What happens after we die? Is there an afterlife? As endlessly fascinating as I find these questions, the answer doesn’t really matter. In particular, it doesn’t really matter whether we are reincarnated or reborn in some manner, or whether we did live a different life at some point in the past. Obviously, the important thing is to live as well as possible in the present moment. More on that in a bit. What if I am the reincarnation of someone who lived a terrible life and died in a horrible manner? It would be hard to imagine how remembering or becoming aware of any of that could improve my current life in some way. I still have to do my best to be a good person and live a good life this time around, whether I was the villain or the victim. Bad experiences in the past don’t let me off the hook in the present. That’s true whether we’re talking about stuff in the 1980s or the 980s. There is plenty in one lifetime to process. We have plenty to learn about forgiveness and healing in the present day. What if I am instead the reincarnation of someone illustrious and famous? That just sounds like a moral hazard waiting to happen. Going by the numbers, most people (i.e. possible soul-lifetimes) either died before the age of 7 or lived lives of total obscurity. The chances that I was ever anyone famous – famous then and famous now – are vanishingly small. But if I was, say, Cleopatra* or Florence Nightingale, there are two major hazards for 21st Century Me. I can’t go around resting on past accomplishments or expecting special treatment. Just like the only workout that counts is the one I did within the last 48 hours, the only reputation that matters is the one I’m building today. The other problem is that, if I was incredibly famous in a past life – famous in a good way – I should be doing something even more awesome than that in this lifetime. If that was my foundation, I’m not doing all that much with it… What if I die in this lifetime and I’m reborn at some time in the future? So what? Presumably I won’t remember anything from this time around. I won’t have the same biography or the same social network. The only thing I would have to go on is whatever spiritual lessons I was able to learn and make permanent. Are there separate degree programs depending on whether we live one lifetime or many? I doubt it. It seems to me that what makes a good life is likely the same either way. Love thy neighbor. We have to try to learn to love others. The harder we have to work, the more points we get. We have to find a way to stop judging and blaming and comparing and just love. We have to learn to be aware of the outward ripples of our thoughts and speech and actions, and be considerate of the impact we have on others. Live the best life possible. The world is here for us to experience and appreciate. We have to learn how to stop worrying and distracting ourselves and chasing material goodies, and just be. Express the spark. Each of us has something special to give, and just a brief window of opportunity to get it out and share it with the world. Whatever it is that we’re here to contribute, it’s our job to put it out there and squeeze out every drop of creative output that we can. Make the world a better place. What legacy do we leave when we’re gone? A patch of garden? An image of true friendship? An inspiration of courage or loyalty or patience? A creative project? A resolved problem? An innovation? A lifetime is enough to leave at least a tiny mark of positive change in the world. If we can do this, it’s a win, no matter what happens on the other side. * Plutarch says Cleopatra spoke at least nine languages and rarely needed an interpreter. When I was 11, I developed an alternate persona. I didn’t know what a persona was; I think I just called it ‘pretending.’ My best friend Jenny and I used to hang out in an old apple tree in the field between our apartment complex and the grocery store loading dock. One day, we were talking about what it would be like to be rich, and that’s when Veronica Vanderbilt was born. Jenny was the middle child of a single mom. Her mom was awesome because she would rent us slasher films from the video store. We used to go down there and read the backs of every single VHS movie in the horror section, pick one we hadn’t seen, and then go ask if she would get it for us. Then I would sleep over and we would stay up late scaring ourselves silly. I think the only non-horror flick we saw was Purple Rain, which was a little over my head, but suitable for 13-year-old Jenny. She also taught me how to fold up a Totino’s Party Crust frozen pizza and eat it like a taco, so you didn’t have to slice it first. I read Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret on her bedroom floor. One night, we stretched out on the hood of a car and looked at the constellations and talked about whether there was life on other planets. Come to think of it, why don’t I have a friend like this now? I’m accepting applications. We can even watch Purple Rain again if you want. Nobody who lived at Bret Manor was born with a silver spoon, if you know what I mean. You moved in there because you couldn’t afford anything else. I’m pretty sure it had the lowest rent in the county, or maybe second-lowest. A family across the street died of carbon monoxide poisoning because they were trying to heat the place with a hibachi grill. Just throwing that out there. Everyone we knew was broke, and so was everyone they knew. We got our ideas about wealth from TV, particularly Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. You won’t believe this, but until I was about 8, I thought cars like Ferraris and Corvettes were fake movie props. My mom’s coworker at Round Table was saving up to buy a Trans Am, and I thought that was pretty stupid because they didn’t even exist! I was skeptical about sports cars but I took events like stabbings and carbon monoxide suffocations as a matter of course. That’s poverty for ya. The attractions of being rich were pretty obvious. You could do whatever you wanted, go wherever you wanted, and buy whatever you wanted. If you wanted some candy, you just got some. You had a nice house and you lived in a nice neighborhood.
