Pondering Over The Platte

Arch­ing from moun­tains to farm­land, the Platte River has drifted through his­tory, through nov­els and now my life. I cross over it each day as I head to a lake side cabin. As I cross and observe the flat water, the dreamer that I am roman­ti­cizes those who’ve gone before me, forg­ing new ter­ri­tory and carv­ing out their place in the world. I truly feel like I am on my own dif­fi­cult and unde­ter­mined jour­ney. Still dis­cov­er­ing what I’m made of and how I can best serve my pur­pose dur­ing my short and fleet­ing time. It’s been 10 years since I picked up a gui­tar and decided to sing for all who would hear. In a blink, I’m on i-tunes, for the sec­ond time at that. It feels as fast as it doesn’t feel fast enough.

I want sim­ple things. Food and shel­ter, a sense of secu­rity. Friends and hap­pi­ness, love around me. I have it all, who doesn’t want more of a good thing? So much of the life of an artist is tem­po­ral. I’ve learned to embrace it, to admire my own abil­ity to deal with it, to have the for­ti­tude to dance with shift­ing shad­ows, and be grate­ful for all the changes I wit­ness and the expe­ri­ences gained. I want to live life, I don’t want it to live me. Can’t help but won­der what part of this was true for michael jack­son. For all the firsts he accom­plished, for all the lives he touched. Was he liv­ing life? Or was his life liv­ing him? Clearly, there had to be some strug­gle for a sense of real­ity. I won­der when that was lost. I won­der if he ever got to steer his own ship, to fly with the assured­ness of Pan. Or if his entire jour­ney was decided for him by pirates. I’ve not been refer­ring to des­tiny although I do won­der what my des­tiny is. I don’t pre­tend to know, but I have decided to be use­ful regard­less of the weather, the wars or my own wounds.