Topher's Obligatory New Year's Address

Friends, here we meet once again, on this particular side of the star Sol, ready to observe the Cosmic Odometer as it spins around another numeral.

I've heard it said that if all of cosmological time were compressed into a single year, modern humans only appeared on Earth within the last eight minutes (give or take). That means—cosmologically speaking—we're brand-new. We're a baby species; still learning to toddle about in this strange and mysterious universe.

But that's kind of exciting, isn't it? It means we have so much potential, so much left to learn and achieve—once we've matured a bit. Once we've proverbially “gotten over ourselves.”

We've been experiencing some excruciating growing pains, but I believe we are on the verge of great human evolution...provided we survive the experience. That bright future is not guaranteed. Indeed, if we continue along our current trajectory, we might be embracing our destruction.

But it does not have to come to that. A moment may seem utterly insignificant to the Cosmos, but it carries more weight than we realize. Moments where empathy and a desire for understanding are chosen over conflict, charity chosen over greed, encouragement chosen over belittlement, inspiration chosen over insult. We cannot afford to remain so divided; so torn. If we build each other up, if we charge our spiritual batteries with positive energy, we will unleash potential the likes of which we have only ever dreamt.

We've spent too much time arguing over our differences. We have forgotten that such diversity is what gives us strength. We must understand and support each other if we are to survive.

I've seen what we can do when we're at our best. We possess the potential to achieve greatness in this Universe...and beyond.

I believe in you. Let's meet here again one year hence, with brighter memories to share.

Filling the Missing Pieces

It suddenly (and quite jarringly) occurred to me today that this will be our tenth holiday without Steph.

That's an entire decade's worth of memories. Three-thousand, six-hundred and fifty days (give or take) of laughter, tears, triumphs, defeats, and new Star Wars projects; each worthy of prolonged discussion over a phone call—one I will never make again.

As most of you know, I started writing as a way to heal. Working through my grief using the written word turned out to be very therapeutic, and it received such a positive response that it soon became "my thing." Since my previous thing was throwing up before marching band contests ("the chunkier the spew, the better we'll do!"), I wasn't inclined to argue.

Holidays can be hard for most of us, even during the best of times. And this year, there's an extra squishy booger stuck on the fruitcake: the pandemic. My mom, who lives about three miles away in a nursing home, hasn't been able to see anyone since March. This afternoon I got a call notifying me that residents are confined to their rooms due to a positive case. I can only imagine how lonely it feels staring out at the world for months on end without being able to hug your loved ones. (God bless the developers of the modern smartphone.)

For all of this, I am blessed. I have an abundance of love in my life—more so, perhaps, than I deserve. I appreciate it more than words can adequately convey.

Right now, a cat is purring on my lap. Amanda is in the kitchen baking cookies, offering occasional smiles and winks. The nightclub next door is silent, perhaps adhering to that old chestnut about the traditional volume level of holy nights. Truly, this is a Christmas miracle.

Best of all, I am but a few button clicks away from all of my friends and family. I love each and every one of you; you've been there for me in ways you probably don't realize. I hope I am here for you as well. If not, I'll endeavor to try harder.

Whatever your reason for the season, I wish it a blessed one for you and yours. (Personally, I'm thinking of giving Saturnalia a whirl this year. Does it come with pie?)

What Dreams May Come

I had that dream again. You know the one. I've experienced it sporadically over the last twenty years.

For me, the setting is the good 'ole days of marching band, although I'd wager some version of it will be familiar to anyone that has ever worked diligently to memorize any sort of arrangement.

The dream goes like this: I find myself about to hit the field—something I've done in real life more times than I can count—only this time, I can't remember what show I'm about to perform. I can't recall the music, the steps, or even the current year. It is like I've suddenly been transported back in time, but I'm still the "me" of the present.

Not an ideal scenario, as you might imagine. Can't we do the one where I win the lottery again? I like that one.

I don't have a uniform or an instrument. I have to mime holding a saxophone as I waddle aimlessly around the field in my street clothes. (At least this isn't the "naked dream." That's an altogether different adventure.) I don't understand why I still have to march, considering the fact I'm obviously a time-traveling 42-year-old experiencing what any rational observer would logically conclude is some sort of complete mental breakdown.

I've never understood this dream, but I've had it many times over the years. It is a startlingly realistic simulation. I wake up in a sweat, taking several seconds to reorient myself as to where and WHEN I am. 

It was only a dream. I'm okay. No one calls me "Chris" anymore. It was only a dream...

I wonder if Steph ever had this dream. I know she often dreamt of moving back into the house we lived in growing up, which is another single hot off my REM-induced greatest hits.

Weird, huh? What does any of it mean… if anything?

As someone who doesn't usually recall my dreams, these always hit me right in the gut. It is like I was really there. (I guess I was once, wasn't I? It was awkward then, too, for entirely different reasons.)

Oh, well. Here, in the waking world, I now have a very real problem...

…I can't get back to sleep.