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Page 7 of 9
I had lived most of my life in the southwest where the changing of seasons is a very subtle thing compared to the transformations that take place in the northeast. I told myself that I would live to watch the seasons unfold before departing from this earth. Knowing I would die soon enough (and when I chose) brought me some comfort. It also inspired me to look very closely at things I had been oblivious to for so long. I watched the heavy snowfalls for the first time, believing that this would also be my last, as I would not be here to see them the next winter. I had always had such beautiful and elegant clothes (I had been raised in an upper middle-class family where appearances were of the utmost importance). I cast them off in exchange for the comfort and warmth of wool, flannel and cotton. I began to move about in the snow more easily now and found my blood invigorated by the cold. My body grew stronger as I shoveled snow. I began sleeping deeply and well at night and was able to throw my sleeping pills away (not my deadly stash though).
I met a very bossy woman who insisted that I help her with her various humanitarian projects. She taught me to knit for the poor children as we sat in her delicious smelling kitchen surrounded often by her own 'grandbabies'. She scolded me into accompanying her to the nursing home where she read and ran errands for the elderly. She arrived one day at my home armed with a mountain of wrapping paper and demanded that I help her wrap gifts for the needy. I usually felt angry and invaded by her. Whenever I could, I pretended at first not to be at home when she came calling. One day I lost my temper and called her a busybody and stormed out of the house. A few days later she was back in my door- yard. When I opened my door, she plopped down at the table, told me to make her a cup of coffee, and behaved as if nothing had happened. We never did speak of my temper tantrum in all of our years together.
We became the best of friends, and it was during that first year that she rooted herself into my heart, that I began to come alive. I absorbed the blessings that came from serving others, just as my skin had gratefully absorbed the healing bag of balm I had been given by my friend. I began to rise early in the morning. All of the sudden, I had much to do in this life. I watched the sunrise, feeling privileged and imagining myself to the one of the first to see it appear as a resident now in this northern land of the rising sun.
I found God here. I don't know what his or her name is, and I don't really care. I only know that there is a magnificent presence in our universe and in the next one and the next after that. My life has a purpose now. It is to serve and to experience pleasure - it is to grow, and to learn and to rest and to work and to play. Each day is a gift to me, and I enjoy them all (some certainly less than others) in the company of people whom I have come to love at times, and at other times in solitude. I recall a verse I read somewhere. It says, 'Two men look out through the same bars: one sees mud, and one the stars.' I choose to gaze at the stars now, and I see them everywhere, not only in the darkness but in the daylight too. I threw out the pills that I was going to use to do myself in long ago. They had turned all powdery anyway. I will live as long and as well as I am permitted to, and I will be thankful for every moment I am on this earth."
I carry this woman in my heart wherever I go now. She offers me great comfort and hope. I would dearly love to possess the wisdom, strength, and peace that she's acquired during her lifetime. We walked on the beach three summers ago. I felt such wonder and contentment at her side. When it was time for me to return home, I glanced down and noticed how our footprints had converged in the sand. I hold that image within me still; of our two separate sets of footprints united for all time in my memory.
I got out of bed late last night, troubled by my inability for weeks to put anything on paper that was meaningful. Oh, I wrote, some days page after page, and then I would read what I'd written. Disheartened, I would throw it all away. It kept looking like pages from a "How to" book, and not a very good one at that. I have never found healing in a book, no matter what its cover may have promised. If this was to be my unconscious attempt to offer what I believed in my heart to be the impossible (healing via the written word), then I would surely fail. For a time I stopped writing. I attempted to ignore the sense of loss I felt as I abandoned my dream and turned my attention to other tasks that required my energy. But some dreams are noisier than others. I suspect you might understand me when I share with you that this dream of mine screamed. Have you ever experienced some part of yourself that demands that you allow it expression? I've known and loved many people in my life who've locked up certain aspects of themselves, and yet while deeply buried, some small voice is still shrieking. No matter how bright, how beautiful, how desperate the dream, there it stayed -- safe and sound, but never truly silenced.
I hear voices. Not evil, threatening phantoms but haunting nevertheless. They are snatches of stories; other peoples stories. They've been revealed to me in confidence within the confines of my office, and the pain contained within them adds strength and volume to the clamoring voice inside of me.
"A man's dream is his personal myth, an imagined drama in which he is the central character, a would-be hero engaged in a noble quest" Daniel J. Levinson
Many of the stories shared with me by those in the early stages of mid-life involve lost or broken dreams. The hopeful and often grandiose visions of what we will do and be (that excited and sustained us in our youth) frequently come back to haunt us in middle age. What might have (should have?) been, and what we come to recognize will never be, can stir up significant feelings of loss, regret, disappointment and sorrow. While allowing ourselves to explore and experience these feelings is important; of greater or equal value is a close examination of the old dreams and the new you. Why didn't you pursue plan A? Is it possible in retrospect that the cost might have been too high? Or how about pursuing plan A now? After all, you may very well be better equipped to handle the challenge today than you were then. If you're regretting what you've missed, how about also contemplating the gifts that came your way while you were pursuing plan B. And maybe at this point in your life it's time to consider a new plan.
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