Yes, I am back. Six years and two-hundred-and-fifty-five posts later, to this day, this blog began as a way to maintain connections during a pandemic shutdown. I had worked hard and took risks to build those relationships, and I was not going to see them wither away as we navigated those uncertain times. Well, more accurately, my blogging was fueled by a fear that without the near daily face-to-face encounters that preceded the quarantine, those friendships would crumble.
(And something about writing regularly in order to build better habits that would lead toward a published book...)
If those three-times-a-week posts played a part in reinforcing those connections, then the effort was worth it. I would ask them now, for the sake of this reflection, if my blogging had any effect (it sure has not helped with writing a novel), however, two years ago, things changed again, and uncertainty reigned, though more on a local, personal level, rather than a global scale. I was willing to adapt. Apparently, others were not. And my blogging suffered.
Yet, change is constant, the years are passing, and my time left on this planet is shortening. In a few years, I will be fifty. Since I have no reason to believe that there is anything beyond this “short, brutish” experience, there is no time like the present to start, or restart, as in the case of this blog, my life goals.
Yes, dear reader, I have returned. You can expect at least a weekly post (it will either go up Sunday, or Monday, night—to be decided at a later date). And, if you are lucky, and I become ambitious, there will be one or two in-between, most likely covering my reactions to current events and my forays into various hobbies.
For now, here are some of my recent reflections.
On Thursday, after a marathon reading session, I finished The Secret History by Donna Tartt. My youngest daughter has read it, three times, and considers it transformative: several passages left her rethinking her own life experiences. For several years, she has been suggesting it to me. What is interesting, is that I have been lugging the novel around since I graduated college, back in 2000. My classical Greek professor—yes, I studied the ancient Greek language—gifted it to me, with the following inscription: "R-, it’s been a genuine pleasure having you in my class. Best of luck in all that you do. Yours truly, D-". For twenty-six years it languished, collecting dust and yellowing upon a half dozen book shelves. And then, this past week, I finally picked it up, and read it.
So, why now? It would be nice to say my daughter’s pleas finally paid off. While I cannot discount her arguments (“Dad, I think you would relate a lot to the main character” or “There are parts that made me see the world differently”, and “those winter scenes, still give me chills”), they only played a minor role. Though, I will say, once I started reading it, her daily requests for updates about my place in the book, along with her “oh, just wait” and “that is one of my favorite moments”, enhanced the experience and move me along.
Instead a stronger case could be made for my recent New Year’s resolution: to read more fiction. For those who have been following this blog for a long time, you will remember that reading books regularly faded for a long stretch of my adult life. Then, over the past six years, as I returned to blogging, my reading rate improved, but most of it consisted of non-fiction. Novels eluded me. Well, in January, I decided that every day I would read thirty minutes from fiction, and thirty minutes from non-fiction. Sure, I have not been consistent about actually “reading” daily. However, I stuck to balancing it out. And, so, during the past four months, I consumed three entire novels, and two-thirds of a fourth one (unfortunately, my interest in that one has waxed and waned—it helps that two of the others were library books, with due dates to motivate me).
(For those interested, the first three were Susanna Clarke’s Piranesi--which I highly recommend--, Robert Holdstock’s Mythago Wood--which I enjoyed, but may be outside most people’s tastes--, and The Secret History--which is not as strong as the former, but much easier to read than the latter. The fourth book was Under Heaven by Guy Gavriel Kay. My struggles with completing it are not a reflection of its quality, but rather my current exhaustion with plots involving convoluted political machinations.)
Sorry, where was I? Oh, yes, the main inspiration for my reading of The Secret History, a novel that I have been avoiding for twenty-six years. You see, that Greek professor, who taught me during all four years of college, who forgave my multitudes of academic transgressions, and whose wife introduced me to the world of educating children, died suddenly on the Friday after Christmas. He was only fifty-seven, just a decade older than me. I can barely recall the last time I spoke to him. It was most likely twenty years ago, about the time his wife left the school where we both worked. He was a good man, and an even better teacher.
Do you like coincidences? Here is one for you.
About five years ago, I blogged about one of my few regrets in life. It concerned a fellow college student, a much older woman, perhaps middle aged. I remember her appearance clear as day, and several conversations about religion. More importantly, I recall receiving, a few years after graduation, an email from the philosophy department. This very woman had become terminally ill, and requested that I reach out to her. I never followed through. She died soon after. You can read it all here.
The coincidence? She and I had ancient Greek classes together under my recently deceased professor.
Now, regret is too strong of a word to describe not having reached out in the past twenty years to my teacher. People come and go from your life, even those who have had a meaningful impact. Yet, with my daughter’s deep, and repeated--she read it three times!--, dives into my professor’s graduation gift to me, and my desire to read new works of fiction, it would be a lie to say I have not thought about connecting with him several times these past few years. It was only a matter of finding the right moment. It is what we always tell ourselves. That, and there was always another tomorrow.
I mean, he was only three years shy of sixty. There was going to be plenty of time, right?
Well, Professor D-, like some of my ancient Greek assignments, I took my time getting around to reading the book. And, I thank you for that final learning experience. It is too bad we will not be able to sit down and discuss the novel’s portrayal of a memorable and inspiring teacher, a small quirky group of dedicated students, and the dead language that brought them together, and whether your Introduction to Ancient Greek during my first year of college can compare to that of the main character's first foray into classical education.
(Insert some appropriate Latin or Greek verse here--apologies, Professor D-, you were a great teacher, but I was a lousy student.)
(To be continued...)
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