I decided that if I just told people I was Veronica Vanderbilt and that I was rich, they would have to believe me. I convinced Jenny that we could “drive” our “convertibles” down to the IGA and try it out on the checkers. We climbed down from the tree and “drove” around the field to go get ourselves some bulk candy. (Probably root beer barrels). I tossed my hair a lot. “My name is… aVeronicaaa aVaaaanderbilt,” I drawled, baffling the store clerk completely. I had great hair, great clothes, and a cherry-red convertible. The fantasy stopped there. I didn’t really know what else to wish for, especially after I had the candy. I don’t really want the cherry-red convertible. As it turns out, driving sucks. Veronica Vanderbilt probably lives down the road a ways, in Hollywood, and she’s probably with her stylist and her agent working on her personal branding right now. Jenny got pregnant at 16, bleached her hair, and dropped out of school. I don’t know what happened to her after that. As for me, I live in the suburbs, and I can watch horror films on demand and eat frozen pizza any time I want. I sometimes do. I don’t really know what else to wish for. I love potlucks. Well, I do and don’t love potlucks. I don’t love the part where most of the dishes are irrelevant to my interests. I do love the part where I set down my contribution and it’s sometimes gone before I can turn around and cut a slice for myself. I’m good at choosing crowd-pleasing recipes. I always bring an entrée because I know there will be so many sides and desserts. My cooking used to be nefariously bad, but now I can make anything I want. I know what I’m bringing to the table and I’m proud of it. That was an allegory. This post is really about relationships. My husband and I were both divorced when we met. We each have a bitter ex-spouse who would probably tell you all about how horrible we are and why we both deserve to die alone. We’ve also both been single and lonely. Part of what we like about each other is that we’ve accumulated the experience to form our own philosophies about love and dating. Also, staying together means we’ll never have to go on a blind date ever again! When we met, I was sleeping on an air mattress in a rented room. My credit cards were maxed out and I would sometimes eat a can of green beans for dinner and then go to bed early. I was at my heaviest and so unfit that I would see black spots when I climbed a flight of stairs. I was “still the same person” – but looking back, it doesn’t surprise me that I was single. There were a lot of logistical reasons why I would not be a great pick. I would definitely have been a case of dating someone’s potential. I felt I deserved to have someone believe in me; the trick was convincing anyone else of that. What I was metaphorically bringing to the table at that time was… an empty can of green beans. My first husband met me as an average-sized girl with long hair. When he asked for a divorce after three years of marriage, I was a chronically ill, overweight, unemployed person with short hair. It was, to put it mildly, extremely inconvenient timing for me, that he would leave just when I needed someone the most. Looking back, I could see how someone would regard our marriage as a bait-and-switch. The person he wound up with was not the person he thought he was marrying. We didn’t make any vows about sickness or health. I quit bringing many of the things I had brought to the table before. Fast forward a bit. With the benefit of hindsight, I am grateful for the lessons of that experience. I came away with a long list of things I did not want in a relationship, and the glimmerings of a list of things I did want. I wanted someone who liked me and thought I was funny. I wanted someone who was willing to meet me halfway and try out the things I liked. I wanted a companion. I came to believe that the personal characteristics of such a man (appearance, profession, hobbies) did not matter, as long as we felt comfortable together, enjoyed talking to each other, and preferred being together to being alone. What did I have to offer? I had an emotional commitment to monogamy. I had resolved the question of kids (can’t have them). I took accountability for my personal circumstances. I was solution-oriented and well organized and frugal and I knew how to keep house. I didn’t need a man; I just wanted to have one around. I wanted to dote on someone, to have someone to spoil and maybe hero-worship a little. If I found someone and we were a good fit, I knew I would give my 100% and always do my best to give him a happier life. I like male energy and I can make space for privacy and a “man cave.” I resolved that whomever I chose, he should be able to enjoy any interests that didn’t happen to overlap with mine, to hang out with his friends without me, and to have time to himself when he wanted. After all, these were benefits I wanted for myself. I wanted someone who would be eager to spend time with me and be fully present when he did, and I knew I needed to offer freedom first. I got my wish. We’re coming up on nine years together. I got the friend and companion I wanted, someone to spoil and hero-worship, which, if I told you all the awesome things about him, would make you say, “Wow, you’re totally right. He is like an epic hero and stuff.” He carries me around on a little