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I just poured myself a glass of wine. When writing (or reading, or doing just about anything that doesn't involve physical activity) I think it's best to drink something, preferably something with a naturally-occurring drug in it.![]() This shortens my list to coffee and wine, since beer best goes with parties (not writing) and tea best goes with yoga. But I digress. I had coffee today with a good, good friend. We talked about his life first: about how he's getting some flack from people at work who are above him and what he can do about it. Mainly, very little. Then we talked about my life, and I told him how my wife of eleven months and I are doing very well; we're in places where we can pursue our passions and it has only encouraged our marriage. Then, the conversation moved to mutual friends and other side projects and out of the coffee shop and into a restaurant for lunch. I drove the hour home on country roads instead of the highway, and it took an hour and fifteen. I got behind a horse trailer and decided not to pass, but rather to enjoy the sunny Thursday afternoon, and the rock-strewn hills of eastern Colorado. I thought about my friend and his story. I thought about how his story seems dark right now, and frustrating. I thought about how, too often, it feels as though we're not in control of our own stories. And, I thought of my story, and the freedom that my wife and I feel now. I thought, not to be pessimistic, that we should enjoy the freedom because it won't last. There will be times at work when the world is closing in on us or times at home when everything needs to be fixed and we will feel like we have no control over our stories. This is hard because we want control. I want control. Perhaps it is our out-of-control times when the glasses of wine and cups of coffee are most necessary. Not simply to self-medicate ourselves, though that can't hurt. But at those times I remember: there is a story, and it is my life. Like all good stories the hero (or heroine, but I happen to be a hero) must face difficulty. It is the difficulty that makes us fall in love with the same storyline: inciting incident, rising action, climax, resolution. It is in our movies, our books, even our magazine articles. And for the story of my life to move anyone, let alone myself, it must have conflict as well. It will have conflict, for the art of storytelling mimics life. I know that my friend knows this. But it is good to remember with a glass of wine on a calm Thursday afternoon. Because if I remind myself now, maybe -- maybe -- I will remember when the winds blow and rain pours and roof leaks. There will be no time for wine, then.
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