It has been six weeks since my last blog post. Since
starting this journal almost six years ago, this is the longest span between
entries yet. And it is not as though there is nothing worthwhile to write
about… I am at a loss to explain just why I have not taken the few minutes needed
to reflect here over the course of these past weeks. True, I am busy, busier
than ever, but it does not take long to do this type of writing. My archives
tell a story, and the frequency of entries is a story in and of itself. The “perspectives,
purpose and opinion,” as the subtitle states, are still pronounced, but my motivation to document them has definitely waned.
This blog was started as a living record of my trials and
tribulations in a post apocalyptic world. No, the world did not experience an
apocalypse – you would have heard – but mine
did. This blog began as my world began to reconstitute itself. And that world is a very
different place. That is where the “perspective” comes into play. The “opinion”
posts are easily identified and there are many, some with the mixed mission of
identifying perspective as well, but the middle term, “purpose,” has always
been somewhat indescribable. I have written about purpose many times, but as
far as nailing it down to something specific, well, that is likely never
going to happen.
Those familiar with my story (either through reading these
entries over the years or because they know me personally) also know that my
life nearly came to an end almost 11 years ago. In each of the past five years
I wrote a commemoration of that ill-fated day, but that series is over. After
the 10-year mark I felt I said all there is to say about the incident specifically
and I will not rehash it here. Inquiring minds can find the last entry in the
series with links to the other posts here. However, the reconstitution is not
complete as I find myself now in a place that I never dreamed possible in my
pre-apocalyptic days. Despite my lack of posting anything recently to the
“official record,” the wonder and amazement are still there.
Tonight I can be found in my apartment in Baton Rouge, just
two blocks from the Louisiana State University campus. I arrived here on August 12th after four days of driving the 2,200 miles from
Sacramento, Calif. with a trailer full clothes, books, my bike (no, not my
Harley, it is still in Sacramento… and we don’t need to talk about that) and
other necessities needed for survival. My driving companion/co-pilot/soul-mate
was with me 24/7 right up until she had to fly back to Sacramento on August 15th,
the date of my last blog entry titled, Upheaval.
The title is self-explanatory. Tonight, after six weeks here, I have “settled
in” to the extent possible, but to say that I am at home here is a stretch. But
at the same time, the upheaval I wrote about has faded away.
However, the change is still fresh. I still miss home, my
friends, my family and especially one very special lady who is not only
suffering with me, but also suffering for me and because of me. And if wasn’t
for some indescribable, nebulous purpose that is driving me, I would not have
put either of us through this. Thankfully she understands; she doesn’t like it,
but she understands. Nothing worth doing is easy and although the “pay-off” can
be measured in the material (i.e., a Ph.D. will secure a good job doing what
I love and carry me through retirement), if that was all I was after, I
could have done it with an MA and at home. There is more – something is pulling
me, something is “out there,” something that has probably been calling to me my
entire life. And it took a personal apocalypse to realize it. It could come
from the same muses that sang to
Aristotle, Cicero and other wonderers or it could be a calling uniquely my own,
but to deny it is to deny myself.
And that, once again, is as close to purpose as I can get. I
cannot define it in anything more than abstract, nebulous, general terms. Like
love, something we know exists, no one can show me a pound of love. I cannot go
to a store and by a bag of it. I can find it represented in art but art itself
is not love. But I know it is real. With every heartbeat I can feel it. And so
it is with purpose. I cannot ignore it; this “purpose” is real.
