As I write this, I’m at the exact division between the Americas and Europe. With four and one half hours to go until arrival in Roma, the on screen map tells me I am sitting comfortably in the precise spot where the volcanic eruption in Iceland was casting its ashy shadow and economic tailspin only one short week ago.
I’m going back to the place where I first started writing to you: Cairo, Egypt. There are many mixed feelings one has when facing their past, head on. Worry that it will be alluring and feelings of regret or loss will sink in. Worry about where we have come in our lives and about who we want to be. Comparisons of all kinds… Like meeting a meaningful former lover, somewhat expectedly, but still without quite knowing what to expect.
As with all meetings, confidence has everything to do with it. One who has progressed significantly in their live might be unshaken by the idea of looking backwards, but may also be all together too cocky. One who is floundering, might be tossed completely off course. What I mean to say, of course, is that revisiting our past has a way of allowing us to measure growth.
If unlearned history really does repeat itself, then what can be a more valuable measure of truth?
Time and progress are good friends, ‘healing all wounds’ and so forth. But how long is it before one might be adequately distanced from the past to be an unbiased onlooker upon their own life? That’s the trick.
When facing history head on, I believe in tough love. Pluck up your courage, pack your suitcase, and travel light. Don’t waste your time stewing about what might have been, and don’t laugh too hard or too confidently at the lessons that brought you to where you are today. Like the path of my life, I find that I’m halfway between the Americas and Europe, in the wake of a disaster, but weathering the slight turbulence well with a an eye on the map and time to my final destination.
