BY LUANNE ARMSTRONG
What are we doing here? How should we be living? What should we do with our lives? How do we make them meaningful and what can we leave as a legacy for our grandkids? These are really big questions, I know. My friend Sam and I have been chewing on these kinds of tough issues over lunch or tea or during long walks for something like forty years, and while we haven’t figured much out, we have had a great time trying.
But now, as we hit our elder years, these questions have a new dimension because we just don’t have that much time left to make it all meaningful.
It used to be that mostly external circumstances were what gave my life meaning and importance. Now, although I am still very grateful to be a writer and a writing mentor, I struggle a bit with ensuring that my life has some depth to it. Being a writer means I always have something to work at that allows me to think that my work still matters, that I have something to do that keeps me thinking and involved in the world. But knowing I only have a bit of time left to accomplish the many things I want to do, without the energy to do much every day, is a bit of a paradox.
So life feels a bit thin somedays. When I was a single parent with four young kids, I never had time to worry about why I was getting out of bed every day. When I was working, studying, writing, and parenting all at the same time, I knew why I was doing things. I just didn’t ever know how I would get it all done. Somehow I did.
Time is an interesting concept. The way we perceive it shifts and changes all the time. Now, for me, some painful days can drag on endlessly – and some days rush like a flooded river. Pain and physical strength can certainly twist a sense of time; pain can compress time into moments, or it can make days drag by like slugs. Being with friends, grandchildren, family, makes time almost disappear altogether, gives pain a temporary boot, and turns up the dial on the meaning of life. Surely, I think then, that is why I am here, to be surrounded by these people with whom I am so deeply connected. But everyone is so busy these days. Soon, the dinner is over, the dishes done, the toys packed away, and the family gone. Then there is just me, the dog, the white cat and the ghosts. And books, and long walks and my garden. My life is fairly full and contented.
But no question, there are days when I miss the way I flew around from one thing to the next; when I dragged myself out of the computer at midnight and scrambled out of bed the next morning, into the shower, dressed and then gathered a hundred things to get ready to run for the bus to UBC. I miss the days of deep conversation in the university hallways, the exhilaration of teaching.
What I don’t miss is the endless scrambling to make it all work financially, which it never did. I was always desperate for a few more dollars, another class to teach, another grant to write. Then I would hold my breath waiting for to see if I had gotten it. I was always waiting for money – it was always a distant future possibility. Living as a writer and part time teacher meant living on hope more than actual real money.
No, that I don’t miss. Ironically, now that I have more time to write I have less energy and far less ambition. Once it meant something to me to get publishd, to get credits, to make my CV longer, to boost my reputation.
Now, while I do find it gratifying to be published, I rarely try hard for it. I used to send out a blizzard of poems and stories every week. Now I send something if I am asked and I am content with that.
My life no longer has work or deadlines or even parameters – no one cares if I sleep in or go to bed late – I have to figure out for myself what is meaningful and what I still want to do. What am I passionate about? And how can I be of help in this world? Or can I? There is a lot of loneliness buried in these questions. We don’t live in a society where elder people are seen to have wisdom or something to offer, even if they aren’t going to meetings or declaiming their opinions on street corners. I don’t want to be the elder droning about the good old days, and I think this new generation of my grandchildren and their friends are just amazing, kind, smart, generous. But they are very busy too and while I feel I have a lot to tell them, they are often not here to listen.
Plus, the reality of living with chronic pain is that yes, I can push myself do things, and later, my body will pay me back in pain. But I still care about the world and what is happening to it. I watch in fear and a kind of desperate interest for the sake of my children and grandchildren.
I study and write about history in order to try hard to understand how our world got into such a mess. I haven’t come to any conclusions yet. And I am still thinking daily about those many far too big questions. Perhaps it is time for another long lunch with Sam.