I'm always running late... like a decade or two behind.
For instance, my peers have already had their midlife crisis years and years and YEARS ago. I think. I mean they MUST have. But then how can I really know. I haven't seen them for a while. I don't live near them. I don't live in their house.
I am not their best ex friend or their sister that they no longer talk too. A MID life crisis is a thing of consequence. A thing of conscience.
They seem so put together. Like they've got their shit together, their houses clean, all their wooden ducks in a row. Or, then again, maybe they haven't really had that mid life crisis after all. Who can tell these days, right? What with virtual reality and AI and all those face aging apps, and our charming insistence to use our favorite profile pictures from when we were 33 or 23 or just plain 3. Who the hell knows how old anyone is anymore?
The good news is, IF I'm doing the math right, if I'm having a MIDlife crisis NOW this means I am going to live to be 112.
CAVEAT: my husband tells me that it doesn't quite work like that. I mean, I shouldn't take MID life to be something quite so literal. But I am the daughter of medical Evangelical missionaries. I was literally raised to think that language is LITERAL.
I look at him.
GIVE ME A BREAK!
I CAN DO THE MATH.
56 + 56
+ I've got Swedish genes
and Irish genes....
If I don't die of despair or depression or drink myself to death first (not that I drink...)
if I am not struck by lightening
for something I do or say
or didn't do or didn't say
If I'm not RAPTURED first
I'm in for the long haul.
Thankfully, I guess, I've always been a late bloomer.
For instance, it just dawned on me in the last few months that I really should get a job, like, a REAL job. Where you show up every day and work with a team of other people who show up every day and where you receive a benefits plan and a dental plan and LIFE INSURANCE and have a boss.... Hey, I could be retiring by now! Cashing out my 401K and all. SH*T I don't even know what that is.
So far my benefits include meeting extraordinary people, taking naps, listening to birds and cicadas before dawn, watching the sunrise, watching the sunset, searching the sky for manna, not having to go to work every day, working all day, waking up super early, having the house all to myself in the middle of the night, cleaning the house in the middle of the night and still tripping over dishes in the morning....
I really shouldn't be telling my own secrets or anyone else's for that matter.
Which is why I am having a midlife crisis...
I am officially rethinking the whole secret life thing.
The whole gosh darn kit and kaboodle (even my missionary swearing betrays me and THIS is what I would like to officially question WHY am I still afraid that I might be burned at the stake or go to HELL, or not be RAPTURED (good G*d PLEASE don't rapture me), or die a sudden painful death from cancer, or called a wh*re, so still screwing up the courage to talk about THAT. Though it helps that most people who still believe in the rapture are wearing MAGA hats. That's a clear line I can stand on the other side of...MAGA hats are proof of my vindication.)
My husband laughs at me when I get mad. He laughs at me when I swear.
I don't have the gifts or genes to curse like a Cuban, bless you wherever you are my dear Jose O Vilanova.
I could use your fire today.
And if you are afraid to curse, afraid to burn ears, afraid to make someone mad, afraid to pull back the veil, afraid to tell your own damn story because it might impinge or cast shade on someone else, then how do you talk at all?
How do you talk about history? How do you talk about a life lived? YOUR life lived...
How do you go about writing a memoir, for example, except maybe one that serves as a performance piece with a stage filled with falling fluttering white pages.
That could be cathartic.
That could be all I need to say.
White pages. White history. White lies.
I can hear my husband laughing. My mother laughing.
We once had a conversation as my mother was dying from ovarian cancer about how we all dreamed of being the silent type. Holding words close to the chest. Raising the quizzical brow. If you knew my mother, or my husband, or ME for that matter, you know how ridiculous that sounds. Silence is something I dream about.
Silence is something that wraps me up tight like the silken threads of a green cocoon.
MY life lived, YOUR life lived, my father's life, my mother's life, my great grandmother's life, my children's life, my husband's life... How do you tell these stories without betraying yourself or the ones you live close to or the ones you love?
Do you turn to fiction?
Do you turn to farce?
But then, how do you NOT tell these stories. We've listened to the news. We've read history.
Silence is complicity.
Silence is also betrayal.
How do you go about orienting yourself if you can't tell your own story, if you are forbidden to tell your father's story, your mother's story, your son's story, your daughter's story?
Is it just me? Am I the only one that gets squeamish at the idea of speaking truth?
And yes I know, DEAR READER, I am a grown woman.
Half way to 112! I don't need permission to talk.
I can say what I think and then think about what I say, and change my thoughts all around. I can stand on my head and chant limericks if I want to. Who the hell cares.
After all, I am 56 half way to 112.
