Tag: chapter

The Next Chapter

From 30,000 feet above the ground, I stared out at the Plains.

Through the airplane window, I could see pastures stretching straight to the horizon. The late-day sun cast a golden glow over it all.

I might have been over western Illinois at this moment. Or maybe eastern Missouri. Even after all the times I’d flown this route, I couldn’t quite tell.

But the GPS coordinates were inconsequential. The majesty of the view meant everything.

Many people have looked at this same vista and come to a different conclusion.

They see no mountain peaks. They see no coastline. And they slide their window shade shut.

I get it.

The sight of the Rocky Mountains has taken my breath away before. And I’ve found myself transfixed with wonder as I stared at the Pacific Ocean from the bluffs of La Jolla.

Middle America is not that. It’s a different brand of special.

There’s just something about vast, open land that stretches to the horizon. It’s a blank canvas fit to be painted with a million tales – all distinct, yet somehow familiar.

This glimpse of that canvas in the late-day sun told one story. But a couple of hours later, a traveler peering out of a plane crossing these same coordinates would see something far different. The faded light of dusk would punctuate the vista of those pastures.

The next morning, fliers on the red eye might witness yet another perspective from this spot. The shadow of the sunrise would stretch all the way to the western horizon, marking the landscape with an understated sepia.

Even this late-afternoon moment I was witnessing seemed to lack routine. In the dead of winter, the light of the day would illuminate the plains far differently at this hour. The same would be true during the dog days of summer.

Yes, each of the views from this one spot is familiar. Yet each is also distinct.

It’s in those differences that I find solace.

I remain amazed at how one small shift in perspective can make the ordinary captivating, time and again.

It’s simple. But it’s also special.

A decade ago, I set out on my own journey to fill a blank canvas.

I launched Ember Trace, putting my thoughts and experiences out in the open for all the world to see.

As I prepared to post that first article, I was full of apprehension. I didn’t want that first entry to be a one-off. And I didn’t want to fall into a scattershot publication approach. My readers needed to know what to expect from this publication – and when to expect it.

So, I made a commitment. I would post a fresh article every week. No excuses.

I’ve held to that promise now for a full decade. For 523 straight weeks, to be exact.

The world has changed drastically during that time. My life has as well. But through it all, I’ve kept on writing.

This is quite an accomplishment. One I’m immensely proud of.

And yet, I find myself questioning its power.

You see, if you stare out that airplane window enough times, the majesty of the view starts to fade. Dawn and golden hour morph together. Summer and winter begin to blur. And everything just starts to look gray.

I’m wary of that fate overtaking my work on Ember Trace. I don’t want the quality of what I write to go down, just so the quantity can go up. I don’t want a writing schedule that I set a decade ago to become the headline.

It’s time to try something different.

My first view of the Plains was from ground level.

I was 8 years old, and my family was taking a cross-country train trip. I saw cornfields and cow pastures roll past my window for hours on end.

This was the mid-1990s. There were no tablets or smartphones in the train car to divert my attention. For two days, I was transfixed.

Cross-country flights would soon follow. As my family jetted off to the opposite coast for vacation, I’d stare at those cornfields and cow pastures from above for hours. The view was far different than the one from the train. But I still found it stunning.

As I grew up, I still found myself soaring over the same plains. Both leisure activities and celebrations kept calling me back to the heartland.

Those same vistas awaited me along the journey. But somehow, I still hadn’t grown tired of them.

This sentiment was fresh in my mind when my employer was acquired by a Midwestern-based company. Suddenly, flights across the prairie became a business obligation – a fait accompli every few months. And with all that back and forth, my zeal for the vistas of Middle America faded.

That view out my window stopped feeling so novel. It became ordinary and boring. And I’d had enough.

I started buying the Wi-Fi on those flights, occupying myself with work tasks and streaming entertainment. I stopped gazing beyond the airplane cabin.

I needed a change.

That change came in the form of an economic shift. Costs increased, and opportunities to travel to headquarters decreased for a couple of years.

I all but forgot about the familiar aerial of the Plains during that time. But eventually, the travel restrictions were lifted, and I was reacquainted with that vista.

Like an old friend, that sense of wonder returned. A sense of awe washed over me once again.

And in that moment, something strange happened. I started musing about my writing.

I’d been in a creative rut with Ember Trace. And it dawned on me that a prescribed break might revitalize my work — much in the same way that my travel hiatus had rekindled my zeal for staring out at the Plains.

I didn’t act on that instinct then. But I am doing so now.

What does the next chapter look like?

It’s a question that many an author has struggled with. But in this instance, I have clarity.

Ember Trace is not going away, dear reader. You can still expect my thoughts and reflections to fill this space. Just not quite as frequently.

Going forward, I will share an article once a month, rather than once a week. This will give me more time to find inspiration, sharpen my craft, and share more articles worthy of awe and wonder.

I am sure that this is the right move. And I’m sure that it’s the right time to make it.

But what I don’t know is if my audience will follow me into the next chapter.

I hope so. But hope is not a strategy.

On September 20, 1998, the New York Yankees and Baltimore Orioles faced off for a late-season game at Baltimore’s picturesque Camden Yards.

Three future Baseball Hall of Famers appeared in that game – Derek Jeter, Roberto Alomar, and Mariano Rivera. But a fourth future Hall of Famer remained on the bench for all nine innings.

