It was a beautiful Florida morning. Not a cloud in the sky, still early enough before the rest of the world took its first breath and perfect for the beach. Armed with a writing pad, a book I had yet to finish, lotion and a chair I bounded for one of my favorite spots isolated enough where I knew I could set up shop right in front of the ocean without having to hear anything other than the lap of waves, the rustle of grape trees and the call of seabirds. At least for a few hours, anyway.

As I mentioned it was quite early and I wasn’t expecting to find anyone else there. However, there was someone else there. Someone I knew and well and had not spoken to in over ten years. I pushed aside the awkwardness of the moment, the reasons that pulled us apart, and just settled my chair beside hers where a conversation began and the details of our lives — what we’d been doing, where we were now—flowed out.

For what felt like hours I sat there listening to everything she had to say. She had recently turned sixty-five and despite all her monetary wealth, two successful daughters and the impending birth of her first grandchild, she was not happy. A deep hole existed where there should have been nothing but joy. This was not something I could tell her. I did not live her life. I did not see where she began, what she had envisioned for herself. Those paramount things she hoped to achieve.

Taking stock is a reality check. It’s something we all go through at some point, if not many points during the course of our lives. And while I’m not certain they’re always productive assessments or easy to do, I believe they’re critical if we ever expect to get anywhere.

One friend when he turned forty suffered a heart attack. Another quit his job and went to work for Starbucks. And although I personally never experienced a mid-life crisis, per se, well, not the kind anyway that entails trashing your clothes, liquidating your 401 (k) to buy a sports car, or giving yourself a do-over with Miss Clairol Pink #3, I did, however, wind up around that same forty mile-marker in the throes of a divorce and menopause. Two messy hardships I did not ask for. And two hardships that would drive any normal woman way off the deep end.

So deep there were days I forgot to breathe, I forgot my children, and they, in turn, forgot about me. But somehow I got through it. Goo Goo G’joob hallelujah. I survived my forties, my fifties seemingly intact, and now that I’m here at the sixty-plus stage over the proverbial hill sitting on a Cornflake after the van has come and gone, I can finally, honestly say I like where I am. I like who I am. Cellulite, age spots, jiggly bat underarms and all.

Yes, I stopped fighting that mother ship a long time ago. When shit happens around you, when those you love die, a ground-breaking seed inside your head grows. And like a breath of fresh air, the I’m-going-to-set-the-world-on-fire kind of dreams that once consumed you, are thrust elsewhere. On your children and your grandchildren, for the simple reason, you’re just so happy to be alive.

Joan Didion summed it up best: “I no longer want reminders of what was, what got broken, what got lost, what got wasted.” So much of our lives are spent reviewing parts of our existence that have become nothing more than wreckage upon a shore. Things that cannot be undone for all the tea in China.

I hope you realize this sooner versus later. I hope everything that bogs down your life, that keeps that hole in your heart from filling, falls away with the simple understanding what matters most is what lays ahead. And the only person you have to make happy is you.

Three years ago, after struggling with life butting in, with blank pages, with characters who wanted to tell a much different story than the one I intended, I finally completed my first book. It was the ultimate cherry. The sense of accomplishment that had alluded me for so long. And the interesting thing is, looking back, I realized it could have happened a lot sooner had I simply understood the difference between writing for others and writing for myself, and the flower of relevancy blooms from within.

I believe it takes great passion, great courage to live your life out loud with the sort of honesty of mind where things that feel shallow sink, and things that feel true float upon the surface as you give voice to all those inner frailties that make us human. Because we’re all screwed up — to some degree or another — and I don’t see anyone exempt from this messy pool of mankind. Not you, not me, not even Mr. Rogers with his snappy sweater and picture-perfect neighborhood.

Look, all I’m saying is that the closer we get to our number being called, re-adjust the lens. Ride the peace train of happiness wherever it takes you. And if that means crusading for the homeless, opening a cupcake shop, knitting sweaters for Etsy, swimming the Atlantic, or retiring to the west coast of Florida with all your Jujubes intact, then by all means go for it!

Me? I’m writing another book.

 

 

 

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