See Canyon Rd.

I don’t believe in new starts.  There, I said it.

I do, however, support the metaphor of them; the crisp clean sheets, newly sharpened pencils, the feeling you get standing in the middle of a new rented room white walls pregnant with possibility. I do love how the newness of things can seep into the way we wake up in the morning.  I affirm transitions, resolutions, changes of heart, and rediscovering, but I do not believe in new starts. I cannot believe in new starts, because  I am such a strong believer in second chances. And also in third chances and fourth chances and so many re-do’s we can’t even count anymore, till we are blue in the face.  Second chances are so potent because they bear witness to what happened before.  Even if it isn’t a redo, whatever it is, its no doubt been birthed from dreams, experiences, and people of the past that brought you to the now.

A wise man once said, “We can only begin with what has happened. We owe the future the past, the long knowledge . That is the potency of time to come.”  We don’t owe the future a new start, we owe it the self that has been created out of the collective of our past.  We love to separate ourselves from the things we have done, the ways we have treated others, we often say that is “what I did, not who I am. ”  And I get that,  I do.  To be fair, perhaps my perspective is skewed, because for me personally, often it feels as if my imperfections and failures have been the rule, rather than the exception.  Therefore  to separate the lovely moments from the gritty ones seems some sort of deep disservice to both, if not just blatantly dishonest.

I had a homecoming of sorts this past weekend. Laying in bed each night exhausted, my jaw all achy and worn out  from smiling so big all day.   Ive been gone for as long as I was there.  How can that possibly be?

I have to say, this was the first time that I didn’t tip-toe my way back into town. I just came on in, guard down,  just the way I like it. Sometimes people don’t like that. Sometimes they like to take the opportunity to put you back  in your place if youve dared to show up happy,with all your selves and all your pasts right out there in the open.  And someone did just that. Seized the moment to subtly remind me that I should be quieter and step more lightly, maybe hang my head just a bit lower. Id be lying if I didn’t admit that it stung a little. I know enough, to know this wasn’t personal.  And I only  know this to be so, because of all the times Ive passively jabbed at others, all the times Id wanted others to stay broken and ashamed if only so that I wouldn’t  feel so afraid.

Sometimes we have a hard time with this- allowing others to rise up out of the ashes. Mostly because we are so bad at allowing our own selves to rise.  Letting our pasts  be ours. Fully. Claimed. I think Im getting better at it.   Not because my past was somehow bad, and now life is good. Or that I know things now that I didn’t then, and ESPECIALLY not that what I am doing now somehow redeems something before. Grace isn’t a trajectory. Rather, I’ve become addicted to the way the past illuminates  life now.

And so I laid on my back, old friends by my side, changing leaves and familiar canyon hills above us,  and we laughed until we cried.