Lots of lessons learned, a lifetime of lessons still to come. Some of those may be harder, some may be easier. I am hopeful that I will learn faster. That I have learned a thing or two in life about learning a thing or two and actually putting that knowledge to work.
So in the midst of my mid life crisis, I am rethinking the whole truth telling writing life narrative thing. I can feel the weight of my ancestors breathing down my neck. I can hear their Christian voices. The voices of the CHRISTIAN FATHERS...
It gives me chills.
Rethinking my vocation.
Rethinking what it means to be a story teller, a writer, a scholar, a daughter, a mother...
And what I have come to so far is this: maybe I should grow up already.
Maybe I should run away to the circus.
Maybe I should become a belly dancer.
Maybe I should become a priestess.
Maybe I should become a midwife.
Maybe I should become a flame thrower.
Maybe I should become a surgeon.
Maybe I should become a designer.
Maybe I should become an engineer.
Maybe I should become a painter.
Maybe I should become a prophet.
Maybe I should become a poet.
Maybe I should become a comedian.
After all, me and my friends, we're headed to 112!
We have a whole life time left to live.
Happy Monday everyone!
A comment on the College Admissions Counselors FB page reminded me that as we launch into Common App season again, we have the opportunity as international counselors to open up conversations about colonialism and the construction of racism and its different articulations within different countries and continents.
The Common App question asking students to identify their race and ethnicities always befuddles my students here in Ecuador. They are confused by the question since they may never have encountered this question before. For better or worse, Ecuadorian institutions don't ask these questions.
Over the years, I have taken the time to pause on this question and discuss the construction of race and the history of systemic racism—how racial divides have been constructed and imposed through the conquest, colonialism and slavery—with different articulations and systemic expressions on different continents and in different countries. Ecuador’s racial divide focuses on Indigenous Peoples and African Ecuadorians.
That said, students of privilege in Ecuador from upper class families are often shocked to encounter racism when they go to the US as they are lumped into the vitriol against Hispanics and immigrants. Many of my students experience racism directed at them for the first time when they go to the US. Almost all my students tell me after the fact about the different encounters they have with racist comments and ignorant assumptions. They have been verbally attacked for speaking Spanish on the train or in restaurants. One of my students even had an encounter with a racist older man in the South that went viral.
This isn't new. When I first went to the states to study in the western suburbs of Chicago in the mid 1980's I was shocked to see Hispanic friends smeared by racist comments both by students and professors. No one ever made a comment to me, even though I am Ecuadorian because I am of Swedish Irish English descent and pass as White American.
So, back to the Common App and the opportunity it provides to open up conversations around racism and prepare students for different social landscapes where they may encounter racism directed against them for the first time.
For many of my students, the conversation, and their encounters with the unfamiliar US, UK, or European racial landscape helps open their eyes to the way that THEY hold racial power in their positions of privilege in Ecuador.
Back around the time of the Charlottesville march there was a news story about a group of Colombian kids who identified as white supremacists and went to Europe to participate in a sponsored white supremacist event where they were attacked and badly beaten because they were not white.
All to say, the Common App questions can be shocking or puzzling to non US students and it provides an opportunity for us as counselors to talk about the history of racial oppression, the systemic construction of racism and how that shapes educational systems as well as to prepare our students to participate and navigate these important discussions of racial justice--both at home and abroad.
Sometimes the most obvious insight takes years to see.
All my life I have worked hard to learn how to read the body and read the land. To read my life and the lives of those circling around me.
Narratives, after all, are what sustain us, propel us. They are the flicker of flame that allows us to see, even barely, into the shifting shadows. They are the skeleton that reveals the shape of a life lived in the air, on the land, in the underground river, or in the volcano vents at the bottom of the warming sea.
Narratives are lifelines that we cast ahead of us.
Narratives are anchors that ground us.
Narratives are phosphorescent remnants that shimmer within sight of our descendants, filaments of stories that we leave behind.
I have been thinking about dying. I imagine others have been thinking the same. After all, we have passed 500 days of the global pandemic with over 4.24 million dead.
I know people who have died. I imagine you do too.
Some at a distance. Others, beloved.
Some from COVID.
Some in accidents.
Some through long illness.
Some pulled out in the riptide.
And then the others, holding on. Holding on. Resisting.
When I say I have been thinking of dying, I don't just mean I have listened every night to the tally of the dead. But rather, I have been thinking about living and the shape of a life, the shape of my life.
How to begin my day.
How to end my day.
How to end my days.
What is it that I want to accomplish?
What is it that I want to do?
Who are the people I want to be with?
Whose voices do I want to hear?
