I have tried many times to write a description of myself.  It is a daunting task.  Most attempts resemble that of a real estate abstract, a chronological resumé or a present tense obituary.  Describing the self is more than bullet-ed  highlights or a self indulgent autobiography.  It is a cathartic and dynamically changing exercise that changes with each passing moment.  In many ways it is a foolish flirtation with futility.  By the time I finish this attempt I will not be the person I was when I began.

I’m a married middle aged man raising three children in a forgotten town trying to find my place in a world that hasn’t decided what to do with me.  In sum, I am stumbling through life along with countless others trying to discover my significance.  A common story with an unknown ending.  All good stories require an ending and that ending will only be realized by my successors.

I have known many people in my lifetime and had countless experiences, all of which make me who I am.  A friend of mine and I recently agreed to not let our political differences ruin our friendship.  I was confounded as to how two people from almost identical backgrounds to now have such different points of view.  He reminded me of what I already knew.  Life is about choices and half of those are in the hands of chance.

My life is not entirely remarkable.  I was born.  I had a mother that loved me. A father I looked up to. I went to school.  I learned and loved and lost like everyone else.  What makes a life unique are the countless experiences that occupy it.  I believe that every life is unique and irreplaceable.  Life is much more than the DNA that constructs it.  It is what we make of it.