Days in the Life

A Haiku Journal of July

We took a family vacation to the beach, far from our home in landlocked Kansas.

The weather was hot and humid. The water was a vivid emerald color I’ve never seen before. The sand stuck to everything.

The trip was stressful and magical: everything a family vacation should be.

This month I bought an electric guitar and a Rubik’s cube. Signs of midlife crisis? Maybe.

I can solve the first two layers of the Cube. Then things get tricky. I screw things up and end up starting over from the beginning.

I can play a handful of chords already—more than I knew when I tried guitar in college. But when I try to put the chords together…

After feeling like I’ve mastered certain skills—drawing comics, straightening teeth—it’s fun to be a beginner again.

I turn 40 this year. It’s not something that weighs heavy on my mind. I realize it’s an arbitrary milestone.

What if life is like an out-and-back run? We reach a point far from where we started, then we turn around and head home.

This thought came to me, like most thoughts do, on a run. Exploring the neighborhood of our vacation spot in Florida, I set out to reach the nearby sound. As I turned onto a nature trail that led to the water, a downpour started.

I ran on. I passed a couple walkers with umbrellas, two teenagers on bikes racing for cover.

Finally I reached the water. Raindrops speckled the surface. The sky was clear in the distance. Soaked, I turned around and headed home.

Another family trip—this one to the amusement park.

I only got motion sickness from the roller coasters once. I faced my fears and went down a waterslide headfirst.

On the drive home I was rewarded with sunset over the Flint Hills.

Maybe when it comes to art, I’m not a master. I’m a perpetual beginner.

Each new word, each new brushstroke, is an act of beginning. An act of becoming.

Let’s see what comes next. My notebook is ready.