed the sprouting stages and I have blossomed and bloomed and I have changed and shed skin. I have shrunk and regrown and regenerated or rejuvenated. While I might not be as young or a spritely as my former self, and while I admit to my sense of increased skepticism and jadedness, I am no different from the time elapsed film of the flower which came from the ground and eventually returned to dust.
As it is with everything, there is a beginning, a middle, and an end.
I am reminded of the verse which says, “No one knows the hour or the day. Not the Angels in Heaven. Not even The Son. Only the Father knows.” While I prefer to remove this entry from the religious aspect of the verse, I agree—no one knows the hour or the day. No one knows when their time will come and, of course, no one knows the time when they will sleep.
There is a beginning, a middle, and an end to everything. The distance between these three points is not the same for everyone; however, the mathematics of this idea is something which I’d like to pay attention to.
If this is true—
If there is a line between the start and the end, then I would like to see things differently.
I am on a course which is not necessarily a straight line. While the distance I might travel will vary and depend upon circumstances, still—my life exists between the start and the end; therefore, the depth of my middle or the in-between is what makes up the substance and the very fabric of my life.
I have made mistakes. I have been shortsighted.
I have overlooked certain things and forgotten to circle back or revisit the moments where haste made waste.
I have grown and shrunk and reconfigured myself and adjusted my thinking.
I have lost time. I’ve worked and I’ve sweat. I have shed my own blood and lost my patience.
I have hurt myself and others and, of course, I have been hurt too. I have been lied to. I have been deceived and misled. Equally, I admit that I am guilty of the same.
To be clear, I am only a man.
I am only human.
I am weak and strong.
I am brave and frightened.
I am meek and proud. Like anyone else, I have faults and flaws and I have memories and misconceptions of life or how things work.
I have gone off and run away and come back and circled around and, yes, I return to square one to find that regardless of what I believed was missing, I have come to the understanding that I always had what I needed. I just lacked the confidence to see this.
I never knew if or when love would find me, or if I would find love. If anything, I never thought, knew, or believed if I deserved love to begin with.
Perhaps I do.
Or, perhaps not.
It is amazing to me how one year can come and go, and we can look back and see where we were as opposed to where we are now.
I am reminded of a friend who was next to me at the worst times in my life. I am reminded of how he told me, “Sometimes you just have to give time the time it takes to do its trick.”
I don’t know when everything heals or if we ever forget what hurt or broke us.
I don’t know when forgiveness takes place; however, I do know that forgiveness of “self” can absolve us from the weight and the pains of blame, guilt, fault, shame and regret.
It took me decades to get away from the faults of my younger years and longer to get away from the demons of my past. In fact, we tend to have lunch with each other, at least once or twice a week.
I am no different nor better or worse than anyone else in this world.
I have my own culture and history, and a list of inventories that range from beneficial items to symptoms of a lesser God.
I have crimes and sins, secrets and mistakes. As for the skeletons in my closet, I’m sure that even my skeletons have their own skeletons in their closets.
I am not above or beyond good or bad things. I have done things to which at some point, I know that I will have to face them—and I know that there are truths of mine which tend to spoil my better nature, which means that like the other 8 billion people in this world, I have thoughts and ideas, ego and pride, and I am as imperfect as they come, which allows me to fit somewhere.
This lets me fit perfectly because, at some point, I believe that I will find where my jagged edges will not only fit, but they are also comforted and complimented by the perfect match.
I don’t know why or how people come together or split apart, and I don’t know why or how we reconnect. I don’t know when I will find myself with the sun on my face or feel the wind which is perfect in the autumn months. I don’t know where I am in regards to the span of time and how close or far I am with regards to the line which extends from the beginning to the middle and the inevitably comes to an end.
I only know that life is eventual and inevitable.
Life is the meat between the start and finish . . .
Perhaps I moved too quickly or forgot to look up and see where I was. Maybe I missed a sunset or a sunrise or perhaps I missed a few opportunities to see the sky when it was perfect because my attention was distracted. Therefore, I lost the ability to focus on the beautiful things.
I know the world is really an amazing and beautiful place.
I just don’t want to miss anything else.
I don’t want to lose my place in line because of another mental distraction.
I can’t sit back and wait for time to allow me the chance to make things great.
At the same time, I need to understand that time takes what it needs to make things right—but at the same time, I have to learn to become a better partner.
I used to wait for things to happen for me.
I thought that life would get better when my luck would change. But as I said to you before, if I am to change then I have to change from within and therefore, I can’t wait for life to happen, which means this is “when” becomes “Now.”
And to you, Father Mike, and as far as The Almighty goes,
watch over me please. And stay for a while, if you can . . .
The day ahead of me is long and the future is uncertain.
But somehow, I made it to where I am which was something that I thought was impossible.
But, it wasn’t.
I need a sign.
You know?
I just need a sign.
The Written Addiction 