Make Much Of Time

So many Farewells.
As I prepare to depart, I know in my core that this will be one of the most taxing and difficult endeavours of my life. The physical survival will be easy, but the seperation from my friends and family will test the limits of my mental endurance.
We just finished hosting a dinner at my house, a goodbye dinner with family. For those of you who know my granfather, you know how gruff he can be (on the outside at times), and it will not come as any surprise that the thought of me going away for so long did not sit well with him. He sat me down and demanded answers. Why was I going away? What good could possibly come from it? Who in their right mind goes away for a whole year?
The questions were simple, and yet complex; the answers to them no less so. And yet the questions are worthy of a well thought out response, not only for my Papa's sake, but also for myself. As he asked, I realised that these questions NEEDED to be answered, as simply complex as they were.
As I have said, the answers were not easy, and they took some searching to find them during a lonely drive on a Haldimand night.
Recently, when I was cleaning my room, I pulled out my highschool yearbooks and spent several pleasant hours thumbing through the pages. Waves of nostalgia washed over me, and I was swept away down "memory lane".
Yearbooks are stunning items, especially if they have not been viewed in some time. In my mind they might as well be entitled "When We Were Kings" (or queens, depending). For those brief moments, captured forever, you were truly golden. You are struck by everyone's youth, so young and beautiful (truly beautiful, not in some shallow, ascetic way, but deeply, as only the young can be), by their triumphs, by their hopes. Their faces shine; your face shines.
So there we were, beautiful, young, golden gods, living, without really being consciously aware of it, possibly the greatest times of our lives.
No matter where one chose to spend their time during those 5 years, they strove mightily, be it on the playing field, in the student council, on academic challenge, or on the stage. Oh youth, enjoy those happy hours for they shall not endure; the glory fades, future generations forget, the legacy is gone. Except, of course, in the yearbooks, testaments that confirm "yes, once I was great".
Beyond the sports, the clubs, and whatever else there may be, I love looking through the pictures of the graduating classes, seeing their faces and reading their parting quotes. There is a group of people who absolutley glow, radiating optimism and hope. Picture after picture, quote after quote, they are people at their very peak, with the world sitting just beyond their grasp, waiting to be seized. You can almost see their yearning finger tips stretching out to catch the world up, as if it was made just for them. It is uplifting, remembering that sensation.
And therin lies the trouble. How many of us actually succeed in seizing it? You see it in their eyes; they know they have the world at their finger tips. The real tragedy of youth is in the pride, the belief that such will always be the case. And so, slowly, imperceptibly, the world that lay ever so slightly out of reach drifts away. I wonder, how many of the dreams and goals spoken of with such hope and determination actually lived on to bear fruit? And how many quietly died with the turning of the years?
I can honestly say that I have no real recollection of what exactly my dreams and hopes were at that time, but I can remember the feeking of invincibility, the confidence that I would achieve them. How terribly odd, to recollect the sensation, but not the actuality. Then again, maybe not at all surprising, as I let my dreams slip away.
This upcoming school year will mark the 8th year that I have been out of highschool. In those 8 years, I can only point to one thing that truly gives me satisfaction, and that was travelling the world, when I dared to strap on a backpack, and go roam The Continent. Much of the rest was squandered time. 5 months out of 8 years, not exactly the stuff dreams are made of.
Now that I am 26, I feel old, as if life is starting to pass me by. An African proverb reads "The world is like a dancing girl; it dances to everyone for a little while". I am terrified that I have already seen her dance, and she has now moved on, leaving me alone and aging. I am consumed at times by a fear that the best times of my life are behind me. I have been assured many times by my eldersthat such thoughts are ridiculous, that I am still young (I have even tried to convince myself using the same mantra); but the truth is, I am no longer golden. I am not as fast, nor as fit, my hairline is higher, my waistline broader, my youth receding rapidly. Rather than accept such a circumstance, a disagreeable solution (which would only serve to create depression), I am attempting to fight against the onset of time, to rage, to live, knowing that some of my best times are still before me, and not only to my rear.

"Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,

Old time is still a-flying:

And this same flower that smiles today

Tomorrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,

The higher he's a-getting,

The sooner will his race be run,

And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best which is the first,

When youth and blood are warmer;

But being spent, the worse, and worst

Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,

And while ye go, go merry;

For, having lost but once your prime,

You may forever tarry."

- To the Virgins to Make Much Of Time

Robert Herrick

And that is but one reason, and there are so many more, so many more...