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.


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.