At This Stage

My friend of more than fifty years sounds sad on the phone. “I don’t like this stage of life,” she says. “Do you? I never feel good anymore, and honestly, have things ever been this weird?”

  Images of my friend flicker like a slide show in my mind. It’s 1971 and we are office workers in Chicago, striding along Michigan Avenue on a cold windy day, both of us on leave from school. She wears a navy-blue wool coat and a thick striped scarf, and we often wander into the Art Institute to be warmed by the sunlight of the Renoirs. Later there are rented rooms in old houses in Madison, Wisconsin, gauzy hippie blouses, scents of patchouli oil, cancelled and recalibrated plans, various boyfriends never quite right. She visits me at my own bleak haunts in upstate New York during my desperado days, and we take a famous cross-country Greyhound trip together. Then comes her marriage and a move to Phoenix, a social work career and a thin, tense, cigarette-smoking version of her, and over time, there is southern California, an adopted daughter, small victories, the usual losses, the usual assaults by time upon the body. There are plenty of detours and disappointments, all of them met with stalwart humor and not a trace of blame or bitterness. We have always stayed in touch, and I have never heard her so discouraged.

“I’m not trying to worry you, Cyn,” she hastens to add. “It’s just hard to stay motivated—isn’t it? Sometimes I just want to check out.”

I do understand. I have the luxury of many buffers, and I don’t confront that feeling straight on, but I get it; I’ve been there. More recently, though, I have come to appreciate this time in my life as a space for slowing down and seeing clearly what had been passing as a blur. Yes, I actually like this stage; it is a gift that not everyone gets. It’s an unscripted opportunity to try to do some good, connect with others, and speak out with honesty or fall silent in awe, each in its proper moment.

But I have to admit that election anxiety is casting a shadow right now. It’s disturbing and pervasive, and as my friend and I talked further, I could see that so much of what she was feeling was tainted by this toxic context. She is worried and disillusioned, as so many of us are. Mostly, she is weary.

And I’m weary too, but lately a more dominant emotion has been anger. I know that isn’t healthy, but my patience has run out, and fury and outrage are emerging in its place. I’m so sick of this circus of lies and corruption, and the Kabuki normality, (to use a perfect phrase coined by journalist Jonathan V. Last). We have so many real challenges to address. How is it that a significant portion of the American electorate would indulge an unqualified, unfit narcissist, a brazen fascist who is unraveling before our very eyes, and his team of power-hungry enablers and creepy extremists? How has it been allowed to get this far? How can so many be so gullible and hateful? Sometimes I just get tired of trying to understand. We are all being held hostage here, and we’re all being traumatized, and now and then my anger eclipses my hope.

I confessed this to another friend and promptly received this response: “That asshole doesn’t deserve our anger—we’ve done all we can. It’s hard to believe any of this is true, but we gotta have faith faith faith!”

She’s right, of course. Let us hereby make a vow—no matter what the outcome of the election, we must be even stronger, better versions of ourselves. Love, not anger, must characterize us, and clarity of thought, and determination. We can do this. We are resolved not to forfeit our principles. And thus, they will not win. This chapter will soon roll into whatever comes next, and we need to be present for it, and ready to go.

But back to my disenchanted friend. The oily substance of her weariness was smudging her lens. She needed redirection. I mentioned that it was October, such a beautiful month, and she told me her daughter would be visiting soon, and they still enjoyed decorating and dressing up for Halloween, and she began to acknowledge the possibility of laughter. Short-lived, frothy, Halloween-ish fun…but isn’t this how joy sometimes appears?

Later that day, as dusk drew near, silvery fog brushed across a blushing mauve sky, and worry held its breath in place of wonder.

Once again, it becomes apparent that we are our responses to the world. We must rise against the weariness and keep on rowing towards that which we know to be right, refusing to drown, sparked by moments of joy, and guided by love.

This excerpt of a poem by David Whyte sums it up with eloquence:

so that when
we finally step out of the boat
toward them, we find
everything holds
us, and everything confirms
our courage, and if you wanted
to drown you could,
but you don’t
because finally
after all this struggle
and all these years
you simply don’t want to
any more
you’ve simply had enough
of drowning
and you want to live and you
want to love and you will
walk across any territory
and any darkness
however fluid and however
dangerous to take the
one hand you know
belongs in yours.

Joy is fuel and sustenance, while anger is a weight, and despair is a self-fulfilling prophecy, and hope breeds hope, and you will know the hand that belongs in yours.

This stage of life is a blessing not to be squandered.