A memory from my 3os and 40s: driving home to Western Pennsylvania, visiting the folks, and dinners together where Dad would say something like, “I’m getting older, and I don’t know how many more chances I will get to see your sister in California.” Dad would never share a specific reason for his (what I viewed as fatalistic) outlook, and I would either argue with him about the need for such a morbid mindset or, as I learned to do later, ignore it and change the subject.
In any event, as a relatively young guy lacking in sage and season, I was arrogant enough to think that anyone concerned with the number of times he would be able to do x, y or z was someone who had stopped living and had started counting the days. I was unable to muster any sympathy for his stance. It seemed negative and manipulative, and I did not want to feed into it.
So now I arrive at the doorstep of my 60s, and I find myself wondering: how many more years do I have? What, if anything, do I need to do before my time is up to assure myself that I have lived life to the fullest? I try very hard not to adopt the fatalistic stance of my father, but there are times I fear heading down the same road in my private thoughts.
The last thing I want to do is give up on life’s adventure, as I judged (unfairly) that my father had done. I don’t want to start counting. On the other hand, when one thinks of the rich possibilities of life, when one recalls September 11, 2001, and when one considers his or her own age and life expectancy, it is hard not to think about priorities.
These are the Wonder Years, Centrum Silver version. I wonder how many years remain for me. I wonder whether this is all I was intended to do with my life. I wonder, if I were to check out tomorrow, what I might regret not having done or tried.
Rejecting the pessimism of my father, I intend for these wonders to guide my decisions in this last quarter of my life, which hopefully will last a good while, answer a few questions, and give me abundant time with my loved ones.
My fear is the number of times I will get to take a directorial stab at certain plays that challenge and try the imagination. For instance I have directed Midsummer Night’s Dream 17 times, I have done Romeo and Juliet 8 times, Equus 7 times and now I am about to have my second stab at As You Like It. I guess it is time to make every one count in a most specific way
Hey, what happened to Renee?
Ah, the big questions, and the similarities with and differences from one’s father. I distanced myself from him pretty much, tried in many ways to not be like him, but regretted not getting to know him better before he died suddenly in 1987 at 62. An age that is now disturbingly close to my own.
I think doing a good job with your kids is job one. I think I have and still am even though they are now 21 and 29. Doing a good job in your relationship with your spouse or partner is right up there. I’m doing better on that the second time around. After that, for me, it’s mostly about creating stuff and keeping a sense of wonder. The few real friendships I have are closely tied to the creating stuff part (mostly music, but the sense of wonder is there in flying and thinking about space and other interesting parts of the universe, and I have made some friends in those areas too – though I have spent a lot more time in private wondering in books and simulations and songwriting and such). I don’t think there’s any “was intended.” You have to create all the intention and purpose for yourself (though there certainly is room for inspiration).
I left my job out of the list. Oh well. It certainly is important and gets a lot of my time, but not my “soul” (whatever that is). I probably have some other regrets. One is that I didn’t learn to fly when I was much younger and maybe stood a chance of being really good at it. I only have about 130 hours and I’m not sure how long I will keep trying. But it is pretty wonderful and lucky that I’ve gotten to live even a small part of that childhood pilot/astronaut dream (not the astronaut part yet!).
In college, I admired you as one of the most creative people I had ever met. Probably the reason I started writing songs (thanks!). I’m sure there is a lot of that creativity still in you if you want to do more with it (not that you aren’t already – blogging, photography, humor, probably more that I don’t know about — pretty creative stuff for sure).
I have to say I’ve been thinking about these things too. My father was wont to say at every holiday gathering, “I may not be here next year.” We would shout him down. And then he wasn’t here anymore. I still miss him so much.
I think part of the key to feeling fulfilled is to be present as much as possible. I’m not very good at that though. Being present is the first thing covered in”How to Live or A life of Montaigne” by Sarah Bakewell, definitely worth a read.
I’m most grateful for meeting and marrying Enis. He opened a whole new world for me that has enriched my life immeasurably.