I was having lunch with a group of co-workers yesterday at Crystal Bridges. We all sat at a long table in the dining bridge, surrounded by happy museum visitors and the nice, busy, homey sound of clinking dishware and distant conversation. The museum had been open for four days. And there we were, in the middle of it. It had happened and it was all going along merrily and now we were in the New Normal: the museum as Public Property. No more super-secret works of art, no more mystery. There was something so strange about sitting there, surrounded by the public, in a place where it had always been Just Us. And someone said something about how amazing it had been to be there for the beginning. "If this was the coolest gig I'll ever have, at 41, I think I'm okay with that," she said. It made me think.
I've been sort of casting about these past few years, trying to find out what the next "rest of my life" will be, and not, frankly, being all that happy with what it's been so far. But if I look back on my life, really, I have nothing to complain about.
If you think about what you wanted to be as a child, as some measure of how your life turned out: well, I wanted to be a veterinarian, a writer, or an actor. And really, in some measure, I've done them all. I've worked as a vet tech, even assisting in the treatment of big cats. I've helped deliver baby snow leopards by c-section. I got to do that. I've also volunteered at the wildlife rehabilitation center and fed the baby birds, got my knees licked by curious fawns, and held the fat-bellied baby opossums.
I've worked at some pretty amazing places. I have met artists, writers, musicians and performers from all over the country during my time with the Oklahoma Arts Institute. And met some truly gifted kids, as well. Then I spent nearly 12 years in a wonderful natural history museum: learning about everything from dinosaurs to fish. I've learned and written about all of it. Now I've been present for the birth of a major art museum in a beautiful location. Science, art, science, art again. Who gets to do stuff like that? And how could I really feel as if I've somehow failed?
I've shimmied through a crack in a cave to see the bones of a prehistoric bear lying right where it died 15,000 years ago. I was photographed nude standing at the base of the praying hands at Oral Roberts University. I rode a speedboat around the Italian Cote d'Azur and hung out with traveling circus performers in France. It really hasn't been that shabby.
Perhaps more importantly, I've lead a charmed life. My parents, who love one another dearly, have weathered nearly 48 years together. I've not lost anyone close to me to illness or accident before their time. I'm healthy and reasonably fit myself. I have a son who is so full of love and joy that he is like a shining jewel in the eye of the world. And he loves me as much as I love him. He believes in me.
I'm damned lucky, is what I am. And if I feel as if I haven't done anything with my life because things have taken a small unexpected turn, I'm just pathetic. I'm lucky to have been there, for all of it. For any of it.
Yet I'm still putzing around Dante's woods, feeling as if I've somehow come untethered. The straight up fact is that I have yet to find my feet after my divorce. It's ridiculous and embarrassing, but I still feel as if something has been taken from me and I'm not complete without it. Not HIM, god no... just my sense of What Comes Next. Of what my life means and where it's going.
I had hoped the move to a new place would jump start me somewhat, but it has not. It has been an incredibly beneficial move for my son, and for my lifestyle, due to the lower cost of living overall here. G is much happier here: so much so that it makes the move completely worth it, regardless of where my own heart lies. He is surrounded by friends, and rattles off their names and what they did together at school every day. It lightens my heart to hear and see him so happy.
But my heart is heavy. Something is still missing, and I am trying very hard not to give up on watching for it. I am reminded of a party we had for G at Halloween. We got the invites out late, but we had high hopes, and made tons of food and decorated the house and everything... but only the kids next door came, the ones who come by every day. None of his new friends from school. He kept going back to the door for over an hour, watching for them. Finally, a time came when I knew they weren't coming. And I saw him reach that point, as well.... But unlike me, he wouldn't give in to it. He kept watching for them. He didn't want to give up hope, or at least the appearance of hope. That's about where I am now: standing at the door, watching for guests who I strongly suspect aren't coming to my party.
Wow. Is that pitiful, or what? Don't worry, I recognize it. I'm not wallowing in it. I'm trying to put on a stiff upper lip and all, like G did. But even he gave up eventually and curled up on the sofa to watch The Nightmare Before Christmas with me. He ran a fever that night, too... as if the disappointment he wouldn't express just had to find a way out of him.
I guess I need to find a way to work off my disappointment at life, so I can pick up where I am and start having fun again. Nobody's coming to the party... but hey, there's lots and lots of food leftover!
One of the best things I do when I'm low is try to find something to laugh about and to share it with someone. Usually I laugh at myself. If I can't do that, it's also good to find someone in a similar situation who is able to laugh at herself. So I direct you to a wonderful entry on Hyperbole and a Half, all about the pitifulness of depression, which ironically cheered me up somewhat... and made me think maybe there was hope. I'm not up to making a funny just now, but I'll let Hyperbole do it for me.
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