Lucky Enough

The sun warms my shoulders as the ocean re-charges my gaze as the gregarious Snow White singing birds kerchief my ears as teeming black tea stimulates my soft-focus high school yearbook portrait ala 1970s brain. 

Adjust the lens and it becomes clear, sharp, bursting with vibrant colors and wind-wafting scents. 

I am a guest. 

If you could be here instead of there, you’d see what I mean. My worn turquoise camp chair. My smiley face ceramic whale cup. The bed of mustard yellow flowers patched between dewy Irish green grass. The roaring ocean that sounds like traffic as it crushes the shoreline with a force only God is capable of. The Aaron Copland harmony of Nature and silence. 

I am a guest. 

Sunrise. And it’s warm enough to sit outside in a robe. Think. Not think. Write. Not write. Dive into reading Kristin Hannah’s “The Women” or set it down for another time. Look and look and look, take it all in. Or take a nap. Wipe the canvas clean. No plans. Plans. I could sit in this exact spot all day and be content, at peace, wanting for nothing more than to share this feeling, this place, this sense of tranquility, this belonging, with others. Or just keep it to myself.

Yesterday, my friend Julie and I were having lunch, getting real, laughing, crying, as we always do, when I confessed, I’ve been struggling. I’m here, I’m there. Am I on the right track? Did I make a mistake? Have I screwed up my daughter who feels like she has no place to land when she visits California since I sold the family home two years ago this July? Should I buy a new place? Rent? Keep traveling? 

Good friends rarely tell you what to do. They listen, nod their head, ask questions that may lead you toward the answer you seek. 

A point worth noting: Julie and I L-O-V-E the Lord, having opened our heart to God when we were in elementary school; many of our conversations are grounded by faith, not the preachy, Bible-thumping, let me convert you, faith, but a faith that originates from a place where you know, what you know, what you know, little kid giddy sincerity. We’ve both experienced God in ways that are real and profound. 

Dear Julie, listening to my incessant ping pong ball flurry of where-should-I-be thought-bubble wanderings, patiently lets me ramble on and on and on. She never says, “Let’s pray,” nor does she proclaim Scripture. Again, she just listens in her beautiful Buddha way, trusting that her buddy will eventually figure things out. 

“I am a guest,” I told her, saying out loud a line I wrote in my most recent blog.  

As you get older, this notion becomes an encroaching, theme song reality. It’s sad and it’s glorious. It’s beautiful because of my increasing awareness that I’ve been gifted this precious moment to absorb, reflect upon, and feel grateful. It’s sad because it’s taken me so long to fully embrace, “This isn’t a dress rehearsal,” truism. 

I am a guest.

Being a guest doesn’t mean you are rootless, it means that everything looks, sounds, feels, and tastes provocative, refreshing, sour, extra sweet, strange, and familiar. It’s new, it’s old; sometimes you want to be alone and a few hours later you want to be with people. As a guest, hugs become extra meaningful. 

Now that I’m a professional tourist, I’m acutely aware of legacy and think deeply about what I wish to leave behind, while at the same time craving new adventures and seeking a new path. 

For 67 years I settled, responded, acquiesced to Life’s circumstances. While I always had a clear vision of the life I wanted, Life Happened. I can honestly say that I made the best choice at the worst time and made the worst decisions at—as viewed from today’s vantage point—the best times. 

I was young and now I’m old. Not as old as those grey-haired souls I stood next to in my high school newspaper’s 50 Year Reunion black and white photo. No, I’m not that old because my 50-year reunion isn’t until June and my friend Julie’s two-years-away-from 50^th wedding anniversary celebratory cruise is still in the planning stages. But according to the wrinkles around my eyes and sagging jowls, I’m getting there—old, that is—fast. 

The aging process is interesting—really. It can ignite heightened awareness, i.e., there’s no time to waste, no time to fret about paths taken, only those ahead, as in today, this moment, because anything could happen, and it does, so it matters, everything matters, because the clock is ticking. 

Thus, the metanoia, I am a guest. 

After a good night’s sleep in my cozy apartment-on-wheels, Bonnie Doon, waking up to the sunrise, sitting here with this sweeping ocean view, in the midst of this movie about the twists and turns of a 67-year-old woman who gave up everything only to discover she had everything, here’s what occurred to me: by divesting, I invested in a life that brings clarity even as it continues to churn and sometimes stall.

While the world is bonkers, I elect to feel settled, while not settling, if that makes any sense. I doubt my 17-year-old self would understand, much less listen to this advice; the canvas was far too vast and promising to foresee the twists and turns I’d later face. 

My entire life I wondered, wanted, waited, cajoled, forced, made happen, and now I don’t have to. 

But then, I never did.