The nice part of my quest to blog every day this month is that it's like a really cool fast. There are no limits to what I can write as long as I do write. It's a strange freedom I can't describe. When I wrote for the Star-Telegram, I was confined to 600 words and expected to be funny and/or interesting. When I write for drbicuspid.com, an online dental journal, I need to be factual and analytical. Composing novels requires following a plotted course from character development to the denouement. But this? This is stream of consciousness and today, I feel consciously reflective.
In 2008, I moved to Austin. I was a single empty nester with what was arguably a pretty good life in the DFW Metroplex. My network was wide and deep from my patient base to extended family and childhood friends. I had no compelling reason to come here. I had no job or job leads. I knew a handful of people and I had nowhere to live. Three months after my arrival, I was blessed to purchase a home. After a long, hot August day the movers finally left and I plopped onto the nearest dusty box. I had a job but not much else had changed. From the silence of my own company, the clamor of my circumstances became overwhelming as I belatedly understood why everyone raised objections to this move. I uprooted my life in the fall. I made my choice with the boldness of a Gen X-er, when in fact, my furniture, my car and I were all in the same state. Gently used.
I have replaced much of the furniture and the gas guzzling car but I'm content to age gracefully. Cancer was my biggest personal fear. I wake up every morning and think--I'm still here. Nothing is the same for me. No, I don't want to start over. I want to move on. Good investments have highs and lows, but they become more valuable with age. So should people. The old, the new, and the gently used ones.