Who are MY 7 starlings? Who are those 7 birds that I must follow as I swoop with the flock at sunset? As we clear the ground of predators? As we settle in for the night?
Who should I follow in this vast murmuration that is our collective life?
A flock of starlings flies near Tarragona, Spain. Photograph by Tony Marshall in The Atlantic. For more images of murmurations from this series check out this lovely article.
So this is the insight that came to me this morning. So obvious, but I am apparently still learning to understand the world with a flickering flame in my hand in the midst of shifting shadows.
In dying, there is a lesson.
The reason why we leave this world naked and empty handed, is simply because in life we must share all of the gifts the Creator has so generously handed to us, so that when we die we have nothing left to give.
Nothing left to return.
Grateful for a WhatsApp message received after midnight from a former student simply expressing gratitude for the support I offered years ago. That simple message of thanks brightened my spirit, inspired my heart, providing strength for the journey ahead.
We live, love, breathe, create, play, and work in a world of relations.
We are impossibly born, living products of billions of connections formed through attraction and reaction across space and time.
We are alive today because of the relations our ancestors maintained with the world.
And because we have survived, our knowledge, our gifts and experience are critical to this next step that we are taking as a living community, as a species, as a planet.
Our gifts have helped us survive this far. And now we must join together, collectively and use our gifts strategically, to live collaboratively and step back into relation with this living, breathing, spinning world.
My health. Your health. The health and well-being of our living loved ones and our loved ones to come depends on it. The health and well-being of this planet depends on it.
Take time today to thank those behind you, those ahead of you, those below you, those above you, those beside you--those who have accompanied you all along the way.
Take time to thank this time, this place that has received you.
Our spirits are fed through gratitude. Thank someone around you. Out loud. Write a letter. Send a message. A WhatsApp. Call.
Reach out and affirm and nourish your relations.
Gratitude warms the heart.
Strengthens the spirit.
Nourishes the soul.
Gratitude is the fiber that weaves together our world of relations.
As I write this, the faces of my loved ones, of my family, my friends, my teachers, my mentors, my students, and colleagues, my clients, my bosses, my ancestors, the beloved plants and beloved animals, beloved trees and beaches, beloved rivers and mountains, beloved hot springs, lakes, and water falls, beloved stars--and even my enemies--all these faces flash across my mind.
I am grateful.
I am grateful for you.
The man wearing a hard hat oversees the construction. He is building a house. He is building a strip mall. He is building a road. He is building a development. He is building a dam. He is running for president and favored to win. He has felled trees, burned crops and begun to bulldoze the land. Already they have asphalted roads from the highest mountain peaks to the deepest parts of the jungle. Now he and his many workers lay a huge white cement foundation across the green golden fields.
He has chosen the very field that holds the face of the land. The concrete slab completely covers and blocks the field. The cement seeps into the land’s eyes, her mouth, her nose, and ears.
The girl wants to peel back the cement to let the field breathe. It isn’t possible.
In the dream she turns to curse the man and his workers. She warns them of volcanic eruptions and earthquakes. She tells them that the land will break through the concrete. The land will open her mouth and swallow them whole.
You wake with desperation. Across the valley below, the buildings stretch out across the body of the land in a white sea of concrete. As a child, the green skirts of the mountain flowed in an expanse of pastures, cornfields, Eucalyptus forests--dramatically altered landscapes, but still green. Now there is no end to the cement sea. You have watched this psoriasis spread since childhood--the slow creep of urban progress, the slow creep of disease. The earth shudders beneath you.
As a child, in the Amazon, the forest pushed up against the town. You would play at the edges of the clearing and feel the forest breathe. Now the stripped hills roll back beyond the horizon. Most of the forest, clear cut for the cheap wood required to make crates for naranjilla, delicious pesticide-soaked fruit.
In 2000 you take the time to ask and people tell you that loggers pay $300 USD to clear cut 10 hectares of land. In 2000, Ecuador’s deforestation rate is the highest rate in South America. The official logging rate in the Amazon recorded in deforestation journals is $1000 USD per hectare. Not here. 10 hectares cleared for a month worth of wages. $30 per hectare. Since 2000, Ecuador has lost 1,149,000 hectares of forest.
Desperate to communicate the profound impact of this loss, conservationists contextualize it for the obsessive American mind. “Ecuador loses an average of 110 football fields a day,” they write. But a football pitch, roughly half the size of a hectare, has nothing to do with the magnitude of this loss.
A 2010 study published in PloS One, estimates that the Yasuni rainforest harbors over 655 different species of trees per hectare, over 596 species of birds, 4,000 species of plants, and over 200 species of mammals.
We are not losing sports fields. We are losing wild and extraordinary lives.