Currently, I'm recovering from spinal surgery; if everything goes as planned, I will post a new essay within a few weeks.
I think the majority of human beings have brilliant, well-conceived notions of their futures, some sort of individualized “master plan” for each year, every decade, a general scope of now until death. Some involve achievements of educational/career success and financial pinnacles. Others are based upon relationships, families, and friendships--- making meaningful emotional connections that deepen and enrich spirituality. There might be commonalities; there might be distinct differences. I tend to be fairly non-judgmental and have a “whatever works for you” attitude. Do you want to rule the universe? Hey, best of luck; I do hope you are an intelligent, benevolent ruler of the planetary system but realize that if you conquer the universe, you may use some strong-arm tactics. Is your life goal a really spectacular cheese sandwich? Wishing you the best to achieve that dream, and personally, I understand the passion for dairy products.
I had a plan, vague and a bit quirky, but a plan nonetheless. It had a few normal items, such as some sort of long-term relationship, perhaps an offspring or two. I wanted to be financially secure, a “never rich but never flipping furniture cushions in a panic for spare change” kind of stability. I wanted to travel; tourist destinations seemed ho-hum; I desired to wander Morocco, Madagascar, and Borneo. Maybe I’d write a few books, teach a few courses, never achieving superstardom but possibly gaining a tiny cult following. These were the dreams at the age of ten, and twenty, and even thirty. With my fortieth birthday approaching, I scoff at myself for thinking I had any control. The truth is, simply, life is life. It has been forty years of thinking, “Damn. Didn’t see that one coming.”
Through those years, I have had the proverbial shit kicked out of me, beaten to a pulp, in fact, numerous times. And though I have peered upward on occasion and said aloud, “Really? Are you kidding me with this?” there is no blame against the gods or fate or past lives or the alignment of the planets or other such nonsense. Blame, to me, trivializes the necessity of resilience and acceptance in our lives. Furthermore, it diminishes and dishonors the aspects of life that are so amazing, so glorious, and so heart-stopping in their beauty. Do I wish certain parts of my life had turned out differently? Of course. Given my druthers, it would be preferable to not be sick with a progressive disease which will kill me; I think it might be nice if I fell in love with someone who fell in love with me back; having experienced both positive and negative balances in my checking account, I am confident in saying I find more pleasure from the one with money; though I love and respect my parents, I would much more enjoy visiting them periodically rather than living with them. Alas, it is what it is. Every moment of life is a transition, and some are nice and some are not nice. The best that I can hope from myself is that I handle each transition with a little grace and humor. Sometimes I do fine. Other times I wander aimlessly muttering, “Fucking fuck… fucking shit… fwhuckers.” That’s fairly normal, though. People are generally quite pleased with good transitions; they get whiny and pissed off at difficult transitions. My current series of events was unexpected. Every day that I do not sever my own head, I deem it a champion exhibit of accepting transition. Sometimes one has to have small plaudits for transitioning without transgressing.
Transitions are impetus for the reevaluation of priorities, of pertinence, a reflective blink to make sense of what matters. Needs are compartmentalized from wants; another sieve to separate the necessities from the fanciful. Surveying this small room with a comforter and pillows on the floor and stacks of boxes belonging to my parents lining the walls, still, I have a few things which I would not trade for the world: the most loyal, loving, adaptable dog ever; music (Ray Charles currently); coffee; a phone that connects me to my amazing friends; and, a dictionary the weight of a compact car. For now, that’ll do. As Steven Wright once said, “You can’t have everything. Where would you put it?” True enough, oh wise man. Well, not entirely. Mr. Wright hasn’t met my Mom. From years of observing her pack cars for road journeys, suitcases for air travel, pantries with non-perishables, and wee basement cubbyholes with a mammoth array of holiday decorations, I have become convinced that had she everything, she could fit it all into a 3000 sq. ft. house, the whole of the universe precariously stacked at every turn, surfaces buried, every tangible item that has ever existed crammed together so that with my balance and coordination failings, I would have a higher chance of survival traversing a mine field.
Incidentally, there is one other item in my living space: during my youth, I impishly sculpted a tongue from Silly Putty and affixed it to a mirror so that one’s reflection always had a 3D, stuck-out tongue, a permanent, jeering razz. I figured my parents would have detached that after I left the house 22 years ago. Nope. Still there, my own snarky personality standing the test of time to mock the mocker. Damn. Didn’t see that one coming.
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