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I am so lucky anyone continues to read this blog.

I have been terribly unkind to the blog recently.

Leaving it behind so easily for personal struggles with birthday mortality syndrome (yes, I just made that up) is cruel and unfair. On the other hand, if you have been paying attention the last two years, you know I’m always like this around my birthday.

Image source:Creepshow - 1982

Image source:
Creepshow – 1982

Either way, I apologize for my lack of regular communication this spring.

Also, I’m not talking about the book today. All I will say is she is almost done.

Yes, I’m terribly disappointed by the delays but I now understand what my Dad is always going through with his show cars. When you put enough time, effort, and capital in a project, it has to be right. It will be done when it is done and not a moment before.

No, today I want to chat about a source of joy in my life. The Doctor…

I have officially renamed winter the season of the Doctor.

I’m so thankful to have found this wonderful show at a time when I’m at my lowest. I’m sure not everyone has the same reaction to the Doctor but I honestly can’t remember a time when a single show has evoked such an emotional response from me on a regular basis.

I’m not just talking about the hysterical comedy, intriguing mysteries, and beloved characters. Nor am I talking about the indomitable English spirit and their dedication to the literary masters that came before them (The Christmas episodes tear out my heart everytime.)

No. It is the exquisite use of all these things to create an endless story arc that stretches back fifty years. An arc that no matter what direction it decides to go in, I become hopelessly attached to.

Every companion lost brings on the tears. Each mystery unlocked brings joy. Every spin of the wibbly-wobbly sphere of time stuff does exactly what it is intended to do. It makes me dream of better things in life.

Starry Starry Tardis

The Doctor is not a complete rehash of the same old depressing crap we here in the States get served on a regular basis. It has meaning.

Yes, we run into familiar monsters and scenarios but they are so well authored that it doesn’t matter. In the back of my mind, I can see the plot lines floating like glowing star stuff in the air and I know where ever they lead there will be tears and pain and redemption.The Doctor with his new faces, companions, and endless adventures are such an amazing departure from the normalcy of American television fare

But these things that make the Doctor special are only a component of why I have such an emotional response to this “cheesy” sci-fi show from BritanniaThe scars run deeper than that.

I don’t like endings…

I don't like Endings

Image Source:
Doctor Who

Perhaps it is because I’m so in-tune with my own mortality, that I find such pleasure in the reoccurring acts of personal salvation in the Doctor.

Everyday I watching helplessly from the sidelines as time literally slips by in the faces of my children and the assorted salt & pepper hair in my beard. I know my time on the planet is passing at a far greater rate now than in childhood; that magical place when time seemed to stretch on forever and seemed as unending as the adventure of the Doctor.

I don’t want to go…

None of us get to stick around forever, not even the Doctor (although regeneration would be an awesome talent!) and this winter the Doctor helped me to understand that better. In doing so, this amazing show has given me the drive to continue on and try to enjoy the timey-wimey stuff I got left.

So, thank you BBC and bless you Britain (as well as the rest of the United Kingdom) for the seemingly endless amount of literary and creative talent you export to the rest of the world. I can only hope that someday I will be blessed enough to see your island with my own eyes and perhaps write a story just for you from what I learned while I’m there.

Until then… Happy 50th Birthday Doctor! May the Tardis always remain the brightest of blue, your hair continue to be jaunty, and the adventures never stop!