Not posting regularly on a blog can mean the death of any credibility to an author. While it’s been several months since I’ve posted anything on my own blog site, I meant to write many times, but each time I chose to ignore my audience. This is not to say that I didn’t care about them or that I had nothing meaningful to share. On the contrary. Like Mozart’s music with “too many notes,” my head was filled with too many thoughts. (Anyone who saw the movie, Amadeus, will understand that analogy.) Which idea deserved a voice? There wasn’t enough time in the day to give them all equal billing.
My life has undergone many transformations during the time since my last post. This statement is a slight understatement. After well over three years of unemployment, I finally rejoined the ranks of the working class and I’ve since moved into a home of my own. In addition, I’ve done much soul-searching: taking stock in where I’ve been, what led me to where I am now, and where I want to go from here. A long-time friendship came to a sad conclusion while new ones reminded me that I was indeed still worthy of friendship. Despite this, I began to live like the hermit author I never thought I could become, keeping to myself and working feverishly to complete my series of novels – or rather “rejuvenating” the older ones to give them a fresh new look while wrapping up the fifth book and starting the sixth.
It stands to reason that one of the first things I would set up in my new home was my writing desk. Actually, it’s a borrowed folding table and chairs, but for now it’s my desk. It’s located in what I’m calling my sunroom. From this desk, I can see the mountains through the branches of the tall trees that surround the house, a sight that I imagine will be more spectacular in the winter under a blanket of snow. Upon the fresh breezes that waft in through my sunroom windows, the songbirds dazzle me with their music, the neighborhood bells strike on the hour informing me of the time, and the train whistle of the nearby Durango-Silverton Narrow Gauge Railway inspires visions of travel to far-off lands.
July 1st was moving day. The last time I moved into my own place and lived entirely on my own was a few months before my son was born, over twenty-six years ago. Since my son moved out to be on his own, I’ve lived with my sister and with friends, but never on my own. It feels a little strange to essentially be starting over, but it also feels pretty good. In fact, it is quite appropriate to begin the second half-century of my life out on my own in a new town, in a house that I’m not sharing with anyone else, and working at a new job. While I don’t plan to live alone forever, I think I’ve been needing this time to myself for quite a while now.
Other than moving my belongings from storage in Washington to my home here in Colorado, I have what I need to start a new life for myself. I can finally live just for myself, for my own needs, goals, and desires, and by my own rules. I am a lone wolf in the forest. In all fairness, however, no one can claim to be entirely independent of others. Without the help of friends and family, this move would have been much more difficult, if not impossible. Perhaps my so-called independence has come at an enormous price. Then again, I suppose anything worth having doesn’t come without some sacrifice. While I would have enjoyed sharing my new-found triumphs with my former friend, I can’t dwell on that loss or allow it to steer me off course. Maybe I am just a crazy hermit. Whatever the case may be, I promise not to neglect my blog quite so much in the future. Thank you all for being patient and not abandoning me entirely. The fact that you have read this far gives me hope.