You know there’s something a little different about the days and weeks leading up to a birthday. I’m not talking about the anticipation of gifts. (I suppose that’s something that belongs firmly to childhood. Although if you are reading this and are considering buying me a fabulous gift please don’t allow yourself to be put off. Giving is a surefire path to joy and fulfillment. That’s what I always say, especially when I may be the recipient.) No instead I have found that the last few birthdays have been the cause of considerable thought about the year preceding them. I find myself occupied with the things that I have done and, more poignantly, not done.
This year has been true to those before. Starting gently a few months ago and building to a surprising intensity as the day draws closer I have felt a strange compulsion to muse. I find myself unable to follow a conversation, or read a book. Perhaps I should clarify that last point. I retain my capacity to recognise the words on the page, I can ‘read’, in that sense. I refer here to the ability to forget that you are reading. To immerse yourself in the words as your circumstances are forgotten the concept, message or tale woven by the words on the page/screen become a temporary reailty. That’s what I can’t do at the moment. The why goes unanswered.
As you grow steadily older there is something appalling about the highly productive lives of those who died before they reached your present age. Take Joan of Arc (19), Charles Sorley (20) for starters. Were I Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, I would have penned a considerable number of masterpieces at this point in my life. At the same time there is also hope, after all Jesus didn’t start teaching until He was thirty years old. I don’t think it’s possible for me to emulate His achievements but I do think that His example is useful. It shows that it’s not about what I have not done last year, but perhaps more about what I will do next year.
I find myself inclined to be generous and forgiving. Where I have been lax, I recognise the folly of youth. Where I have been inconsistent, I recognise the opportunity to improve. And improve I must will.
This year has brought some remarkable landmarks in my life. I have become a Father. Wow, that’s a short sentence. I’m not sure it really captures the world-changing, reality-shifting, priority-blasting experience that fatherhood is and should be for the uninitiated. I suppose it’s one of those salt things. You have to taste it to understand. Ahem. I have discovered that I will be a father again. I have suffered from Sciatica, a term not to be underestimated for it’s vile efficacy in destroying comfort. That particular episode brought home the perhaps obvious truth that where there is nerve damage there is not only pain, there is weakness. The first is tolerable, the latter is not. My right leg grew so weak that I could not extend my foot properly let alone hop or jump. My attempts to run or walk amused onlookers endlessly. You don’t laugh at the cripple, you laugh at the man who, clearly crippled, attempts the pretense of robust health.
Where does all of this fit in with Modern Warfare 2? I’m not sure. There’s something reassuring about steadily progressing through an organised rank system. Unlocking benefits and specialist equipment as you improve your in-game abilities with practice. It’s not just an opportunity to compete with other people inside an arbitrary environment it’s a chance to show myself that I’m still progressing. Perhaps I should spend more time logged out of the game and logged in to life.
What does that mean? Well before you think things are waxing metaphysical allow me to reassure you. They’re not. I’m going to be taking a group of friends to Laser Tag this weekend. Locally this phenomenon is known as Quasar. It’s a great game, and I tend to do very well. (It’s my inner thirteen year-old) Perhaps Friday night’s excessivley childish occassion will help to dispel this glowering cloud? Actually I’m confident that it will. My wife is baking a really big cake for after.
