Sometimes – but only sometimes – when I see my reflection, hear my voice, or read a tumble, I catch a glimpse of myself and recognize the person looking back at me. The truth of the matter is that rarely do I feel as if I am Me. Or, rather, more often than not, I feel discordant or incomplete – a song with a skip every third beat. And it’s something of a rare occasion to see bits of myself and think “Oh, there I am.”

I find that more than a little sad in many respects; because, when I do see those glimpses it’s often when I’m at my happiest – it’s when I’m running by myself down the C&O Canal, when I look around and see a group of smiling faces belonging to people who love and know me, or when I’m writing honestly and openly. It shouldn’t be so rare and it really shouldn’t be a memory of “that time I was happy” or “that time I was honest”. I wish to run and feel the wind against my face while understanding every breath. I wish to speak and understand. I wish to understand.

And I bring this up because both ghosts and memories have a way of drifting into the periphery when one lingers. And it’s difficult to move forward if one doesn’t understand either direction or the requisite dances moves to get there. Let’s be clear, I have nothing against memories or ghosts, they’re funny at parties and they can be great drinking buddies, but I am also interested in movement, growth, and deliberate action because…well, because as my old friend Fitzgerald says, “I’m five years too old to lie to myself and call it honor.”