Old Roads: The Road Forward

 

On Understanding How We Got Here.

So this series finally comes to a close. It's been some journey. It was, for me anyway. I always find the best way to work through things is by writing about them. This time it actually led to an interesting discovery. I'll try not to do that again.

As I wrote in my last essay, Old Roads: Where You Find Yourself, between my writing and my almost obsessive music habits I finally understood, really understood, the reasons behind my waxing interest in the past, the flood of nostalgia, my yearning for simpler times. It turns out my subconscious mind (most annoying thing ever, can't recommend) was trying to work out how I got here. What made me who I am today.

I’m not convinced self-discovery is necessarily a good thing. I’m not entirely sure I wanted to know how I got here, or more accurately, I suppose, remember how I got here. I have no regrets at all, I don't believe in regrets. I would not change anything about my life (well, there were probably a couple of haircuts, and for sure some outfits from the '70s I would rethink). I would not give up the family and friends that I have now for anything. The one thing I am sure of is that any changes to the decisions I made or the paths I took, would also change who they are. And that, I cannot have.

Every decision, poorly thought out or not, every choice (Coke not Pepsi!), every road taken leads us to our own Memphis. The books, movies, and TV shows that we read and watch along the way become part of that path. The ones that (to quote myself) feel like home are part of the essence of who we become and how we think.

I do not think this revelation means I will stop wandering down those old roads. I am not sure I would want to, even if I could. No, I know I wouldn't. They are too precious to me. (My precious...) The difference is that now I understand them a little better. They are not hiding places; they are not simply escapes; and they are not places where time simply stops. They are signposts. They point to the people I have met and loved or hated, the stories that shaped me, the choices I made, and the strange, twisty little passages that brought me here.

Now every time I watch the Rankin/Bass The Hobbit, binge The West Wing, or pick up one of my favorite books for another read-through, I still get that wonderful feeling of home, of belonging, of close friends returning at the door. (I fought for that phrase and won.) But I also have a new appreciation for the place these treasured works hold in my life, and how they helped shape the person I am now.

How I got to my Memphis.

How we all get to Memphis. 

Till next time,

   -John