Afterwards, I was a boy who had written a book of poems

Peacock, by Ohara Koson, 1925-1936

I just finished my weekly Friday afternoon run in Fullersburg Woods.  I sat to catch my breath at a picnic table in a pavillion.  Through the trees, not far off, I see a bald eagle.  Then, as I was just bringing Jenny Odell's book to mind -- specifically about how the current moment is newly created, that the buck eye tree is a way of thinking about non-traditional time -- I have this idea which I voice-typed in my phone notes app:

When I was 14 or 15 I wrote a book of poems on looseleaf paper stapled into a book form. It wasn’t much, but afterwards I was a 15-year-old who had written a book of poems. 

Similarly this year I'll be someone who has run 100 miles this year, read 10 books this year, written 100 poems. This year.  (reflections on Saving Time)

As I'm thinking about this now, it's about two things.  First, it's about "becoming something new": about acknowledging that even little goals will in fact change you.  You now have become slighltly different -- there is a book in your drawer, which is maybe a secret, you have found at least 10 "poetic topics" which you wouldn't have if you were just watching sports on TV.

Second, it is related to the idea of "do hard things" (even though this wasn't really hard... but did take a least the time to think up and write them down (and to think to put them in a "book").  I was picturing the 15-year-old me... paging through my thin book of poems (I think I called it an "album"? and I think some of them looked pretty much like song lyrics?) had done this small thing and thought of himself differently because of it -- if even just a little bit.

As I write this, I'm not sure I can clearly delineate these two ideas.  I'm thinking about Andy Jones' idea from teaching English 1 (Ordinary People)... "I'm the kind of person who..."  By having a small goal, you become the kind of person who... reads 10 books, runs 100 miles (whatever).  And that's a different kind of person.  

[The internet says: I'm the kind of man who—hasn't the least idea what kind of man I am.

Calvin, Chapter 6]