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| Illustrated by Ira Blutreich |
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Reflection
Halfway Through The Ride
By Wickham Boyle
In ancient Rome there was a two-headed God named Janus whose job it was to protect doorways. Janus had an ancillary responsibility as well, which was to look back at the year that passed, and forward at the one to come. Not surprisingly, our month of January bears a close resemblance to his name because it is a time to tackle the beginning of a new year as we reflect on gains and losses of the previous one.
Middle age is similar. Now that I am over fifty, I am consumed with constant head swinging. My mind lurches forward to plan the future, while at the same time I’ll wistfully or angrily assess my past.
I often joke that I can envision being halfway through my ride. But it isn’t the kind of ride that plods uphill, hits a crest, and zooms excitedly down. Rather, I see my excursion as a series of intricate twists and turns with precipitous, giggling highs and cavernous lows. Although I sometimes feel sad about my less than vigorous muscles, my new wrinkles and slower uptake speed, I still anticipate an eventful ride through the second half of my life.
I hope this half will be more about gaining wisdom, sharing skills, and distributing whatever consumable wealth I have accumulated, than grappling up a ladder either imagined or real. The first half of my life was filled with so many benchmarks: School, tests, jobs, falling in and out of love, and negotiating a series of careers. Now I have teenage kids, the love of my life by my side, and a career that I adore. It took me three decades to circle back around to a passion for writing that I first discovered at age 17. Despite a few straight lines, my professional journey has involved multiple detours, quick stops, hairpin turns, and skids off road – all pushing me inexorably forward.
I find myself wondering at odd moments: How many more cars will I buy? Will the refrigerator I have now be my last? Because I hate the shelf configuration; they’re too close together and not adjustable. Will the scratchy sheets I bought on sale wash soft before I check out? Will I make a difference in somebody else’s life, or am I just taking up space worrying about minutiae? I don’t ponder this stuff in a morbid way, although if my family knew they would probably be horrified. Still: How many more New Year’s resolutions? Semesters of school tuition? Dreaded mammograms?
There is a point at which many of us get around to thinking, hell, I want every single tough and tender moment that the universe can toss my way. Every moment on this side of the traverse is rich and amazing
When I was much younger, impatient, and hating my life from the corporate job to my miserable mate, I remember stepping into an elevator in the lush Chrysler Building. Almost involuntarily, I released a long, bored, put upon sigh, followed by a statement: ”Oh my god it is only Tuesday; four more days until the weekend!”
I huffed and puffed. A marvelously wrinkled old man who was sharing the elevator suddenly chirped up: “If you have any days that you don’t want, any days at all – bad, sad, overwhelming – I will take them all from you.” His voice hardened as he nearly spat what came next. “Never wish your life away, it is so precious.” He stepped off at the next floor, leaving me slack-jawed.
At some point I woke up and started to take note of the coincidences, the serendipitously conjoined moments. These random wonders inspire me. I stopped assuming that everybody would like me, and realized that maybe I wasn’t destined to be the kind of neighbor, friend or parent that would please everybody. Liberated, I started to enjoy the process more than the product.
Don’t get me wrong: I still have the terrible temper my father dubbed the hallmark of a half-Irish, half-Italian woman. But instead of being angry at the dishes, the deadlines, and the missed opportunities, I’m now trying to revel in the pink dawn light and sweet surprises hidden inside chocolates.
After all, we’re not really in charge. Our latest graphic reminder has been the shocking devastation to countries surrounding the Indian Ocean, brought on by the unanticipated tsunami at year’s end. Never really knowing how much of the ride is left, I’d say it’s time to throw up our hands and cheer as the wind hits our cheeks and we whip around the next curve.
Wickham Boyle is a writer who lives in TriBeCa with her wonderful husband and occasionally her two far flung kids. She writes for National Geographic Traveler, MS, Gotham, Downtown Express, Gay City News, New York Magazine, and others. Currently she is finishing her book, Menopause Mambo.
