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You know those magic moments where time slows, and you wish you could stay there forever?  This was one of those evenings.  It was ordinary by all accounts.  The Saturday chores were long done, our kids were bathed and getting ready for bed, and the sun was making its slow descent behind the hills.  The summer breeze wrapped your skin like a warm blanket, and you could hear crickets begin to sing their soothing songs. 

“Come as often as you like.  Take what helps, heal what hurts, and find gratitude for all that ever was and is yet to be.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

I had just stepped outside to take the garbage out when I noticed my two youngest.  I smiled as I watched Mitch hum a song as he scooted about, while Wyatt had an imaginary conversation, tromping about the driveway in his tiny shoes.  I can almost smell Wyatt’s freshly shampooed hair and feel the warm cotton of his pajamas, just out of the dryer.  I miss those days.  As I pulled out my phone to take a photo of life in motion, tiny Wyatt ran to his brother’s side, eager to make sure he was in the shot.  Wyatt reached for the handlebar and pressed his baby index finger onto Mitchell’s hand as if to give him a tiny hand-hug and say, “That’s my big brother, and we’re buddies.”  

 As I look closely at this image, I can see the breadcrumbs of an extraordinary life hiding in plain sight.  Mitch held a purple pencil in his hand and a teddy bear between his legs … evidence that children treasure the little things.  Mitchell’s smile bore a fading milk mustache from lunch a few hours earlier.  Wyatt wore his favorite Spiderman t-shirt and bore a similar mustache – except he also had crumbs from a cookie he’d recently gobbled down with a feverish giggle.   There stood my two youngest kids … tiny, cute, perfectly imperfect, little messes.   At this moment I was overwhelmed with gratitude; I was so glad to be a dad.

 I was so swept up with this moment, I didn’t want it to end.  I’m reminded of the phrase, “Can’t I stay a little longer?  I’m so happy here.”   That’s how I felt … and I wanted to live there forever. 

 Today, my heart says something similar.  When I think back on my Camelot years, my heart whispers, “I was so happy then.  If only it could have lasted.  Can’t I just visit for a moment or two?”  There is a part of me that wishes to go back in time because I’d relish moments in ways only a grieving heart can fully know. 

 In a way, I do go back in time.  Only the events are fixed and, I am as a ghost visiting old times and familiar places in my mind.  That’s what writing is to me: a time machine.  These days 95% of my life is concerned with now and the future – but I will always reserve a little space to visit my past with a tender heart and pencil and paper.

 I go back in time for at least 4 reasons:

1.  So that I won’t forget the little things. 

2. To make meaning of love, life, loss, and suffering.

3. To clean and dress my wounds.

4. To foster gratitude for what was and to better appreciate what I have today.

Going back in time can be tricky.  If we’re not mindful, we can irritate our wounds in such a way they won’t ever heal.  And sometimes, they’ll get infected.  At least for me, intention has a lot to do with how I choose to heal.  When I go back in time, I am always looking to understand the past, to mend what’s broken and strengthen my feeble knees.  Sure, I cry -- but they are cleansing tears … the kind that keep the soil of my soul soft, fertile, and growth promoting.

 The inevitable consequence of going back in time is my heart cries, “Can’t I stay a little longer?”  But then the less broken part of me says, “Come as often as you like.  Take what helps, heal what hurts, and find gratitude for all that ever was and is yet to be.”  Those are the words that resonate deep inside of me.

A few weeks ago, I was asked to speak with Sarepta, a drug company whose doing some remarkable work with therapies related to DMD. Just prior to my speaking they were learning about pathology and the natural course of its biology. When I was introduced, they said I was going to talk to them about the human side of the disease. They wanted someone to lift the curtain so they could peer in and see the human impact of rare, catastrophic disease.

Because their leadership theme was on frontiers, they asked that I share the tiny frontier’s we faced as a family. From starting a family to diagnosis, progressive loss, death, grief and recovery, each of these presented themselves with new landscapes and challenges.

Using the metaphor of ascending a mountain, I shared an excerpt from an essay I wrote a few years ago entitled “My Everest” where I said I would rather look up on Mount Everest from the comfort of my rocking chair, by a gentle pond.

But life is neither fair nor is it always kind. Somehow, some way, we all must climb our personal Everest.

In this post, you’ll see a few excerpts from my presentation, including a conclusion video that combines two ideas: facing new outward frontiers and the deeper frontier that is found within.

Speaking of the internal frontiers, toward the end of my address, I talked about a certain type of bamboo seed that is known to take about four years to water and care for before it breaks soil. Then, it will grow over a hundred feet in a single month. My point with that example is we can often become impatient with grief, healing or otherwise growing. I shared a few ideas that I’ve discovered that help foster an emotional and spiritual environment for deeper growth.

The video at the end of this post summarizes some of the key ideas I was trying to convey - most notably the greatest frontiers we will ever face are the ones found within each of us. And, like a bamboo seed (see post, Bamboo & Better Days Ahead), it can take years before we see growth of any kind. Patience and persistence are key.