Lifetimes—25 Years at a Time
While on a walk the other day with a dear friend the conversation turned to aging, as it often does. I remarked that I hoped, and would be quite happy, to have about 25 years of life left. Now that may sound like a morbid conversation to younger folks, but at this age I find discussions of the life that remains, the “final future,” not only freeing, but a necessary part of this time of life. So the idea of 25 more years, a quarter of a century, feels pretty substantive and full of potential. If I can still be “with it” and reasonably healthy into my early nineties, I would consider myself to have been an extremely fortunate woman. Something really struck me about the concept of chunks of 25 years that I have lived through in my life, as I prepare for the final 25. It seems no matter what age you arbitrarily measure them from (birth to 25, 40 to 65, whatever), these time periods are distinguished not only by the events forgotten and remembered, but also — for me personally— for their stark contrasts in the way I experienced them.
Formative and school age years, let’s say birth to 25, which took me into the early years of my education career, seemed to take a lifetime. I remember so much from this time period. Mostly I remember the learning was more centered on what I did not want to do or be than it was in finding a solid identity. And that’s fine. My nightmare would be to be trapped in my teens and twenties for the rest of my life. I floundered around until my mid thirties, but as I’ll expand upon later, the period of my mid-thirties to my mid-to-late fifties was my “time of life.” My forties were a bit rough on me, but the bumpy ride led me to a much smoother and more joyful journey by the end of that 25 year period. A brief period of transitional years (winding down and gearing up), took me into the present, my final 25 years. And I plan to make The Precious Days of this final 25 my “best life” era.
“How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives. What we do with this hour, and that one, is what we are doing. A schedule defends from chaos and whim. It is a net for catching days. It is a scaffolding on which a worker can stand and labor with both hands at sections of time. A schedule is a mock-up of reason and order—willed, faked, and so brought into being; it is a peace and a haven set into the wreck of time; it is a lifeboat on which you find yourself, decades later, still living. Each day is the same, so you remember the series afterward as a blurred and powerful pattern.”
As I mentioned, the 90’s began a significant time of life for me. It’s a time when my relationship with writing really began to mature. The Writing Life was a book I really enjoyed in the 90’s. So coming across this quote again, along with some others from the book in The Marginalian got me thinking about where these ideas sit with me now in this final 25 years. I remember when I read the book in my thirties. I was leaning more and more into wanting to be a more serious poet and writer. I remember carrying around a little notebook that had an ornate Chinese art themed cover. in that little red and gold book, I would write all kinds of conversational quotes from eavesdropping and observations on how people moved or sat or gestured. I would move some notes to first lines of poems, and some into story ideas. None of that really went anywhere until my mid-to-late thirties, when it really started to come together. The last half decade of my thirties were my most creative. I took poetry classes and ended up doing a reading of my poems in a bookstore. I went to a ton of lectures and plays, visited galleries, spent hours reading in bookstores and libraries, hung out in coffee shops (Muddy Waters in Burlington was my favorite), read everything by Natalie Goldberg I could get my hands on, and attended several “Keep the Pen Moving” retreats across the state facilitated by Michelle Demers. Once I reached my late thirties, it seemed like some peak creativity years had arrived. I was on one extended Artist Date during those years. I would say that by my late 30’s, a “powerful pattern” ushered in a period of 25 years that informs much of the way I intend to spend my last 25 years.
In The Marginalian, Popova summarizes the quote as “a poignant meditation on the life well lived, reminding us of the tradeoffs between presence and productivity.” And I would have been in total agreement with that appraisal in my thirties. But when I read the quote now, in what may be the final 25 years of my life, I can’t say that it resonates any longer. Oh, I love the first line (an often referenced quote),“How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives” and at no time in my life has that been more true or felt more real than it does now. But the totality of the quote just doesn’t sit the same with me. During this last act, this glorious final quarter of a century, looking back on those “powerful patterns” feels anything but blurred. Now, there is actually a clarity about those significant 25 year periods of my past. That clarity has taken over many of my days, despite the murky navigation of purpose and identity. Looking back, with clearer eyes and a much needed mirror, I can see some of those past periods held joy, discovery, and a fair amount of pain, and now I am in a place in my life to be fully present to learn from them, no matter how hard the lessons might be. During this period of my life, that “presence” is my productivity.
When Annie Dillard wrote The Writing Life, she was in her early forties. During the 25 year period of my life from 32 to 57, each decade felt like a different lifetime. From my “writing life” period in my thirties, to a painful divorce and new role in my career, and to finally feeling a sense of belonging in my own life by my fifties, none of it feels like a “blur of same days.” Perhaps it only feels that way when you are in it. I think it’s the looking back that makes it “a life.”
I was truly one of the women who felt like life began at 50. That’s when my “forever life” began with my husband, Mark. It was also the peak of my career. My early 60’s felt like a conscious winding down from a career high, and also as a “looking forward” to the potential of an even bigger forever life.
So here I am in the final 25, readers (god-willing). I promise myself it won’t be a blur but a blessing. And I hope to recapture the spirit of that wannabe writer and poet, sitting in coffee shops with her notebook, a new copy of Griffin and Sabine, and a volume of Sharon Olds’ poetry. Little did she know back in the 90’s when she was curled up in a chair reading and pink highlighting The Writing Life that she was building me a lifeboat on which I’d find myself, decades later, ready to live on for the next 25 years.
Retirement allows us the time to look back at times in our life when we felt excited, authentic, and full of potential. Sometimes those experiences had to take a backseat to our work lives. Are there certain “eras” of your past that are now taking center stage in the way you want to spend the years ahead of you? Please share in the Comments.
