You tell yourself you are adventurous and spontaneous and then you realize: you are not the same as you once were and it isn’t only the reflection in the mirror that confirms it or the gradually slowing speed with which you move through the day’s tasks. You find a quiet moment and in a heart-to-heart with yourself you admit it has been years – years since you embarked on a destination that was unfamiliar, years since you tucked away excuses, years since worry of some sort didn’t deter you, years that overflow into what seems like a lifetime since you stepped willingly into the unknown.
With enthusiasm. With anticipation.
Instead, even in the daylight that welcomes you there is the nagging truth: what is small and unfamiliar possesses surprisingly insistent teeth. You are chewed up and frightened and just another casualty of life’s consumption hidden behind responsibility or necessity or convention, and time is passing with its duplicitous erosion of strength and hopefulness and worse – the ability to visualize something shinier, something shapelier, or simply something different.
The unfamiliar.
You say the word. You admit to the word. You spell it out, consciously. You are trained in its righteousness and know it holds the upper hand. Fear. Fear that stalks even the tiniest moments of unruffled routine – brushing your teeth, opening the mailbox, the sound of the door closing when your child – no longer a child – heads out for his adventures, his unknown, his embrace of whatever comes and it echoes a self that you once held so close to your center that you could never have imagined that it would desert you.
And yet it has.
These are the lessons of spaciousness and expansion that are now his lessons in the making: the assumptions of youth, the advantages of inexperience.
Still, your nights fill with the urban centers and verdant landscapes you once envisioned wandering. You brave the streets that are virginal and you know it to be temporary, the train platform that bustles with faces and aromas you cannot recognize, the pocket dictionary solid in your hand, the foreign bills crisply folded in your wallet, the sleep you will find easily even in disorientation – a new bed, a new city, a new country, a new life.
Yet in your waking you know your terrain: you have closed the doors and circled the wagons against the usual onslaught that is the tedium of surviving and the nurturing of ordinary joys. The Great Unknown has yielded to moments that are smaller in stature but no less pressing – other unknowns have presented with their own impressive heft. You are older and feel the weight of the years in your marrow and your breathing, in your focus on the welfare of others, in your narrowing ambitions, your weakening confidence. You are older and your attachments release the thundering heart of Big Dreams and tighten instead around what is precious: the child’s safety, the intimacy of a well-worn friendship.
You wonder if your capacity to venture beyond borders has abandoned you in permanence. You wonder if fearlessness can be enticed to make an encore appearance. You wonder if it is only when you are young that all dreams seem possible, and the unknown is just one more step into your future.
You wonder if your future is yours to create as much now as it was yesterday, if your future in its reluctant abdication remains more hardy than you realize. You ask yourself if it can be dusted off and polished, if setting aside the best possible pieces of yourself under the guise of aging and acceptance is only so much propaganda, if perhaps you needn’t stow the passport for good, if the blank verse that depicts facades and signs will eventually crystallize with words that sing, with bright patterns of familiarity, with more than illusion, more than dreaming, more than a reflective page.
You spin the globe that once belonged to your child and you have not forgotten as much as you think and you take note: these are the colors of visits long imagined, and the desire to explore has not disintegrated over the years despite the weight in your limbs or the gray mapping of another face that greets you in the mirror – not the face of the young girl, not the face of the young woman – but with traces of mischief and curiosity – and not altogether unknown.
© D A Wolf
It’s hard, the morning you wake up and realize that the days of endless possibilities are behind you. Yet, I think that desire to seek out the new, the unfamiliar, is why some people start traveling in the second half of life. For me, travel brings that thrill of the new and discovery. It’s energized me, and provided a vision of life beyond the daily routine of work and caregiving.
Never too old to step into the unknown, albeit very cautiously and with eyes wide open, having taken reasonable precautions before departing. Maybe with a little over-planning and a great deal of study of the your destination. Nonetheless, it can be done!
“You are older and your attachments release the thundering heart of Big Dreams and tighten instead around what is precious: the child’s safety, the intimacy of a well-worn friendship.”
I think this is the core of it: We know what we stand to lose. My fearlessness and wild youth never once took into account how easily it could all disappear. I know now, even when I try to forget, that a single mistake could be devastating.
My first thoughts were like Kelly’s – so much more to lose. I’ve always had fears and tethers, but nothing like the ones that came along with parenthood. I wish the fragility struck me only occasionally; instead, it’s a rare delight that my imagination gets far enough ahead of the worries and excuses that I can dream for a little while in the way I used to.
@Leslie – Like you and Kelly, I recognize that when I became a parent, I was suddenly aware of how important my presence was to two little people. When I became a single/solo parent – that became even more the case. Some of us do err on the side of caution, at least in part because of our parental responsibilities.
I do wonder if we can regain some sense of the carefree, when our primary parenting duties are lessened.
When you are young, you are not responsible for anybody else so it is definitely the circumstances that have changed, not necessarily the person. Travel is a good way to keep that spirit alive, responsibilities are shed for a little while, the thrill of exploration, and new memories of serendipitous events.
If only there was a way to meld the romantic with the pragmatist. I think that only happens in novels, not real life.
The romantic with the pragmatist. Yes, that would be lovely, wouldn’t it, Cathy.
Wow–what a beautifully written post–such an eloquent descriptor of fear. Fear is so subtle, and sneaky–it is something that appears over time. As a parent I think vigilance and letting go of some of your own ‘adventure’ for the practicality of your children is a gift to them. But as with anything we need a little balance–not letting your kids see your old sense of adventure and excitement doesn’t serve them either. Give yourself some slack–awareness of the fear is the first way to kick it to the curb–let that mischievous smile out more 😉
Somehow, this piece reminded me of Steve Almond’s article in Salon on why he likes paying taxes. Here’s part of what he says:
“Children, It Turns Out, Are Extremely Fragile. This hadn’t occurred to me until I had two of my own. I now spend a lot of time worrying about stuff that I never used to worry about. Such as: the quality of my drinking water and food and local public schools and parks and playgrounds and roads.”
Sort of reminds me of Monty Python–Yes, but apart from that, exactly what has having children done for us?
I hope this makes sense.
Not only are children fragile (though they may not realize it) – I think we come to understand, with parenthood, how much they depend on us – and our appearance of strength, or at the very least, the consistency of our presence. The result? Some of us are less adventurous, in order to keep the world more stable for them.
I love this piece. So raw, so vulnerable.
For years I slowly surrendered (tiny thing by tiny thing) to my fears. Then I woke up and saw how empty my life had become. How frozen. Tiny thing by tiny thing I am waking myself back up. Yes, it’s a little frightening, but it doesn’t scare me as much as living a hollow life. It’s a choice every day. I’m scared out of my pants, but fear is remarkably enlivening.