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.