Sound the trumpets. Release the streamers. Tweet and retweet. To my very small (errr, maybe one or two?) but maybe growing number of followers: I am back after a long hiatus.
You may not be a fan, don't know me from Adam, didn't miss me, and may never have followed me. Even if you have no inkling as to why you would want to travel down this crazy path with me, I continue. With a tight knot in my stomach, and a frog in my throat, I share my musings as to why I have returned to the blogosphere.
In the Levels of Life, by Julian Barnes, Colonel Fred Burnaby and others like him, describe their passion for ballooning in the 1800s. They are the Bohemians of their day-aeronauts driven by the exhilaration of human flight. They were not doing what they did to become popular. In fact, they embraced the public mockery of being called "balloonatics." They were unphased by the danger of traveling into "God's space" in a primitive contraption made up of a basket, material filled with gas, and a few ropes. Bliss came from defying gravity. It was just plain fun to veer from convention. Going up to another level above the earth, where man is not supposed to go. No controls. No rules. They loved the adventure, even though many trips failed miserably, resulting in possible humiliation. A balloon could conspicuously explode into a ball of fire and plummet to earth in front of everyone. But, it was worth it. Even though Burnaby knew that the future of flight was in "heavier-than-air-machines," (the airplane) he loved being footloose. To him and others, "ballooning is freedom." It is "being blown whichever way by nature's whims."
Like the nineteenth century Bohemians, I have a passion inside me, that has been there all along. I have reflected on its resurgence, and wonder if the main cause is:
The pandemic. No, not the pandemic itself. But, the fact that it is almost, nearly, hopefully, most probably-OVER. This may be the trigger for this small burst of artistic fervor. The light in the furnace is back on. A subcutaneous feeling of hope is bubbling up to the surface. There was a dirge for Covid. A bitter sweet melody, a song about how we overcame together. Afterwards, I am energized by hope.
The Tomb of King Tutankhamun
I am about to unearth some new thoughts. Like golden relics from Tutankhamun's tomb. Imagining I am a struggling paleontologist, I dig and dig and find something. I brush away the dry sand. Eureka! There, glistening in the sun, are shards of my thoughts, scattered and buried by the lock-down. I want to piece them together until they fit, and write them down after I think them. I feel like I may have a lot to say. Well, maybe not a lot. But I feel like I actually might have something worthwhile to talk about. As I awaken from a deep slumber, the words are slowly repopulating my mind. I confess that this may take awhile. During the pandemic, I went numb. My mind emptied itself oddly (and pleasantly) of all disturbing images. To shut down and escape, I shut off the news and watched cartoons. I sometimes ate a poor (but yummy) diet of potato chips and soda and willingly dumbed myself down by watching my favorite Seinfeld episodes over and over again and staring at cute baby and dog videos on YouTube. Until, I began to see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel.
Bear with me. I am going to turn to philosophy. Writing is tantamount to living life. Nahh. Let me say it better. Writing IS living. Not the just get-up-out-of-bed, roll-into-my-office-chair (next to my bed), attend-five-consecutive-video-conferences (with my camera off)-with-one-bathroom-break kind of living. Real living. Heart-pounding, ear-splitting, knee-buckling, dizzying, dive-untethered-to-an-instructor-out-of-an-airplane-without-a-parachute, I-don't-care-if-I slip-off-the-edge-of this-rambling-diatribe-of-a-cliff-living.
On a new note, even though these recent years of solitude have left me with a shaky scientific foundation, I will make an educated guess as to why adversity has reignited me.
MRI of a Healthy Human Brain
Hypothetically speaking, my anticipation of the end of Covid as a pandemic (as opposed to an endemic but don't quote me), may be healing my soul. It is recharging my physical self. If I had a brain scan right now, some parts of my frontal lobe may light up. Way different than a couple of years ago. I don't think any of my neurons were firing in 2020. The radiologist would have scratched his head and looked at me and my x-ray sadly, gazing at a picture of a blank box inside my brain. Today, a scan may show the formation of a B-rainbow inside my head.
It is also existential. Nearing the pandemic's end gives me an unexplainable desire to share what I see, hear and touch right now. I want to report what it is like to feel the exquisitely delightful cold splash of water on my face as I dive into cold unchartered waters and a new chapter.
This is scary. But, like an alpinist, fear is not going to deter me from this foray into the unknown. I am an adrenaline junky-oblivious to danger and excited by the possibilities. I am putting on my crampons, with my eyes firmly pinned on the summit. I won't look back and I won't look down as I step out over the crevasses of the Khumbu Ice Fall. No climb is too steep.
Hang on. There is no turning back. This is going to be one helluva ride.
