Life is and can be many things, but it’s not finite. Not for any of us, no matter how often it may seem like it or feel like it. Someday, we will no longer be here.

I got a pretty stark reminder of that tonight.

Albert Hailey Sr. lived to be 90 years old before his time in this world came to an end. My grandfather. AH1, as I started to call him over the past few years.

My grandfather was always a kind man of few words. Easy going. Jovial. These are qualities in him I didn’t take particular notice of until well into my adult years, but I think about them now and my respect for the man grows vastly.

I remember hugging him not too long ago. My grandmother passed, and it was really difficult to see him separated from the woman he was married to for over half a century. I’d never seen Grandpa cry before. Losing a loved one never really registered for me until I saw my father and grandfather mourn the loss of my grandmother.

It was a revelation of sorts.

In a general sense, I think there’s a sense of separation in family members when you don’t see them often. You go to a family cookout or something like that, and you catch your elders up on how you’ve been. What you’ve been doing.

“Work’s going fine. I started doing this new thing. Yeah, things are pretty good.”

But it’s all pretty superficial. It’s on the surface. Your path just kinda grazes past each other’s, and then you go back to your daily life. At least that’s how it’s felt for me. Not for any lack of care or compassion. We just didn’t talk very often.

But seeing my grandfather then opened my eyes to the idea that my grandpa was more than just my grandpa. He was the protagonist of his own story. How crazy must it have felt to bring children into this world, see them grow, and go on to have children of their own.

To see the future on the horizon, while the sun is continuously setting on your own story. It’s a baton relay of sorts. I, the third in a line of great men, am the result of their efforts. I carry the baton forward, and that’s an honor and privilege I carry with a renewed sense of pride and accomplishment.

My grandfather endured and worked through a lot of things. He sacrificed, and put his family before him. I never once heard him complain. I never once heard him ask for anything in return.

I have a terrible memory, but my first one is when I was around four or so. I was running down the driveway to greet my grandpa. He parked in front of the driveway, and I ran up to give him a hug.

My grandfather and I never had deep emotional conversations. He never knew too much about my personal life, but I wouldn’t be who I am now without him. He’d take me to basketball games as a kid. I’d stay over at his place as a kid until my parents got home from work. He taught me how to fish. We used to watch Charles Bronson movies and 80’s cop shows on summer afternoons, and everybody knew who he was at the supermarket I worked at.

Albert Hailey Sr. was a good man. I am lucky to be able to call him my grandfather. I hope he can look down on me and feel like his efforts were worth it. I hope I make him proud.

Thank you, Grandpa. You’re a legend.

How would you define the abstract?

I typed in a Google search, quite literally phrased ‘definition of abstract’. Adjective. Existing in thought or as an idea but not having any physical or concrete existence. Verb. Consider (something) theoretically or separately from something else.

A thought provoking jumping off point.

My definition of the abstract runs along those lines, but it strays more towards the introspective and inconclusive. For me, the abstract is the remainder of my thoughts. The aimless, wandering stream of consciousness. The uncharted and miscellaneous. The valuable yet difficult to describe. The rough draft. The cutting room floor. The soul, out of focus.

My 32nd birthday came and went on Monday. Birthdays aren’t something I’ve tried to put too much stock in over the past few years. I try to convince myself that I just don’t have the ego to really make a big deal out of my birthday, but there’s a part of me that does. A part of me that wants to feel like a special and integral part of people’s lives. There’s a part of me that wants someone to stop and think, “You know… Albert’s pretty cool. I’m glad I know that guy. I appreciate him. He’s pretty neat. I should say happy birthday.”

I think part of me tries to actively avoid acknowledging that kind of thirst for recognition because of what it’d mean if I didn’t receive it. What if I wanted to be an integral part of people’s lives and I can just be easily brushed past or looked over? What does that say about me? My worth? My value?

