Same Time, Same Place?

Over the weekend I got together with a small group of old grade school friends. I really, really enjoyed the opportunity although I not sure I can fully say why. Maybe that’s not the point. Maybe I don’t need to. Maybe it’s enough just to say I really enjoyed it. But as much as I enjoy it, it does make me wonder.

Watching a peer mature, cross the same territory, surmount similar obstacles—maybe that’s what it is: The reassurance of seeing a friend make the journey from child, to adult, to what has to be called middle-age. Making the journey and doing okay—or better. And that we make the journey and the past is not all behind. Maybe that's the source enjoyment. The comfort of shared experience.

As much as I hate this use of the word, I know visits with old friends remind me that life is a journey. And, perhaps most importantly, one that is far from over. As we sat and talked it was inspiring to think, with as much as lies behind, how much lies ahead?  How many more packages remain to be unwrapped, how many paintings to be completed, stories to be written, lies to be told? How many more handshakes and hugs, smiles and laughter?

It’s interesting, I know a few people who want nothing to do with people and places of the past, but I can’t think that is entirely normal—any more than it is wanting to live in the past. I pity the person who has a past so painful, so troubled, so unfulfilled there remains nothing and no one to be revisited.

But I'm over thinking this, I'm sure. Why was it fun? I'm satisfied to simply leave it at a yes, it was fun. That, and I hope to do it again. Same time, same place, next year?