Nostalgia frequently gets the best of me. Its magnetic pull sends me flipping back through my journals to brush off moments of time covered in a year’s worth of hustle and dust. This time last year, I was weighted down by 40 pounds of camping and survival gear, coexisting with the elements to trek 60 miles through unearthly terrain. The thought of it makes my blood rush with adrenaline.
About a month ago, I was talking with a coworker about this habit of mine to compare my days to their 2011 equivalent. She confessed a striking likeness, although instead of peering backwards she is marching forwards. In her journal she describes where she’ll be in exactly one year. What she’ll be doing, saying, eating, wearing. Which tea she’ll choose in the morning, the circuit she’ll take Kenneth, her St. Bernard, on for an evening stroll. She gets absurdly nitty gritty with the detail. And then forgets about it. For a year. Only to check-in and see how close or how far her now is to her then.
I have a tendency to look back. She to look forward. What connects us, though, is our current. The fragment of time that stands directly between one year past and one year future. It’s the anchor, it’s the root. It’s the only moment of its kind, yet we all have it in common.
This is where I was one year ago. But it’s not where I am today. I’m grateful for that, as odd as it may seem.