Once In A Lifetime

I am very struck at the moment by the terrible inevitability of aging. There is probably no way to say something new on this subject. Yet it seems to be all my thoughts circle around, return to again and again like birds. The passing of time. All the people who have already gone, and those who are beginning to steer in that direction. And my own surprising collection of years - it is always surprising, as each year passes, yet the more years in the collection the greater the surprise, or so it seems. The surprise now is realising how much of it is already over, this life of mine. How little of it has been anything like I expected (what did I expect?) How little idea I have what to expect now.

My nephew at 23, with his life ahead of him (as they say), with big dreams but not much apparent sense of direction (not apparent to me, but he has always played his cards close to his chest), reminds me of the time in my own life when time didn't seem to be an issue. There was plenty of time to find out what I wanted to do, plenty of time to do it, plenty of time to find love, work, a way to be creative. Now approaching the end of the fifth decade, there is clearly more behind than ahead, and it seems infinitely more important I should know what I want, and have some idea how to go about finding it, doing it, being it. All I've been putting energy into for the last 18 months is finding work, discovering how to become self-supporting again. That has been my one and only goal, dimly accompanied by a hope that maybe I'd be happier than this eventually. And now I have work, albeit not enough work, but I am more or less paying my way again, more or less standing on my own two feet. More rather than less. And hope ('the thing with feathers') has begun to fly again - the hope that I can not just survive, but even thrive. And so, in true Maslovian style I am once again able to consider my higher needs (!)

I want to feel as if I've learned something, as if I can contribute to the world both personally and professionally. I want to be able to feel better than I did when I was younger. I want to feel less anxious, less insecure, less haunted by ghosts, less troubled about how others see me, freer to experiment. I want to feel excited and be able to bring my excitement to my relationships, my creativity, my way of being in this weird (let the word serve) world. I want to let go of all the crippling fear and self-doubt that have held me back, and believe in what I am capable of. As a partner, friend, poet, as a therapist, maybe even as a teacher...

Nostalgia and longing are breaking over me like waves. Longing for some other time, when it seems to me life was more intense, when everything was full of meaning, of immanence. If I trace this I think it comes down to an association with other people in whom I experienced qualities of passion, intensity, and in whose presence I could discover more of these qualities in myself. Meaning after all is a participle, not just a gerund. You have to participate. Our meaning is our doing, is our intention, is how we live. You can't look for meaning outside yourself, though other people may inspire or mirror - you have to mean it.