I know not the moment when this first began, this soulful journey up a winding staircase that seems without end, but still I climb, each step labored, each a methodical intent rested firmly before me.  Little by little I see in my past subtle changes in the route, historical markers of life if you will.

First came a decision to do that which I love to do, that which many in life have encouraged me to do: write, and not just for personal consumption.  This blog took form in the shadows of that choice.  It since has grown into the light, reaching and squirming until every bit of darkness was vanquished.

In that light grew another limb from the same tree of words.  Losing myself in the writ had never been far from me, whether it was personal journals or a litany of creative outlets, all culminating in the creation of xenogere, yet even that begged for siblings.  And so, with the resolute whole of me, I set about penning my first novel.  This stoked the fire of creativity and pierced me to the core with the pen’s blade, and now I find I must do it, I must succeed with it, and I must continue, carry on with the willful act of transcribing from thought that which I intend for so many others to enjoy.

Then came a slow moving from things material to things natural, a shift of interests culled from the very heart of me, one strengthened by diametrically opposed enemies within: the mind of a scientist and the heart of a poet.  Together they formed the soul of an explorer intent on harmony and discovery.

My mind’s eye joined the growing chorus for change when it began viewing existence through a camera.  Suddenly I discovered the intricacies in a flower petal, the overwhelming sentience scurrying about in the morning dew, the worlds hidden inside an icicle and a drop of water, the indomitable spirits within all creatures, and the universes hidden in every blink.

I found within me an unexpected strength of character when early this year I chose on moral grounds to stop eating meat and animal products, with the exceptions being in those cases when I knew for certain that things such as eggs and milk had been procured from beasts loved and cared for like family members, not to mention only those whose nature had not been villainously attacked with human arrogance.  What a profound moment it was when at last I stood and faced the ignominious hypocrisy of respecting all creatures whilst simultaneously endorsing and participating in their abuse and slaughter.  How dare I look upon the wonder of the cosmos even as I destroyed it in ways barbaric and inhumane.

Over a span of time immeasurable even by me, I slowly grew distanced from the metropolitan life of which I had been enamored for so long.  The city boy died a slow death, one unnoticed until an epiphany struck me with vehemence: I didn’t want to live in the city, not anymore.  What had been the crux of my existence for more than three decades suddenly became alien, unrecognized, dissimilar from that which I desired.

And thus the pinnacle of my journey’s transformation arrived: I stood atop a precipice, the winding staircase before me and a chasm behind.  I wished to reach up, to keep moving, yet my very being had changed, seemingly without my knowledge, until finally I realized my steps had simply carried me where I had been going all along.

Who I am is no different than who I was.  Nothing more complicated than self-realization had taken place.  From uncovering the observer to freeing the writer to practicing the respect for nature that for so long dwelled in places I ignored, I found my way out of the cocoon I had been in for too long, found my way through the metamorphosis that took thirty-something years to understand.

The change continues, though, as it does with all things.  Only now I recognize this is the road I have been on all this time, the road I had assumed was leading me elsewhere.  Only now I understand me.

Perhaps, when all is said and done, what has happened to me these last several years has been nothing more than comprehending what William Blake wrote more than two centuries ago in “Auguries of Innocence.”  It is as simple as this: All life is connected; all worlds can be seen if we take the time to notice; passion is not an internal feeling, but rather it’s a deed, one motivated by will and thought and emotion; and life, whether we measure it in a single night or in centuries, is made for the living, and if we fail to take the reins of our own, then only we are to blame for its failure.

So I take the next step, set my foot a bit higher, and I rise through the fog of delirium that once encompassed me, I lift myself toward greater things, and I keep moving.