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?

Silence and simplicity

 

Such a lovely evening last night. I thought it would be colder than it was, so I made a pot of chili. A good friend came to share it—plenty left over for tonight. She is the kind of friend who lets me dump about what’s on my mind, from personal problems I know won’t travel any farther to the political thoughts—and outrage today about the Texas abortion case—that we both share. She brought the gorgeous poinsettia above. I’ve never seen one like it and am particularly fascinated by the one white leaf with the red splotch in the middle.

But late last night, when all was still, Sophie was asleep in her crate by my desk (her favorite place) and I could hear her gently breathing, the Christmas lights still on, I sat with a glass of wine reading the Truman book that has me so interested. And I thought to myself it was one of life’s rare moments of real contentment.

I haven’t been writing lately, except blogs and business letters to take care of all kinds of loose financial ends, but it occurred to me this morning that I was being lazy, and I really should get back to the work-in-progress, another Irene episode. Just when I was scolding myself for slacking off, I went to virtual church, and our minister, Russ Peterman, preached about silence and simplicity and how we get so frantic at this holiday season that we miss the real meaning of whatever holiday we celebrate. We need, he said, to create space in our lives to pause and take a breath, space for stillness. And I thought, “Wow! That’s what I’ve been doing. It’s okay.”

I had originally thought, when I backed off from keeping a compulsive schedule, that I’d pick things back up after the holidays. Now I’m back to that thought. My family will all be together—between fifteen and eighteen of us—and there are things I need to do, lists I need to make. But there are also a world of things I want to read, including that Truman book, and now I feel at ease to do them. This morning I slept late, really late, and about the only thing I did that might be called constructive was to make a batch of chutney, which is not turning out as it should. Otherwise, I’m reheating the chili and going to spend the evening with good old Harry.

This may be the new me. But so far, I’m liking it. Have you taken time to create a space in you life?

A short meditation on being a stay-at-home.

 

I go days, even weeks these day without leaving my own property. It’s not a problem, and I am perfectly happy. I am fortunate to have family just a hundred feet away, a loving dog for companionship (and nagging, demanding behavior), and many friends who come for happy hour or a light supper. I am also happy with my own company, have plenty to keep me occupied, and sometimes find myself longing for a bit of solitude. So all that is of my own design and is a good thing.

Still, I find I miss restaurant dinners. I keep up with reviews and announcements of new restaurants, I drool over menus, I crave the sociability and atmosphere (though I often find the food at home is better), and I should probably make a list. Tonight I went out to dinner with three friends who try to dine together more than occasionally. We went to a new restaurant (in a jinxed location) that I had suggested, and it was a medium success. I had sliders and Caesar salad—sliders were good, not great, a bit dry, but the Caesar salad was terrific. Not tossed like most salads, but served the way Caesar was originally meant to be—individual romaine leaves loaded with dressing and grated Parmesan. Two of my friends had had pasta alla carbonara and enjoyed it thoroughly. But, alas, the fourth had eggplant parmigiana which looked to be a small if artful serving. She reported however that the dish was too salty and the eggplant tough. You have to work hard to make eggplant tough. At our urging, she told our waitperson, but nothing ever happened. I would think they would have sent out a manager to apologize, comp the meal, etc. but nada. That doesn’t mean we’ll write the restaurant off, but none of us will order eggplant again.

But what I learned, just for me, is that going out so changes my thinking so that I spend the whole day in anticipation. Not anxious, none of that stuff, just a different sense that I am going out that evening, and I am waiting for it to happen. With the result that I don’t get as much done in a day. I don’t buckle down to any serious, big work, because, you know, “I’m going out to dinner.” All that means, of course, is that I should go out more often, but I find when the opportunity arises, I often say, “Oh, just let me cook.” And that’s partly because I do enjoy cooking and feeding friends and family, but also partly because I don’t want to gear myself up to go out.

That of course leads me into a bit of guilt or angst or a case of the “shoulds.” I really must get over that, I tell myself. I must make more of an effort to get out. But then another voice in my head asks, “Why?” It’s not as though I am miserable and lonely. In fact, I have plenty of company, and I am in many ways more content than I have ever been in my life.

This is one of life’s dilemmas—granted not a major one—where I guess the answer is in the middle of the road. So I’ll continue to go out occasionally and to enjoy folks in my cottage more often.

Sigh. Tomorrow, I have to go out for medical appointments. Now that’s a whole different thing!