Tomorrow is my birthday. I turn 46, or 21, or the Letter J. I’ve kind of lost count and somehow think that if I just make up numbers (and letters), it will work itself out in the end.
I’m not happy that it’s my birthday because to be honest, I’ve done very little with my life that makes me overly proud of my accomplishments. I say this with a bit of trepidation because I don’t really feel there have been ANY accomplishments. I’ve basically spent four or so decades wasting time, and every time I have a birthday to remind me that another went by, I realize that I’ve wasted even more time that should have been spent doing something constructive, like producing world peace, a literary masterpiece, or eating some great meal in Paris while fighting off evil secret agents from Kaos. Or something like that.
In all, it’s been four or so decades of trying to figure it all out and realizing that I’m no further closer to that goal than when I first figured out I was old enough to start trying to figure it all out. I mean, I can take the first twelve or so years and say that “that’s figuring out how to tie your shoes time” but everything after that should have been a consistent journey to the solving of all of the world’s puzzles. My life should have been a Da Vinci Code of discoveries, instead of a continuous attempt to get to the end of my Netflix queue. Yeah, I’ve written twelve or thirteen novels (the exact number always hangs at the back of my head like a metaphor of something that hangs a lot like something at the back of a head), but aside from a couple of them, they’ve mostly been adventures in how to and not write a novel. My last few novels are probably the few “important” ones even though not a single literary agent cares enough to want to look at it, and no publisher is savvy enough to realize one of them might just change the very course of history. They’re good, but is it really considered good if no one ever wants to read them?
Which leaves me back at “what have you done with your life?” And I can’t really say with a definitive tongue that I’ve accomplished anything substantial. My actions didn’t move mountains, didn’t cause rivers to change their normal flow, or even get someone to realize that he or she could make a difference in the world because Duane helped them figure something out. Yeah, I’m a teacher, but every semester I come out of class thinking I just sent a whole group of students further into the world just as clueless as the day they started in my class. Sure, I tried, prodding and trying to get them to care more about the subjects I teach, but it just never seems to be enough, and when I talk to colleagues who also teach, I get the impression that it’s more about the paycheck than the long-term implications of education. Not all of them, but you know how that works out.
Which brings me back to the point that I’m going to be one year older in one day, and I really don’t feel like I’ve done anything significant in my life. Sure, other people tell me they think I have, but that doesn’t mean much when one is self-reflecting on the bigger picture. It’s like Socrates who spent the latter part of his life trying to prove he wasn’t the smartest guy around, even though the Oracle said he was. It doesn’t mean much if you don’t believe in it yourself.
My only real regret is that I didn’t ask for the day off today. I mean, it’s a Friday, and tomorrow is a Saturday, so I don’t even get a real day off because of my birthday. That’s not that big a deal, but sometimes, it’s the little things that count most.
Unfortunately, you have developed one great talent, Duane – the talent to talk you down and to put yourself under pressure. And that is unfortunate. You have so much to your name, much more than I probably will accomplish in my life. With this note, I wish you'd celebrate the things you've done, the traces you already left and look forward to the ones you will be leaving. It's not what you want to hear, but still – Happy Birthday! Have a great party and say hi to Joshua and Elmer.