Are you running to something or from something?
Would you rather be right or would you rather be happy?
This is not a dress rehearsal.
Throughout my life and right up until five minutes ago, these three tag lines have spewed form my dad’s lips as inspiration and assistance. While I find them trite and a little more Tony Robbins than I like, they all make sense. Especially the last one. He's absolutely right. This is not a dress rehearsal.
As of late, I find myself repeating those six words at least a few times a week. It helps put things in perspective as I struggle over whether or not to bother pursuing my dreams. I've always wanted to see my name in print, my bio and a perfect black and white photo filling up the last page of a book. The idea of transforming my hatred for athletic activity to a fondness of physical motion has plagued me since the eleventh grade when the gym teacher stopped timing the mile run at twelve minutes and told me to just meet the rest of the class in the locker room when I was finally done. For the last five years, I have talked about wanting to go back to Paris but I haven’t bothered to do much more than dine at some rather ritzy stateside eateries owned by pompous Frenchmen. Bien sur!
Things have always gotten in the way. Being a writer means making some serious life changes and steadfast commitments to see them through. I didn’t have the time to take a writing workshop or the extra funds to buy a laptop, though I did make the time to shop for and the money to spend on some fabulous Prada accessories. I’m not a morning person and I like to chill out in the evening, leaving little to no time for working out. With the weakening dollar and equally strengthening Euro, the cost of venturing abroad has become harder to swallow. Toss in visions of Paris burning and the destination becomes even more questionable. In other words, blah, blah, blah.
If you spend your entire life justifying why you aren’t doing things you should do, the things you dream of doing, the things that will make you happy and a better person, why bother getting out of bed in the morning? I honestly can’t recall any momentous accomplishments of 2005. From start to finish, it is a blur reminiscent of the scenery passing by on the other side of a fast moving train's scratched and stained window. There are little blips that can be identified but nothing is in focus long enough to mean anything.
Would you rather be right or would you rather be happy?
This is not a dress rehearsal.
Throughout my life and right up until five minutes ago, these three tag lines have spewed form my dad’s lips as inspiration and assistance. While I find them trite and a little more Tony Robbins than I like, they all make sense. Especially the last one. He's absolutely right. This is not a dress rehearsal.
As of late, I find myself repeating those six words at least a few times a week. It helps put things in perspective as I struggle over whether or not to bother pursuing my dreams. I've always wanted to see my name in print, my bio and a perfect black and white photo filling up the last page of a book. The idea of transforming my hatred for athletic activity to a fondness of physical motion has plagued me since the eleventh grade when the gym teacher stopped timing the mile run at twelve minutes and told me to just meet the rest of the class in the locker room when I was finally done. For the last five years, I have talked about wanting to go back to Paris but I haven’t bothered to do much more than dine at some rather ritzy stateside eateries owned by pompous Frenchmen. Bien sur!
Things have always gotten in the way. Being a writer means making some serious life changes and steadfast commitments to see them through. I didn’t have the time to take a writing workshop or the extra funds to buy a laptop, though I did make the time to shop for and the money to spend on some fabulous Prada accessories. I’m not a morning person and I like to chill out in the evening, leaving little to no time for working out. With the weakening dollar and equally strengthening Euro, the cost of venturing abroad has become harder to swallow. Toss in visions of Paris burning and the destination becomes even more questionable. In other words, blah, blah, blah.
If you spend your entire life justifying why you aren’t doing things you should do, the things you dream of doing, the things that will make you happy and a better person, why bother getting out of bed in the morning? I honestly can’t recall any momentous accomplishments of 2005. From start to finish, it is a blur reminiscent of the scenery passing by on the other side of a fast moving train's scratched and stained window. There are little blips that can be identified but nothing is in focus long enough to mean anything.
I don’t plan on departing this earth just yet but as we all know, that isn’t my choice. That my Palm Pilot has a calendar with events noted well into the future means diddly. I can plan all I want and I can postpone all that I want. Unless I just get up and do it, the planning and postponing is mere fluff.
I'm not quitting my job but I officially registered for a creative writing class down at Penn. It starts in late February. Not soon enough. I also had to clear off a shelf at home to make room for all of my recently acquired books about writing and getting published. My treadmill, up until earlier this week, had been doubling as a coat rack. Now I toss my coat on a chair, lace up my Nike’s and walk away the time. It's actually a nice after work activity. As for my trip to Paris, things haven’t been organized just yet. I love Paris. The food, the art, the architecture, and yes, even the people set me into a Rhoda spin of elation. I’ll have to spend some free time figuring it all out.
Life is too short to do only read throughs with the hope you will eventually perfect the nuances for a final performance sometime down the line. I’m stepping onto the stage and centering myself right at the front. The musty, velvety curtain hangs in front of me. It is the only thing that separates practice from performance. I turn my glance to the stagehand on the side, pause for a moment and then nod my head, motioning for him to raise the curtain. Let the performance begin!
I'm not quitting my job but I officially registered for a creative writing class down at Penn. It starts in late February. Not soon enough. I also had to clear off a shelf at home to make room for all of my recently acquired books about writing and getting published. My treadmill, up until earlier this week, had been doubling as a coat rack. Now I toss my coat on a chair, lace up my Nike’s and walk away the time. It's actually a nice after work activity. As for my trip to Paris, things haven’t been organized just yet. I love Paris. The food, the art, the architecture, and yes, even the people set me into a Rhoda spin of elation. I’ll have to spend some free time figuring it all out.
Life is too short to do only read throughs with the hope you will eventually perfect the nuances for a final performance sometime down the line. I’m stepping onto the stage and centering myself right at the front. The musty, velvety curtain hangs in front of me. It is the only thing that separates practice from performance. I turn my glance to the stagehand on the side, pause for a moment and then nod my head, motioning for him to raise the curtain. Let the performance begin!
2 comments:
Good for you! Jeff
Go Quakers! Go for it!
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