"We all have our time machines. Some take us back: they're called memories.
Some take us forward: they're called dreams." -Jeremy Irons
|2005, the day before Jaron's business school graduation, and two days before I decided to buy a bike, learn to swim, and start training for an Ironman.|
Five years ago today, my younger brother Jaron passed away, suddenly, terribly, and avoidably. He'd done nothing reckless or improvident; quite the contrary, he had just made the most considered decision one can make by asking his girlfriend to accompany him through life. Yet literally days later, he was taken from us only through careless, dismissive acts by those in whom we place our deepest trust at our moments of greatest vulnerability. Life ultimately gave him no chance to handle his situation, and afforded his fiancée no choice but to attempt to fathom answers that would not be forthcoming.
We cannot grasp fully the ways in which our past shapes, motivates, and explains us. We are each a product of granular experiences accreted onto a substrate of philosophy and will. Ten million small eddies meld into an irresistible torrent that propels us forward to face experiences and adventures unknown. We're captains of boats with unreasonably small rudders, crewed by an infinite number of monkeys.
Yet sometimes we find ourselves, despite it all, in the presence of undeniable grace and wonder so powerful, and so unexpected, that it summons tears at the impossible, profligate beauty of life.
|Jaron, 2006, skydiving into metaphor.|
I miss ya, buddy. Every day.