new (seven) year(s), new me
The crazy rain and flooding that was happening on Wednesday morning let up a bit, allowing me to get to the airport and make my evening flight. As I type this, I'm at 30,000 feet somewhere between Houston and Los Angeles for a very quick business trip. Since I've got a few hours captive in this plane, I thought I'd spend the time writing a blog post. Besides, I found this old photograph of an orchid that I shot several months ago at an orchid show at one of our local museums that I'd never shared -- seems as good a time as any to share it, as well as share what's been on my mind the last couple of weeks.
Earlier this evening, I read a scientific "fact" that it takes 7 years for your body to regenerate every one of its cells -- in other words, every seven years, according to this "fact," your body is brand new. It turns out that this isn't true -- certain cells regenerate far faster than that, others not at all -- but I have to admit if it was true, I'd be pretty convinced that this year would be the year of a whole new me, man. This year, Marcus and I will be married for 15 years -- and while it's not a year ending in a "0," it still feels pretty milestone-y. Our daughter becomes a teenager this year. I begin a brand new decade of life this year. My second book will be published (and coincidentally, the release date is about 7 years from the release date of my previous book). And, of course, the country I live in will have a new president.
That's a lot of big stuff. It's hard not to think that I should be someone different, too. That maybe I should, I dunno, level up. Understand that isn't about some sort of discontent with my current life -- I don't think anyone could possibly be more grateful for my life than I am.
But all of these serendipitous occurrences feels like a cosmic sign that a shift is called for.
They feel like a reminder that, as Mr. Magorium says, our life is an occasion -- we should rise to it.
Anyway.
These are the things I think about when I'm stuck in a pressurized tin can, with an archived photograph of an orchid and time on my hands.