The other day, my good friend, Ous Touray, shared a post that truly caught my fancy. This year, I’ve been writing a lot — most of it kept private. I made a conscious decision to return to what brings me joy: reading and writing. My focus has shifted from politics to deeper personal reflections on life, the human condition, and societal issues — often abstract — yet profoundly impactful to people’s lives. It’s been a liberating and anthropological journey of sorts, exploring how I fit into the larger human tapestry. Here’s the thought-provoking post Ous shared:
Seventy-Five Years: A Reflection on Time
“Seventy-five years. That’s how much time you get if you’re lucky.
Seventy-five winters.
Seventy-five springtimes.
Seventy-five summers.
And seventy-five autumns.
When you look at it like that, it’s not a lot of time, is it? Don’t waste them.
Get your head out of the rat race and forget about the superficial things that preoccupy your existence and get back to what’s important now. Right now. This very second.
And I’m not saying drop everything and let the world come to a grinding halt. I’m saying that you could become a seeker. You could be loving more. You could be taking some chances. You could be living more. You could be spending more time with your family. You could be getting in touch with the part of you that lives instead of tears; the part of you that loves instead of hates; the part of you that recognizes the humanity in all of us. And I tell you, that’s where you’re fortunate.”
If I could inject every word of this post into my veins, I would. Based on this perspective, I’ve lived most of my life on earth — if I’m lucky. If not, the great beyond may not be far off. That said, with the time I have left, I want to be intentional about being fortunate. I want to take more chances, live fully, spend more time with family, and connect with the parts of me that live instead of tears. I want to love more and recognize the humanity in all of us.
What else can I do as a human being, man? This life is for the living. I’ve been asked whether I’m a better person this year, to which I demur. For most of my life, I lived in a bubble — sheltered and protected. My outlook was naïve; I saw the best in others and assumed good intentions. But the past few years have shown me that not everyone operates with good intentions.
Navigating betrayal and losing my innocence at 39. For most of my life, I had never encountered anyone in my close circle who would betray my trust, lie to me, deceive me, or outright disrespect me. When someone breaks your trust, they’re telling you that you don’t matter, that you’re expendable, unworthy of respect or mindfulness.
Betrayal does something to a person — it changes you in ways you may never fully recover from, especially when it blindsides you. The moment someone you placed on a pedestal crumbles, it’s surreal — like they become a memory, no longer deserving of your time. For the first time in my life, I feel the fragility of the foundation I lived on, always assuming good intentions.
At 39, I’m not the same person I was at 37. I’m more cynical, more guarded, and far less trusting. At 39, I’ve lost my innocence, and I don’t think that’s a good thing. A part of me still wants to believe in good intentions, but after a betrayal so profound, how can I be whole again? Thank heavens for the girl from the escarpment of the Blue Ridge Mountains: Nina Simone. Perhaps I’ll follow her to Gilead, where I’ve heard there’s “a balm to make the wounded whole…and to heal the wounded soul.”
New beginnings at 39. I am now more conscious of my health, my environment, and the fragility, brevity, and finality of life. Thus far, life has treated me kindly. I’ve led a fulfilling life. As the signs of the natural progression of life — aging — surface with the appearance of gray hairs and shifts in my physique, I witness my children blossoming into intelligent, remarkable, enterprising individuals. I prioritize my well-being by hitting the gym five times a week and being mindful of my dietary choices. My social circle has dwindled, and I have reinforced my boundaries.
However, I’m not sure if I’m a better person because of these recent experiences. I feel wounded, my mind haggard and drawn. Maybe I need to heal and return to the trusting Saul of old. But with each disappointment, I begin to understand why some turn to a higher, more fierce, certain power.
Road to Gilead. For what it’s worth, I’m en route to Gilead, where wounds are healed, hearts mended, hope restored, and innocence made possible once again. Maybe there, I’ll finally be able to chant the old Lutheran hymn: Now Thank We All Our God.
Until then, I will continue to think metaphorically, listen empathetically, and revel in ambiguity
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Sulayman Njie, PhD
10.10.2024
Celina, Texas
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