When I visited my blog today I wasn’t surprised that more than a year had passed since I last posted or even checked in for that matter. Life’s highs and lows kept me far from others and creating, but mostly myself.
One of the things attending college later in life revealed to me were the subtleties I had missed in the ordinary because of references to history or literature (mine, yours, the worlds) that I glossed over and the fact that I took little interest in much beyond the boundaries my small world and the town I lived in. I realized all this one morning while reading the Sunday newspaper.
That revelation opened my eyes and my world and decades passed in which I pursued and reveled in the unknown, mining every juicy tidbit from life until suddenly the dream veil dropped. Translation, reality set in. I lost my job, my friends (it’s complicated) and my home. I lived thousands of miles away from the people that mattered to me most. And getting back was a tangled mess with no apparent solution.
Looking out the patio door I see a thirsty desert landscape longing for summer’s end. I recognize the metaphor for my parched life. So I’m surprised when I feel an urgent need to attend Burning Man Festival. I’ve never concerned myself with a bucket list because, like my dreams, in the grand scheme of things it didn’t seem all that important or achievable.
God’s existence and life’s unanswered questions have plagued me to the point of total disassociation and disfunction for far too long.
Am I waking up or returning to a deep slumber?