In her latter years, my mother used to ask that a lot. I never knew what to say, so I usually said something trite like “We still need you here.” At which she would click her tongue against her teeth the way she did when I disagreed with her politics.
What was she asking, I wondered. Did she still dream of unrealized ambitions in her nineties? I always found the question unsettling and frankly, a little annoying.
But now that there are many more birthdays behind than before me, I think I get it. I think she was reflecting over her long life and trying to make sense of it. And I find myself doing the same. What has my life meant? At the finish line, will I be able to say I have “fought the good fight” ? Did I miss my “calling,” my high purpose? The olympic swimmer, the nuns of Calcutta, the Nobel Laureate, the musical prodigy; they had a calling, didn’t they? A custom made life-suit, into which they fit perfectly. Their one true path. Is there one for me?
In my early life, I was sure of it. My life would be exciting, full of high purpose, awe-inspiring. Unlike my mother’s. Especially, not like my mother’s.
Mind you, my mother was not a slacker. She was a strong and intelligent woman; a school teacher, an avid reader, a seamstress and amazing gardener. She make great chicken and dumplings and rhubarb pie. She survived two husbands and lived independently for 92+ of her 93 years.
But. She never wrote a book, climbed a mountain, ran a corporation (or a marathon) or held public office. For most of her life she lived in the same community. To my impatient, arrogant 18-year-old eyes, her life looked mundane, aimless, pointless even. Not mine, I vowed. I would set goals for myself and go about achieving them. Simple as that.
But it didn’t quite work out that way. My path took unexpected twists and turns. It didn’t lead steadily to a noble destination, but instead wound through brambles, tangled ravines and rocky boulders. I ran, I stumbled, I climbed, I tripped, I fell and I recovered, with varying degrees of grace.
Admittedly, on its surface, my life looks radically different from that of my mother. I left home at an early age, attended universities in distant states, managed a demanding career, travelled the world; accumulated a modicum of recognition for my work. But at its core, like my mother’s, my life was made of the usual stuff; education, career, marriage, children, retirement. And my path, like hers, was not the work of destiny, but the result of choices.
And my path has led me…. here. Not to a mountaintop and not to a swamp. As it did my mother.
It’s tempting to fall for the “one true thing” pitch. The idea that we are entitled to the one true love, the one perfect career, the one true happily-ever-after is very appealing. And perhaps it is true for some. But my life didn’t come with a blueprint; I made choices, sometimes wisely, sometimes foolishly, that in the aggregate defined my path. I wasn’t always sure of my choices, and they didn’t always lead to the mountaintop.
If I could answer my mother now, I would reassure her that she didn’t miss her calling. Like me, she simply made choices that led her to her destination. And at the end of the day, it was not our accomplishments, as my teenage self thought, but the accumulation of our everyday thoughts and actions that defined us. Both of us.
This Lent, I promised myself to spend time each day away from the busy-ness of life, seeking peace – in meditation, quiet walks, reading, listening to music. But then, as it has a way of doing, bit by distracting bit, sticky note by stick note, life happened..
peacefully naps at my feet. As I sip my morning coffee, I watch his rhythmic breathing punctuated now and then by a twitch of his ears, a muffled yip or a brief pummeling of his legs. Maybe he dreams of chasing a squirrel or a cat. Maybe he doesn’t dream at all. I wish I knew. I wish he could tell me.
body impossibly balanced on one long thin leg. A school of ducks fat from the bread we feed them paddle languidly by and assorted songbirds compete for air space. An occasional bird of prey soars overhead in search of food. Today there are only buzzards and hawks but on rare occasions, we see golden eagles. I wonder why we revere hawks and eagles, and find their buzzard relatives disgusting. I wonder if buzzards know this. I wonder if Eagles do.
gracefully folding and unfolding, embracing the morning air as he glides away.
has picked up now, and the lake is choppy. The rain slices at the side of the house and the wind drives it into the porch. I watch the rain pounding on the lake and wonder about the young men and their ill-fated fishing trip.
Most of my New Year’s Resolutions over the years haven’t lasted past the last winter’s frost. So last year I finally decided to avoid the guilt and let myself off the hook (Post 1/1/15).
