A Contribution

What is it about the switching of seasons that pulls you into starting something new?

Maybe it's the air and the way it feels different even when you're breathing the same oxygen. Four opportunities each year, then, four signals to get it going. I've had blogs before this, and journals before those, and every iteration ends up more fragile and ephemeral than the one before it.

Somebody once called me a poet, so I then started reading poetry.

The kind of person that I am needs to write things down. Recall the past and ponder the future, little bits of now peppered in. And where are we now? "Midlife" is a funny thing. How do we know we've arrived?

Is this the crisis they talk about?

I owe the world something. I definitely owe my parents something. My partner. I owe myself. Figuring out what that is somehow feels analogous to figuring out what my overall contribution shall be.

Purpose often feels singular, even when it's not.

What will I contribute? Maybe the act of discovering the answer—and keeping track along the way—is the poem.