The past couple weeks have been spontaneously draining and invigorating. The same could be said for any particularly busy, productive period, I imagine, so long as the work is rewarding in some way. That hasn’t always been the case, unfortunately, and I’ve spent nights awake, fingers to keys, really annoyed and frustrated with each moment of productivity. Inevitably, by the time I’ve finished, I feel at least reasonably satisfied, either with the process, the creation of something from my mind and through my body, or, occasionally, with the final product itself. For instance, I wrote a killer strategic plan.
April approaches and marks, among other things: the end of the term; the return home; and yet another year of life in my increasingly impressive resume (I’ve almost collected 27 of them!). Sure, I’m average among my age group, but I’m exceptional when compared with those younger than me. It’s been a fine collection, so far. Sure, some years are a little shabbier than others. Looking at them, it’s obvious that some have been through the proverbial ringer. No amount of polish can make those years shine, but they have a certain, grizzled charm to them, nonetheless. Though I do admit a certain bias; it’s my collection, after all.
This year, when hung up and compared with the others, has been exceptional. There’s no doubt of that. It’s got adventure written all over it; a few major decisions etched indelibly into its surface; the fulfillment of one dream and the birth of many more. It’s had its grey days, certainly. It’s had it sunny days as well. It’s even had a few fairly large blizzards. But when all is said and done, it’s been a year; it’s been three hundred and sixty-five days; it’s been one more eventful trip around the sun.
And just like every year that’s preceded it, it’s been my favorite year to date.