The Hubster and I have introduced our boys to LOST. It’s hilariously good fun to watch them squirm during the creepy parts, and equally entertaining to listen to them try to guess at what the heck is wrong with this creepy-ass island.
The first episode of LOST aired in 2004. Twelve years ago. Let me say that again, because it bears repeating.
Twelve years ago.
Twelve years ago my boys were two and zero years old. Twelve years ago we were blissfully unaware that we were on the cusp of having some huge life changes thrust upon us. Twelve years ago I had no inkling that I would ever put pen to paper, let alone attempt to write a fantasy series. Twelve years ago I had no notion of becoming (or let’s face it, the self-confidence/awareness/determination or coffee addiction it takes to become) a writer.
Twelve years ago, I was twenty-five years old. The ripe old age of thirty-seven wasn’t a number I could comprehend, partially because I lacked the ability to think about the future, and partially because I didn’t want to think about it. Aging terrified me, so I blocked the idea of it out of my head.
I’m not so scared of it now.
Twelve years from now I’ll be forty-nine. I wonder what life will be like–what kind of surprises are in store between here and there. I know there will be heartache–there is always heartache–but I also know there will be happiness and laughter and blessings, because those things are always there too, even if they’re sometimes subtle and easier to miss.
I finished writing that paragraph, and had to stop for a few minutes because I’m not really sure I know where I’m going with this, not really sure what kind of point I want to make. Time passes, yes. We endure the bad, and try to savor the good–yes. We watch our children grow and hope we’re doing right by them, yes. We love our significant others and try to be kind to folks who cross our paths, yes. We realize that life has gotten busy, so we try to slow it down a bit by doing something as simple as binge-watching a television show on Netflix with our children and
BAM! it hits us.
Twelve years have passed.
It’s a little melancholy, isn’t it, this passing of time? Knowing that we can never get those days back–those sun-soaked Hawaiian days of our boys’ early childhoods, those salt-kissed evenings holding hands and watching the sun set on our lava rock home perched literally in the middle of nowhere. And yet,
I don’t want it back. I miss those moments–my heart aches for those moments–but they’re where they should be. They happened when they needed to happen, the days have passed as they ought to have passed, and I find myself dwelling now where I ought to be: holding hands and watching the sun set on my prairie home, almost literally in the middle of nowhere.
It’s good. Life is good.
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