I think it's really important for us all to maintain the practice of taking a moment now and then to look back at how far we've come from where we started. Now, that starting point we look back to could be any significant time in our lives — when we started school, got a job, got married — absolutely any time at all.
In my case, I'm looking back at a piece that I wrote in my freshman year of college, in my intro-level Academic Writing and Research class. I haven't edited it a single bit since I submitted it to my teacher for a grade two and a half years ago. It's sat on my hard drive, untouched for that entire time. A few days ago, I decided to open it up and read it again. I'll hush up for a bit, until you finish reading it.
"Many times over summers past, my family and I have always spent at least a week in the deep woods of the Adirondack mountains, far in the north of New York. Upon traveling there for the first time, one can hardly believe that so much open and rural country can still exist in New York while the urban chaos of New York City whirls, clicks, and honks its way into a migraine so close by. However, even the blazing lights and fearsome cacophony of the city fade into the background once we drive into the rural surroundings of upstate New York. Even the city must surrender to the blessed, impenetrable quiet that can be found only in the solace of rolling mountains, in the towering shade of fragrant pines, and in the placid mirror of a cool, undisturbed lake. Our family has always seen our time in the mountains as the epitome of isolation and solitude. Any destination that lies 10 miles from the nearest town and requires a 10-minute boat ride across a lake to reach can certainly be described as remote, but we loved it all the more for the seclusion. Such is the peace that we always found in Big Moose Lake, where I paint my scene.
Three years ago on one such vacation, my mother and I made our annual weeklong trip to our modest lake cabin in the Adirondacks. We had been there for a few days already, traversing the familiar paths through the woods and slicing across the chill, tranquil surface of the lake in our kayaks. On the third night, we maintained the tradition of s’mores and sparklers down by the lakeside after dinner. The aged and well-dried firewood lent a true spirit to the fire, a laughing, crackling blush that cast an amber glow over the darkening scene.
After a few hours of savoring toasted marshmallows and dollar store sparklers, Mom decided to turn in earlier than usual, leaving me to tend to the fire. Not long after my mother left for bed, I decided to follow suit. Gathering up our things and setting them aside, I took the pails of water and sand, preparing to douse the flames. With a drastic hiss and a burst of smoke and sand, the fire vanished in an instant, leaving me blind in the sudden darkness. But even as I stood there, blinking in the blackness, the scene began to shift around me. In a glimmer overhead, a single star sparked into sight. Another followed, with a dozen more behind, and within a minute, what I saw made my breath stop dead in my throat. The sky above my head was suddenly pierced with glowing pinpricks as countless legions of stars cast the purest silver light onto the sleeping lake. The faint, hazy trail of the Milky Way paved its way across the clear sky, forming the faintest silver streak across a pool of ink. Never before had I seen a night so clear, nor felt the light of so many stars as they replaced the dark of night with the haunting glow of an ethereal day. As I stood in awe of what my eyes beheld, I was utterly lost in the feeling of being so small in such a vast and boundless universe.
Years after that night, I still look back on it as one of the most profound moments and beautiful scenes of my admittedly short life. To briefly glimpse a sliver of eternity is not something quickly forgotten."
After I finished reading this again, I honestly had to laugh at my freshman self — at least just a little. Reading this to myself after so long, all I could think was that I sounded like an over-poetic, pretentious a**hat. To be fair, though, I could see a lot of the writing traits and techniques that I would hold onto and refine throughout my college career. On the other hand, I could also see a lot of the things that my professors criticized about my writing back then — and it was so much easier to understand and see what they were talking about now.
Honestly, it was just good to see physical, tangible proof that I have indeed been improving as a writer and a thinker. Sometimes we get to thinking of maturity and change as an adult as a singular moment or shift. It's like one moment we're kids and teenagers and the next — maybe the moment after we turn 21 — we're suddenly capable adults. Well, as anyone older than 21 can tell you, that is so laughably far from the truth. But this — this slow, gradual shift, like I saw with my writing style — that's the change. That's the process of maturity. It's an almost imperceptible change as it happens, but when you look back to when you started and compare it to where you are now, it suddenly becomes clear.
Just my musings on the importance of looking back every now and then. Thanks for taking the time to stop and read.