I’ve gotten to a place where, objectively, I seek to find value in my own opinion myself before anything else but wrestling with those kinds of thoughts are an exercise in emotional turmoil that I could probably do without.

And so, I leave celebration of my birthday more to the fringe. A passing thought. An annual fear of rejection where I hide insecurities behind a genuine sense of humility.

My birthday also serves as a marker of sorts. This one in particular, where at the start of the year I dared myself to venture into uncharted waters and to pursue my perception of happiness in ways I haven’t exactly before. Where I dared to face some of the very demons that leave me quiet about my birthday.

It’s hard to think it’s already been 8 months since I’ve tried to write that next chapter in my life. As my birthday approached, surreal as it was, I asked myself if I had accomplished or at least been accomplishing the goals I so loftily set out for myself in January.

I honestly don’t know.

I feel that I am a wiser, more mature, and more soulful person. For that, I am thankful. Am I happier? I don’t know. Something I’ve been thinking about, which I ended up saying to someone who’s become quite a good friend to me of late, is that I think true happiness lies with gaining acceptance and contentment with the journey rather than the destination. A destination, a place where you have never been before, is only as accurate as your perception and does not necessarily guarantee the kind of happiness you feel it will when you set out to reach it.

So where are you left if those dreams come true, and you aren’t happy? Are you worse off than before? Further disillusioned by the reality of wondering if all your effort meant anything? Does life feel like some form of cosmic or practical joke, where your best laid plans and endeavors end as a passing punchline that plops you back to start?

Again, I honestly don’t know.

I do know that I feel better equipped to quarrel with the rampancy of my thoughts and the peril ingrained in my journey. In these past 8 months I have had successes. I have had failures. I have aimed for the stars, and have been unceremoniously brought back to Earth. I have pulled on my slingshot to slay Goliath, and I have felt certain victory slip through my fingers.

I am still here. Just as I was last year. And the year before that.

But am I in the same place as then? Or someplace new?

I like to think I have ventured forward. That I’ve evolved into something more wise, more spiritual. More mature. And in some ways I know I have.

But at my core, do the same problems still exist? Will they always? They could be. And that, in a lot of ways, is fine. I can live with that, regardless of the choice in the matter. Living with those existential questions are a part of the quirks and idiosyncrasies that make me ‘me’.

Am I happier now than I was a year ago? Five years ago? Ten? I don’t know. I still harbor a sense of regret over some things. I still wonder if all of the decisions I’ve made have been the right ones. I still pontificate about the alternate iterations of reality that exist if only I had zigged when I ended up zagging. I try to leave those hypotheticals before I delve too far. Perhaps the past should stay the past. Perhaps not, but I have to embrace and make the most out of the present. It’s all any of us really have. The past and future are generally just interpretations. That’s something I learned the hard way this year.

I think I am a better person than I was a year ago. And not particularly because of what’s different about my life but because of the light I’ve shone on insecurities I have long since tried to bury deep in my mind. It hasn’t been easy, or even all that fun. But there’s a sense of understanding that comes out of taking time to learn more about yourself. To become curious about your insecurities, what makes you happy, sad, jealous, annoyed, or anything else on the emotional spectrum.

I could very well end up being the only person to ever genuinely have interest in that sort of thing, after all. I have a lot of lessons to learn; perhaps even to teach someday.

So, happy birthday, Albert. You sure as shit aren’t perfect, but you’re giving it the old college try in spite of that. Maybe everything you want out of life is around the corner or down the road. Maybe none of it will ever come your way. But I respect your want to find out, and to put your best foot forward as you best know how.

I don’t know how many people are capable of saying the same, truly. And I think that’s pretty neat of you. So, smile. No matter how you’re feeling. Accept your flaws. Your shortcomings. Your mistakes. Forgive yourself for them. Dare to do better. Dare to improve.

You’re the only you in this universe. And even if you’re the only one that ever ends up appreciating that, that’s something. That’s everything.

Find yourself in the abstract.