Open Heart Procedure

Imperfect

I was corresponding with a friend of mine and she shared that certain momentous events had her spinning. That resonated with me. I don’t know when in the last 30 years I ceased to enjoy that sensation -- but spinning and reeling are no longer on my list of Top-10 Beloved Sensations. Dusty and I are standing in the center of a circle spinning alternatively in both directions and I am trying in the midst of this unfocused, unsettling time to find my center. I vacillate as I shift my weight against the whirling events of the day -- one moment relying on the excitement of a departure from the familiar; the next hunkering down at home. What an amazing privilege to get to redefine one’s center of gravity -- perhaps away from the care of now-grown children and more toward one’s own growth and care -- but it leaves me a little breathless and nauseated, too.

The older folk in my universe are doing fine, but they are – conversely – pretty much at a standstill. They are trying to adjust themselves to their own uncertain capacities; and I think I understand their desire to simplify. They are enjoying smaller-scale amusements, but their days are spent largely at home with one another, with the kitchen table situated at the center of their shared universe. Perhaps some of us cling to the familiar and stable when we’re trying to figure out really big, hairy questions.

I’m kind of anti-nesting. With the ever-increasing independence of our young people, I find I have a pretty profound case of wanderlust. I’m not going very far, but I’m finding a curious level of comfort in long drives on unfamiliar roads. There’s a fantastic and obvious metaphor in that reality. I don’t care that my subconscious is so blatant in its messaging. And while it’s true that Dusty prefers more than anything to hang out at home, he’s been very sweet about rediscovering and employing his Boy Scout orienteering roots for the occasional date-night wander through the neighborhood or exploration of local parks and trails. We’ve had a fair amount of fun with that.

There are times, however, when I feel pretty guilty about all this wandering and dating and fun. I feel on some days as though I’ve abandoned the kids, leaving them to fend for themselves and face big decisions without the benefit of 54 years of experience. But even as I write that, I see how ridiculous that is. This is precisely the time when they are both learning to do just that – fend for themselves and handle their own decisions. They are for the most part enjoying that independence and making good decisions.  

And then there’s this: at a time when Dusty and I should be putting every, last penny into the well-being and financial future of both chirrens, I wonder if I should be walking down the street to buy a beer and a basket of wings. I’m aware that my guilt is disproportionate to the infraction – we can afford to go out for a glass of wine or a beer occasionally. But I’m also coming to terms with the fact that I decided a long time ago that I wasn’t going to “play the game” and seek a career based on how well it pays. Dusty and I have in common a love of what we do and feel privileged for the doing of our work. But I am also grappling now with a series of decisions that puts me (us) in a very particular tax bracket. Of course, one of the reasons I undertook meaningful but modestly paid work was so that I could enjoy lots of family time (I do and I have) and devote all psychic energy to things and people more important to me than clients or a paycheck (not that there’s anything wrong with that). But now – when I should be well acclimated to that decision – I’m finding it difficult not to feel a little remorse for my selfishness -- the selfishness of following one’s heart, instead of what I think to be society’s imposed obligations.

I grew up with that allegory about the cricket and the ant. The cricket played his cheerful tune all summer and the ant toiled away in his busy anthill. Summer passed, winter came and the cricket finds himself without a home, no food and no place and no reason to play his happy tune. Unless the ant takes pity, the cricket will be left to die from exposure to the ravages of winter. The story ends with the ant taking pity on the cricket and the cricket ends up looking like a fuzzy-headed, self-absorbed ass. It’s a charming story.

Though I feel connected to the plight (the self-actualized plight) of the cricket, I’m also trying to maintain the cricket’s light heart and good nature. It might also be worth noting that the cricket doesn’t eschew the ant’s kindness in the end. The cricket accepts the ant’s offer to live in the relative comfort of the ant hill, and presumably the cricket helps ease the ant’s never-ending toil by playing his happy, light-hearted tune. Perhaps that’s why I’ve started writing at this time of my life – it’s my version of the cricket’s happy tune.

Even a happy tune can’t save me from my own ego, however. I confess that ever since I graduated from my beloved Bowdoin College I have felt a nagging mishmash of emotion when the alumni magazine arrives in the mail. On the one hand, it’s thrilling to read about the profound and lasting influence my fellow Polar Bears make – people I knew! -- on the arts scene, international diplomacy, local, state and national politics, education, medicine and even the exploration of this universe and the next. But on the other hand, I feel so small next to those Goliath accomplishments, living this little life of mine.

I have done things for which I’m proud. I’ve worked alongside colleagues who inspire me and with whom I’ve made an impact on the constituencies we serve. But I’ve not been recognized in local magazines as someone to watch for my ambitious work in any field. I’ve not been tagged to serve on high-profile Boards or Commissions at the behest of lofty political or business figures. I can’t say I blame the big, wide world for failing to notice me. I’ve not done or accomplished anything that comes immediately to mind as a compelling, front-page story. Instead, I chose a life that was cheerful and simple, not symphonic or operatic.

Years ago when I was reflecting on this very issue I remember having a little revelation on the subject, thanks to an observation made by my sister-in-law, Amanda. Shortly after Dusty and I welcomed Sweet Pea into the world, Amanda and I talked about ambition. I had left my work in media to stay at home with the baby and I lamented that I didn’t have more verve, that I didn’t have a big, burning fire in the belly to do more, to double down and do what so many women in my universe seemed to be doing – they were doing it all. They had ambition, I proclaimed. As I remember it, Amanda took my hands, looked deeply into my eyes and lovingly but firmly corrected me: “Oh, no – you have ambition. But you have an ambition for something different, don’t you?” That was an important correction. I was building that little, colorful life scaled to my dreams. It wasn’t necessarily the inner vision of someone who influences profoundly the world of media and the public sector. It wasn’t the life of one who might acquire financial stability or professional status for their daily toil in the anthill. And it wasn’t even the life of a wild, wide-open explorer. It turns out I had a burning ambition for a very individually-sized, slightly grubby, colorful, quirky, imperfect life.

As the young’uns make sometimes difficult trips out into the unknown and begin the work of crafting whatever life reveals itself in their dreams, I’d like for them to know this: we may not have given them a big life, but we’ve given them a little life with big, gorgeous color, texture and timeless beauty. Perhaps it will be useful as well for the young’uns to see in my wandering, in Dusty’s homespun amusements and in my parents’ kitchen-sized home base, that there are lots of different ways to respond to life when it changes, gets hard or becomes scary. Perhaps they’ll see that even a little life – one that doesn’t come with the trappings of money or status – is a life that merits a happy tune. I’ll try to make a little more time and devote a little more energy to antlike toil, but I suspect I’ll still identify with the cricket. I hope their childhood inside this little-big life provides a bit of inspiration as they face their first choices – the uncertain life of a cricket, or the toil of an ant? And once they’ve made the choice, I wonder if I’ll recognize the tune.