And that became the story of the evening.

For the first time in more than 16 years, Cal Ripken Jr. sat out a baseball game. His record-setting streak of 2,632 consecutive games played was history.

Baseball’s previous Ironman – the Hall of Famer Lou Gehrig – never played another baseball game after he ended his streak. Roughly two years after taking himself out of the lineup, he died of a cruel disease that now bears his name.

But Ripken’s time on the bench wasn’t to be permanent. The next day, he was back in the lineup, manning third base for the Orioles up in Toronto.

Ripken would play three more seasons for Baltimore. He joined baseball’s vaunted 3,000 hit club and won an All-Star Game Most Valuable Player award during that time. He remained distinguished, even after untethering himself from the streak.

Like Ripken, I still have more in the tank. More stories to tell, and more articles to share with you, dear reader.

The next chapter might look a tad different. But it’s still worth turning the pages.

It would be my honor if you did so.

Closing the Chapter

Don’t miss the exit.

That was the last bit of advice I got as I headed off to visit my great-grandmother.

I had spent plenty of time with her over the years. But this was the first time I was visiting her on my own.

The warning was prudent.

My great-grandmother’s assisted living facility was not far from the highway. But the exit that led to it was tucked in the back of a highway rest stop.

I had to drive past the service center and the gas pumps to find it, but fortunately, I did so without incident. Moments later, I had parked and made it to my great-grandmother’s room.

My great-grandmother was 96 years old. Macular degeneration had rendered her nearly blind, and dementia had clouded her mind.

I resolved to be patient and not to get flustered if I got called by my father’s name. Mostly, I reminded myself not to expect too much.

Yet, to my surprise, my great-grandmother was in great spirits. We dove into a lively discussion. And for a few moments, it seemed like the old days.

But then, the conversation hit a brief respite. And after that pause, my great-grandmother seemed lost.

She started to rehash what we had already discussed. For she had already forgotten that we’d even talked about it.

I pivoted, trying to keep the discussion free of pauses to avoid repeating myself. But this was exhausting work, and my energy eventually dwindled.

At that point, I knew it was time to leave. I gave my great-grandmother a hug and headed for the door.

More than a year later, she passed away. I had just started a new job halfway across the country, and I couldn’t make the funeral.

I felt a bit guilty. But I wasn’t overwhelmed by that sensation.

For I knew I’d closed the chapter with my great-grandmother gracefully. And that mattered as much to me as anything.

Humanity is full of vices. Some are oft-discussed, while others fly under the radar.

The recency effect generally falls into that second category.

This concept states that we’re more likely to remember the most recent item in a series than the ones before it.

That late addition to the grocery list is the first one that comes to mind as we walk in the store doors. That lesson from last week is likely to be the one we nail on the upcoming midterm.

And that last bit of time we spend with a loved one is what sticks with us for years.

This makes sense. The everlasting emptiness of death is without comparison. So is the enduring power of memory. When the two converge, we want to engineer the encounter to meet our needs.

Yet, such an approach is far from sensible.

So much surrounding departures is beyond our control. But we try and put our stamp on the proceedings anyway.

I am no different. I had an inkling that my visit with my great-grandmother would likely be my last. This realization impacted my approach to the entire experience.

That experience went as well as could be expected. While I miss my great-grandmother, I’m at peace with the way our time together on this earth ended. The recency effect hasn’t left me saddled with regret.

That is not always the case.

Not long after my great-grandmother passed, my thoughts turned to another beloved relative — one of my grandfathers.

I’ve written about this grandfather before on Words of the West, reflecting on his impact on my life. While he wasn’t related to my great-grandmother — they were on different sides of the family tree — he was also getting up there in years, and I worried about what might come next.

My grandfather had survived two heart attacks and a triple bypass in his life. He had served in the United States Navy in World War II and lived to tell the tale. Growing up, I started to believe that he was invincible.

But now, his mortality seemed evident.

So, I took nothing for granted. Whenever I called my grandfather to check in, I would try and coax him to tell an extra story or two from his past. And I made sure not to assume that we’d speak again.

This proved prescient — but not in the way I expected.

For my grandfather eventually suffered a stroke. And while that malady didn’t kill him, it robbed him of much of his memory and communication abilities.

At first, I struggled to process this development. It hurt me to see my grandfather as a shell of his former self. And it threw a giant wrinkle in my plan to close the chapter with him cleanly.

But as the years went by, I gradually made my peace with what had transpired. I resisted the siren song of the recency effect. I instead tried to remember what had come before.

Ultimately, my grandfather did pass away. But as I adjusted to his absence, my refreshed approach proved to be a benefit.

Instead of zeroing in on those trying final years of my grandfather’s life, I remembered him at full strength. The stories he told. The way he was. The example he set.

I’ve tried to honor that memory as much as anything.

Perhaps we can all take a page from this revised playbook.

Instead of obsessing about missing our exit, we can glance at the highway that got us there. We can consider items deeper in our pile of memories.

For these memories are the bulk of our lived experience. They’re the ones that set the tone for the integral relationships in our lives.

We tend to consider these memories as mere guideposts on the grander journey. But they should be the narrative itself.

They should become our focus.

So, let’s cast off the tiring task of closing the chapter. Let’s stop obsessing over-engineering a clean ending and instead focus on something that truly matters.

We’ll be happier and more fulfilled. And that’s the point of all this anyway.