August is the month...

of reflection, the month of my birthday, the month that marks the passage of time. Every August I think about things, where they've gone, and where they may go. August is a pondering month.

When I was a child the age I am now was unimaginable, the age of parents and teachers and doctors. How far away these days were, and how far away were their concerns. But mirrors do not lie and neither do hard to get out of bed mornings. I have arrived and much too quickly for my liking.

I'm happy with the music, a musician being what I should have been if I could do it again, but still it is good to know that it has never died. I'm happy with my family. We've changed. We've grown. We're the same faces but different people. Except for the yawning chasm left by my brother's death there is goodness among us. I continue to write, it feeds me and I feed it. I'm lucky in love, unfortunate in hairline, spreading out some in the middle, but not too old to dream.

Yet I'm restless too. I believe there is something more and its close but not yet here. I feel it but it is undefined. I still have a horizon and probably always will. Always within me is the sense that I was destined for something more, something better, but it is not about the fleeting passage of fame. Rather its the sense that this world, this place, these days, are not my final destination. Everybody hears that call but few listen.

I cannot drown it out.