Grab The Brass Ring

Years ago I sat in the office of an older, wiser friend who quietly listened as I debated aloud with myself the merits and shortcomings of returning to graduate school. The one year I had intended to take off between college and a master’s program had widened into six.

I struggled with the idea of being older than my fellow students, of wasting time and money on a program that might ultimately not be right for me. Mostly, I struggled with fear.

“I’ll be 30 when I finish,” I wailed, as if that alone should be reason enough to toss in the towel. As if, at that advanced age, I should have either already become what I’d dreamed of becoming or stopped dreaming altogether.

My friend looked at me, shrugged, and with a wry smile said, “Honey, you’ll be 30 anyway.”

Of course, she was right. The question was, what else would I become by then?

There are lots of reasons for putting off the getting on with our lives. And the idea that at some point in time we finally arrive at a fixed state is just a leftover notion from childhood. When our eyes are at kneecap level with the people in charge, we tend to think that being grown up means being finished, being as big or tall or smart as we’ll ever be.

A friend of mine has a niece in her early 20s. She wants to go to Europe, to have an adventure. But she wonders if she can do it alone, worries about meeting people, questions how she’ll get by. Mostly, she struggles with fear.

“I want to tell her to go,” says my friend. “I want to tell her to run, not walk, toward adventure. I want to tell her to run for her own life.”

It’s not bad advice, especially in this month that’s traditionally brimming with resolutions. Instead of approaching life goals from a sense of deprivation — no sugar, no salt, no sunshine — why not approach it from a longing for fullness? Instead of getting smaller waistlines and tighter budgets, why not aim for bigger spirits and braver road trips?

Ten years ago, one of my best friends was a priest. He was pretty good at it - teaching, preaching - but he was miserable doing it. Then nearly 40, he wanted a more ordinary, less lonely, life. He dreamed of a lifetime partner; he started with a dog.

At first, the little mutt, Annie, was more than he could handle, so full of needs and enthusiasms.

“She wants to go for a walk every day!” he’d lament, amazed that Annie could not just once and for all be done with that, be finally finished with walking. But no, every day she wagged her tail at life and paced at the door waiting to greet it. Eventually, so did my friend.

Today, he’s happily married, teaching college, buying a farmhouse in Pennsylvania. And he just signed a book deal with Random House. His subject? The memoirs of a former priest.

Funny how the feast of today is often born from yesterday’s famine, how our freshest joy begins by facing our oldest fear. All it takes is good timing, patience, luck and a bushel of courage. That’s all. And it’s only too late if we never start.

My mother will be 80 in April. She moves slower these days, with the hesitant, deliberate steps of a toddler. But the point is, she still moves. And whenever I, her reluctantly middle-aged daughter, whine to her about something seeming impossibly out of my reach, she says, “Sweetie, you’ll look back at these days and marvel at how young you were, how strong. If you want to do something, do it now.”

Fortunately, she’s not without her own mentor. At the assisted living center where my mother lives, there’s a man who walks every day, rain or shine.

“He’s old,” laughs my mom. And she’s right. He’s 97. Sometimes it takes him more than an hour just to get down the corridor and out into the courtyard. He goes anyway.

Today I watch the two of them shuffle along, steadying themselves on strategically placed benches or stopping to admire some stepping stones. They pause, regain their balance, refresh their strength and continue.

This is their version of Europe, their own graduate school. They have made their New Year’s resolutions and intend to keep them. In the thick soles of their orthopedic shoes, they will run for their own lives.