Life

I was doing some deep-ish pondering last weekend.

The-one-who-got-away texted me a week ago, from his home in China. His Lunar New Year holiday has commenced, and he had time to eke out a few lines in between being husband and taking care of baby.

I texted him “I’ll be 60 in July.” And that bald and brutal truth finally hit me fully. He texted back that 60 was a revered age in Chinese culture.

I don’t want to be revered. Yet.

I wonder, as I have already for the last thirteen months, with fewer than 110 days to go, will this stepping-down/hitting-60 be my rebirth, or the initiation of the long last act? (Of course it’s not a dichotomy.)

Speaking to a friend recently: “I missed my chance. When I should have been dating and mating, I was too busy finding my way, making ends meet, discovering who I was. Then climbing the academic ladder. Then securing my place.”

And then there’s that 15-years-ago all-in attempt at fatherhood of someone already set and beset. I’ve been thinking about the son recently. And also about the thoughts-but-no-action in actually adopting a younger child when I had time and energy. Now I have the means and some of the time, but none of the energy.

Regrets? Certainly.

Do-overs? Not in this life. Not in real life.

Did I really even ever desire to make the time and space in my heart necessary for a child, or a husband?

Did I fumble, or did I just not want to play ball?

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And then I started scribbling random thoughts in my journal . . . .

Be bold. The doing is the thing.

Climbing and falling and climbing again.

Heed this: make room in your heart and mind — and house — while you can.

Maybe the cup is half-full because someone else’s half-empty needs to join yours?

All that will be left of me is my part in the lives and music of my students and others with whom I walk. And that’s enough.

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A portion of the song “I was here” from the musical The Glorious Ones, by Ahrens and Flaherty:

Why does a boy carve his name on a tree
Or the first born inherit the throne?
What is a sculptor aspiring to be
When he spends half his life carving stone?

Kings built their tombs for the ages
Poets and fools fill up their pages
What are we hoping for?
What do we fear?

I say we yearn to leave something that lasts
And be known for what little we’ve done
Men tell their children the tales of their past
And each man gives his name to his son

Something in song or in story
Something in blood, something of glory
Something that won’t fade away in a year

Well, I will not flicker, and die like an ember
Do many man flicker and die?
I will leave something behind to remember
Somehow I must, don’t ask me why.

I have no sons, at least none I can claim
And no patience for carving in stone
All that I have are my skill and my name
And this chance to make both of them known

This is my key to the portal
How I can leave something immortal
Something that time cannot make disappear
Something to say ‘I was here’