I am the child of parents who both are dead; I am the sister of siblings with whom I have no contact; I was the wife of a man who is my “ex”; I am the mother of children who live too far away; I am the grandmother of a grandson who knows me through pictures, presents, and infrequent visits; I am a friend to people I've know for many years and friendly to others I've known a shorter time. But when I stand in front of the mirror, who is the person who looks back at me? That is the question for which I have no answer, not even the rough outline on a 3x5 card.
Have I done well in life? Yes, based on the yardstick society uses to measure such things. I am self-supporting; I still work and do at least an adequate job; I maintain my domicile; I pay all my bills on time and usually in full; I am naturally thrifty, turning off unused lights in my home long before it became green; no one will ever remember me as a clothes’ horse or a shoe whore; I have a good sense of humor, yet show kindness to my fellow inhabitants and lend a helping hand where and when one is needed. But are these lists of what I do the definition of who I am?
On my blog, I once wrote that my life is a journey to discover the person within, to figure out who I am and what me, myself and I need to be content with life. When the time comes to look The Big Guy in the eye and answer for the years He has given to me, what will I say? It’ll start with “Man, I have screwed up so many things that I wish I had handled better,” but He already knows that, and I don’t think that is the information He is seeking. There are no excuses, there are no apologies, there are no explanations that change how I’ve lived my life! I’ve tried not to harm anyone intentionally, but even in those earnest efforts I know that I have hurt others I never intended to hurt.
I remember turning 40 and making decisions that many people thought were bad decisions. I knew at that time of my life that I had made so many past mistakes that continuing to live the life based on them would simply not work for the rest of my life, and I did what I could to start over. I hurt people at that time, but sometimes wrenching free does that. A decade later, someone else took everything I thought I was from me, deciding for me what next direction my life would take. I knew the hurt I had given to others from the inside out, and, at times, I did not think that I could make it through the healing process. I did, and learned more about myself and my life in the process.
I know that I have walked away from those who have asked for help from me because I feel that “God helps he who first helps himself,” but I have given far more to people who never asked me for anything because I could give to them that which they needed to do it themselves. I have always believed that what we do not earn by the efforts of hard, honest work is not valued. There is pride in working hard, in trying, failing, and doing it again, a pride that is stripped from us when anyone thinks that we are incapable of achieving it on our own and hands it to us. The effort is the foundation for the achievement: if I do not try, how do I know that I cannot? If I am trying and failing, how can anyone step in front of me, do it for me, and expect me to thank them for taking away the feeling that comes when I succeed? If I truly cannot do what life asks of me, I’ll ask for guidance, for help, but not expect that someone else will do it for me. I need not just to be self-sufficient, but to know the thrill of shouting at the top of my lungs, “I DID IT!”
As I am coming to a significant birthday in my life, I have to accept that I am now at that age when others will want to do for me, to make my life easier because I am … old. My mother always used to say that it’s a shame we cannot put an old head onto young shoulders, that we cannot, when we come to the age where we do know more about life than those decades younger, share that wisdom with them. As a late teen, after my father died, I recall shouting at my mother to let me make my OWN mistakes! I knew then that I may make MY mistakes, but that did not necessarily mean that I would make my mother’s mistakes. Now that I am on the other side of the definition of senior citizen, I still want to live MY life, make MY mistakes, fumble my own way through what is left of the journey begun so many decades ago.
A recent newspaper article included the “fact” that most Americans share an average lifespan of 78 years, which started me thinking not of a bucket list, but of a personal list of pleasures I’ve denied myself that I’d like to indulge before I die. It’s sort of like the gal who decided to cook every one of Julia Child’s recipes one year, but mine is not restricted to cooking. I have already taken the first steps, replacing the window in the guest room with a glass door, bringing the outside in, something I had thought about since I moved into my current home in January 2000. I also traded in my beloved Camry and my truck for the RAV to par down what I have into what I need: a comfortable passenger compartment with lots of load room. I’ve already agreed to buy a friend’s huge sectional couch and replace the two couches I bought about 25 years ago with something else, even though it means that I have never spent the money to purchase my own, brand-new couch. I still want to make a delicious chocolate cake with rich, creamy chocolate icing and a fruit filling, but I’ll save that for the upcoming birthday.
The trip to Greece? I have other places to go and other people to see and other things to do, so we'll see.
1 comment:
we cannot put an old head onto young shoulders， I remember this sentence (*^__^*)
Post a Comment