I stopped writing because I fell in a hole
I’ve forgotten how to do this, so please bear with me.
A number of friends, along with many others, have been reflecting on the past decade in the wake of 2020. Almost all have considered what sort of person they were and what kind of life they were living 10 years ago compared to now.
Ten years ago, I was just floating along, resigned to a life of programmed expectation: wake up; go to work; call my folks every now and again; exercise a bit; put money away for a rainy day; try to meet a girl or just get laid; rinse; shampoo; sleep; repeat. Standards and practices so routine that I forgot I was about to turn 30.
But I was a writer. Always writing. Always with something to say, full of egotistical desire to have my words read by others, my voice heard loud and clear, and my opinions known (thanks, social media). Regardless, writing gave me energy and purpose.
For as many shocks to my system that I experienced in my 20s — the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks, working for multiple news outlets, falling in love, failing at love, graduating college, victimized in a nasty car wreck and altering career direction — my ability to be surprised had essentially diminished as I closed in on a new decade in both society and my life. If things didn’t “work out for me,” then at least I was on a steady course to somewhere or something. Maybe even someone, but who really knows? Life just goes and I’m a guy taking a walk.
Then came cancer.
Along with fear, sadness, regret and pain.
Emptiness.
A hole.
I fell into it, like a kite gently waving back to the earth because the wind decided it wasn’t worth the push.
And as I sailed to the bottom, I turned 30.
Somehow, half a year later, I managed to beat cancer. I didn’t know how to feel about it in the moment. I guess I was relieved, and I was lucky. Not everyone overcomes and wins the fight.
Those months seems like such a blur now. I remember friends and family stepping in to help when I couldn’t step on my own. Immense loyalties from some for which I couldn’t properly express my gratitude at the time. Maybe not even this day. But I also remember some who were overbearing in their concern, so much so that it was assumed I was a goner. And others who toyed with my obvious emotional instability during my treatment. It wasn’t all kindness and good favor.
But it was done. And I wanted my life to be normal again. Until I realized that “normal” was going back to that program of expectations. Took m
Then I ran back and jumped in the hole, thinking I could find the right gust to help me return to the skies.
Almost 10 years have passed since I was that kite. It’s got some wear and tear to it now. It doesn’t fly so well these days. And it’s still missing some wind.
I had another health scare recently, just before the end-of-year holidays. Sent me back to the hospital where I was born. Again.
This bout wasn’t as severe as the one in 2010, but it gave me another in a series of hard lessons that have defined this last decade for me: You can’t wait on the wind to lift you.
I don’t know how I feel about the last 10 days much less the last 10 years. What I know to be certain is that they’re done.
Time is a currency we can only spend. It cannot be saved. It cannot be replaced with credit. I’m spending it as I write this, and you’re spending it as you read it.
People who have asked me over the years about how I move forward after cancer typically don’t have the perspective I have about life, one that I have done my best to develop into true wisdom since my life almost came to an end. I often cut their questioning off and simply ask them, “Who do you want to spend your time with? Or what do you want to spend your time doing?”
To answer those questions, and to spend your time actively pursuing those goals, is to harness the wind.
My ego isn’t the same as it was, and for that I should be thankful. I still have a lot to say about the elements of life and this world that affect us all. But I need to spend some time relearning how to do that effectively, in a variety of media formats, without selfishness or narcissism. So that’s what I’m going to spend my time doing for a while: writing and speaking about what matters.
Hopefully — with a little practice—I’ll stop looking at the hole, cease worrying about where the wind is, and remember to appreciate the sun.
Before my time is up.
I’m David Brandt. I’m a writer, former journalist, photographer, podcast producer, practicing minimalist, practicing essentialist and a cancer survivor. I’m on various social media platforms, but anything I have to say that truly matters can be found here for now. Please share this article if you think someone you care about should read it, too.
