I’ve always been over-zealously impulsive in an obsessive-compulsive sort of way.
My checkbook over the years would testify to that. In a fit of chronic depression one day, and minus the relatively decent income I’d had pre-depression, I drove a perfectly good Chevy Tahoe to Memphis and bought a Mercedes AND a Rolex. They went well together, I convinced myself. Long-term, it didn’t do much for the depression (or the checkbook), but it sure felt good in the moment. I’ve since dumped the Mercedes for a Toyota Tacoma, and gave the Rolex to my son.
I’ve also been fortunately introspective enough over the years to get acquainted with my eccentric personality to know there are predictable seasons when I really need something to anticipate, to work toward, or to set as a milestone kind of goal. Men live in distinct seasons. We really do.
Impulsive behavior and big dreamer type thinking don’t always complement one another so well. Throw in the other part of my personality that is addictive and self-sabotaging, and oftentimes … well, it’s not pretty. It can be a freaking mess, to be quite honest. Alas, we all live along such broken roads.
In my 39th year, at 250 pounds, I decided I’d run a marathon before I was 40. In the course of 12 months, I dropped 85 pounds, completed the St. Jude Memphis Marathon and ran two more before the end of my 41st year. It was hard. It hurt a lot. It seemed almost impossible. I think that’s what I enjoyed about it so much.
There are other examples of such extreme behavior ad nauseam. Cashing out a six-figure retirement plan to launch a new business in the midst of a recession, building a house on another continent mostly via the internet … Shall I go on?
And so I knew as I approached 50, these almost unmanageable personality traits that I’ve somehow learned to embrace, would manifest again. I just didn’t know exactly when or how, but I knew they would bubble up. I waited, knowing they would slip in undetected, like the morning fog that eerily engulfs and blinds its inhabitants. The desires would come, whatever their extremity. Steve Watkins – sacrificial lamb awaiting the sharpened sword.
I’ve desperately wanted to write again. Would I actually sit down and write the book that I’ve always enjoyed talking about, but never really shown the discipline to actually write it?
Would I launch some kind of new business that is always exciting to a point, but ultimately becomes a drudgeful bore?
Culinary school? I’ve always wanted to do that.
The seed was actually planted a couple of years ago, and I knew it in an instant.
Hard as it is these days, I try not to get caught up in things that aren’t real. Television. Social media. Labels. Most organizations. So many groups.
But as we watched a movie titled The Way, about an American man who traveled to Spain and trekked the pilgrimage of the Camino de Santiago, some 550 miles across Spain, I knew I’d met my match. It was too much to resist. I remember looking at Dana. “I’m gonna do that,” I said. And we both knew it would be so. God bless her soul.
I’ve already begun training for the pilgrimage from St. Jean Pied du Port, France to Santiago de Compostela, the burial place of James the Apostle. I’ll leave in mid-October with nothing but a backpack and a pair of boots, and will return some time in early December.
I’m at my best and my worst preparing for things like this, but am never more alive when doing so. It is both divine and horrific all at once. It’s even inspired me to fire up the old blog with a new look and new feel.
As a part of processing the milestone of 50 (which is still seven months away) I thought it would be beneficial to chronicle the experience of preparing for, and experiencing, the Camino de Santiago (translated The Way of James), and perhaps even throw in a thought or two about the radically changing world we live in today.
My writing is comfortably or uncomfortably transparent, depending on your point of view. I stopped wearing a mask several years ago. I’ve learned, much the hard way over the years, that when you peel all the layers back, and when a man strips himself down to the core of his soul, nothing really matters but Truth. All else is garbage.
Truth does not evolve. It does not have multiple definitions. It is singular. Dogmatic. Insistently authoritative. The North Star’s location may not be altered.
This is the manner in which I’ll write future posts, and it feels oh, so good to write again. This is what I do. It’s who I am. Really, it is.
So. I’ll see you along The Way. Join in the conversation if you like.
(Not an unimportant addendum: None of this would be possible without the amazing love, understanding and support of my wife, Dana. She gets me, and I am ever so lucky that she does. Her love is my greatest blessing).