Living your best life

 

My children--perhaps the biggest reason I'm so content these days.

Texas weather did it again! For two days we got dire warnings of severe storms, hail, and a slight chance of tornadoes. We got not a drop of rain. Nothing. I thought once in the night I heard the distant rumble of thunder, but I can’t be sure. They always say if you don’t like Texas weather, wait a minute. But the other thing is that the more frightening the warning, the less likely we’ll really have bad weather. But you’d be foolish to count on that because when you did would be the one time we really did get that storm or whatever. Jordan tells me the storms were south of us. But now we’re anticipating a low Monday of nine degrees, and I’m afraid my cozy cottage won’t be so cozy. The outdoor faucets are all covered, and a space heater is in the closet. Fortunately, this is to be a short if severe cold spell. We’ll see.

Last night I had a late-night conversation with my youngest son, Jamie. He had a birthday yesterday—good golly, how did he get this old?—and I called to wish him a happy day, even if it was the tag end of the day. When I asked about Eden, his daughter still in college, he said, “She’s living her best life.” The phrase struck me, although I know it’s a common one these days. But she’s only twenty—does that mean she’ll never again have as good a life as she’s having now? I hope not. And then I got to wondering what your best life is, though of course it varies for each of us. For Eden, it’s college, sorority life, some dating, but a real dedication to her studies, with her eyes set on graduate school in the future. Is your best life happiness or contentment?  The two are very different.

Then, of course, because I can be quite self-centered, I got to thinking about myself. I’ve always thought of my thirties as the happiest years of my life, the age I would return to if I had a genie in a bottle. My babies were young; my marriage was, I thought, happy; I was a bit frustrated professionally, but I was so wrapped up in being wife and mother, I didn’t really worry about it. There were tensions of course, prime among them that I was blissfully unaware that early in my forties, the man who had promised to love and cherish me would leave me to raise four children alone (it’s another story, but one that worked out very well). So I was happy, but I wouldn’t say I was content. It was like there was an itch inside me that I couldn’t scratch, a premonition that something less joyful was coming.

Now, well into my eighties, I think I am more content than I have ever been. I don’t feel the desperate need to produce two or three books a year—perhaps whatever I have done has to stand for my career. These days I still have projects, still consider myself a writer, but I am not driven as I once was. I have a comfortable, safe home with plenty in the refrigerator and on the dinner table. I am surrounded (and coddled) by loving children and grandchildren. As someone who's fought anxiety most of my life, I now don't have to do many of the things that make me anxious (okay, there was that rough parking lot at a doctor's office today but Christian saw me through it). I have good friends that I see often, a church where I find spiritual comfort (even when I only attend remotely), and a dog that I love—I think she returns that love, though with Soph one can never tell what’s in that mischievous little brain. Am I happy? Perhaps not in the joyful sense of the era of new babies, but yes, I’m happy. One lesson I’ve learned—and work hard at remembering—is not to bemoan the things I didn’t get to do, didn’t have, but to treasure the memories of all I did do—travels in many states and once to Scotland, a sentimental visit to Chicago with my grown kids, a high profile in some professional  writing organizations, lots of parties in my home and elsewhere, countless restaurant dinners that helped turn me into a foodie. I will probably never get to go back to Scotland, never take that cross-country railroad trip that Jamie wants me to take, never again be the belle of the ball (was I ever?), never have a best-seller book on Amazon or the New York Times,  but there are so many good things I have.

Your best life differs for each of us. In a way I think it’s fitting that you live that fairly young. If you’re lucky, you can carry it through several decades. But I suspect there’s growth in there, a spiritual growth from great joy to contentment. I don’t consider myself a spiritual person (and I separate that distinctly from religious), but I do believe in growth of the spirit as we age. And with that growth, maybe, comes some bitter knowledge about life that nudges us from the joy of our best life to the contentment of age.

Or maybe I just had an extra glass of wine wth my dinner tonight. How do you feel about living your best life? Or the Texas weather?