Anchors

When long-dormant memories surface unexpectedly, they sometimes reveal a personality that no longer exists in its original form. Regardless of how much time and experience have eroded those memories since they were first recorded—and subsequently erased—kernels of that abandoned personality remain intact. Circumstances in play when those recollections emerge determine whether the seeds of the past flourish or decay—whether they sprout into noxious kudzu-like weeds or disappear, withering into dust.

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Last night’s thunder and lightning left no traces of rain; if, indeed, any rain fell. Had I not been so tired when the flashes of lightning and crashes of thunder woke me, I might have gotten out of bed to see and hear and feel the squalls roll through. I love stormy weather—it feeds something primal in me, something that reassures me I belong in the realm of Nature’s ferocity. I am not simply an observer of Nature’s fury when I watch in awe as blue veins of jagged light spill from the sky. I am a willing participant in the overwhelming  power of an incendiary universe.

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Watching and listening to live music in a crowded venue filled with exuberant celebrants does not excite me. In fact, the crush of throngs of people and the overwhelming cacophony of music transformed into high-volume noise repel me. Unlike so many other people, I think listening to music is most enjoyable as a solitary endeavor; or one shared with only a select few others who treat music as meditation.

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Just two hours have passed since I got up. “Just” two hours. The speed at which time drifts away astonishes me. I can never get those two hours back. Instead of treating those hours as precious gifts to be fully savored and etched into my memory, I have allowed them to slip by almost unnoticed. Had I been more fully present during those two gone-forever hours, I might have extended to them the reverence they deserve. But I have frittered away the experience and my appreciation for it, as if I had access to a limitless supply of time and understanding. If I let myself mourn wasted time, though, I will waste even more in a pointless exercise. Today is an opportunity to shed the anchor of regret, if only for a little while.

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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