It seems like it’s been a long time. I used to do this much
more frequently - even regularly - way back when. It could have taken place
just about anywhere, but it was always best at a coffee shop, at a park, in my
backyard, anywhere but the more “official” writing places at the more
“official” writing times when I wrote because that is my job. This writing, in
these places, has nothing to do with anything remotely resembling any of my
various and sundry writing requirements. Today I am just a short distance from
my desk with all my required work piled upon it. I am at once at home, but
also a long way from home. Right now I am in my backyard, a park-like setting in
its own right, laptop open and actually on my lap, and thousands of miles away
from the place I last wrote from my backyard. It seems like it’s been a long
time. Such a long time.
The first semester of the third year of my doctoral education
is now half over. I am not sure how that happened, but when placed in context
with the entirety of my Ph.D. work here at LSU, it is just another piece of an
excruciatingly long two-plus years. So much has happened. So much has gone
wrong. So much has gone right. I wouldn’t know where to begin or how to finish
the saga of what this period of my life has seen. At 50 years old, shouldn’t I
be looking forward to the twilight of a long and illustrious career, enjoying
the fruits of my extended labors? Instead, I am once again just beginning anew.
It is not the first time. The number of sacrifices I have made, the things and
people I have given up and/or been forced to leave behind is staggering. To say
this is the path less traveled is putting it mildly. But this time, these past
two years, has made all those past sacrifices seem so far away. It seems
like it’s been such a very, very long time.
Almost 13 years ago, on October 17th, 2000, my
life came to an abrupt halt. It very nearly came to an end. Five weeks had
passed before I regained anything better than occasional semi-consciousness,
and even then it took several more days to fully comprehend where I was and how I
got there. The following two months of took me through four holidays and my 38th
birthday – about three months in total – in a hospital bed. I was a mess. My
injuries nearly killed… and there were times that I wished they had. Combined
with rehabilitation, short hospital stays for follow-up operations and learning
to walk again, it was more than a year before I could even think about doing
much of anything. That two-year span also seemed like a very, very long time.
The difference this time has to do with the nature of the
injuries. While not physically incapacitated, the emotional damage is just as
real. It could be said that the injuries are in my heart or to my soul, but
they are articulated in my head. As an “academic,” as a writer, as a
researcher, as a teacher, it is my head that now does the vocational production that my
body used to do. This two-year rollercoaster has seen very, very high highs and
exceeding low lows. Each peak and valley is counterproductive to what I must do
keep my career alive. And “cutting my losses,” as it were, is kind of like
going in for another surgery – the recovery from that can be extended as well.
All of it adds up to a very, very long time.
There are moments, however, when events dictate a certain
response and that response, while not what I necessarily want, is like that awful
medicine we used to have to take when we were kids. It tastes like shit, we don’t
want to take it, but it will make us better. Sooner or later. But it often
takes time to get to that point. Sometimes it takes a long time. And it has
indeed been a long time. And now, finally, it is time to go.