tasseled cushion and feeds me bonbons. Part of the reason for this is that I made a secret commitment to improve something every year, so he was slightly gladder about marrying me with every passing year. When we got married, I had no consumer debt, which I’ve maintained. Since then, I’ve learned to cook and become athletically fit. What will it be next year? Shh, that’s for me to know and him to find out. I’m always conscious of what I bring to the table, and making it a bit better all the time. For some reason, I’ve been fixating on going back to school lately. It makes me think back to my non-traditional path to university, and how many things I learned the hard way. (I learn pretty much everything the hard way; it tends to stick in your memory longer…) I got accepted to my first choice school, based entirely on my then-boyfriend’s help with applications, scheduling the SAT and ACT, giving me rides, tutoring me in math, etc. (He has a PhD now and he wound up marrying a molecular biologist). The acceptance letter came, and with it, a financial aid package that did not account for a fairly significant chunk. I had no idea what to do next. I’d never had a real job and I didn’t know how to drive or how I would get to Illinois. I didn’t go. (Past Self, you should have taken the letter to the guidance counselor, where you would have found out how to apply for a student loan). At 22, I got married, partly because I had it in my head that being married would mean I wouldn’t have to report my parents’ income on the financial aid application. (True, but a decision with dire consequences). At some point, I rode the bus to PSU and picked up a course catalog, because I didn’t know much about the Internet back then. We still used floppy disks! I think it was several months later when I applied, because I didn’t know that you can start any term you like – there’s no need to wait for September. I had also read a huge stack of books and written a research paper because I thought you had to write an essay. (I never showed it to anyone). I was working full time, so I would ride my bike to campus, shower at the gym, and take a morning class. Then I would ride my bike to work and put in my eight hours, taking a short lunch. At the end of the day, I would ride my bike back to campus for my afternoon and evening classes. All I knew about credit-hours was that the more you took, the cheaper they were per unit. There was nobody to tell me that 14 credits and a full-time job is a pretty heavy load. I would ride my bike home in the dark and rain and settle in to do my homework, then go to bed for 3-4 hours of sleep. I just paid my tuition every quarter and bought my books with cash. I didn’t know that ‘undergrad’ or ‘undergraduate’ meant what you do before you get your bachelor’s degree. I didn’t know what grad school was. I thought those ‘101’ numbers before classes referred to the floor of the building, or maybe a geographical sector of campus, which is how I found my freshman self struggling to pull a B in a 400-500 level course on neurolinguistics. I made the Dean’s List. I didn’t know what that was either. In my sophomore year, I started collapsing on the floor a lot. I fainted at work and I fainted at the grocery store. I got put on beta blockers. The tech who did the ultrasound on my heart, after the ECG, told me about her experience in medical school and why her hair was prematurely white. Something to do with being “Type A” and too ambitious and not sleeping enough? Pfft, I dunno. I dropped out in my first term. Then I got divorced and found myself couch-surfing in Eugene. I wanted to apply to school again after taking a year off. Once again I got hung up on wanting to start in the fall and missing an application deadline, and I wound up waiting an extra year. Then it turned out that, as a transfer student, I was supposed to have a particular math credit, which I did not. I went to the community college to take a placement test, but the class I needed was impacted, and I showed up to find I was quite a ways down the waiting list. This would not do. I took the bus to the university to ask what to do next, feeling very brave and headstrong. Much to my surprise, the drop-in guidance counselor went down the hall, asked a senior adviser, and came back with my math requirements waived! I spent a grand total of one day in math class my entire time in college. It made me start to take seriously the idea of asking for advice sometimes! I got my dorm assignment before I got my acceptance letter or financial aid package, and I remember feeling stymied about whether I would actually get in. A hugely pregnant friend helped me move all my belongings to my fourth-floor walk-up. Somehow I figured out how to get around campus, how to find my textbooks, how to use the reserve library, how to use my dining hall card, how to get a locker at the rec center, how to get a work-study job… I got on the Dean’s list again, every term except for the one when I missed being academically disqualified by a fraction of a grade point. I graduated a few weeks shy of my 29th birthday and my whole family drove down to watch me walk. I changed my major four times. Evidently my high school self thought she was going to become an English teacher, a job that now holds no interest for me whatsoever. A wiser person would have just been ‘undeclared’ and taken generic pre-requisite courses for the first two years. Freshman me wanted to teach English overseas and chose to major in Linguistics, after a kerfuffle about a TESOL certificate. Junior me wanted a degree in Classics and thought it would be a great idea to study Latin and Attic Greek, even though nobody seemed to know what ‘Classics’ were and nobody living spoke those languages. (I could learn to pronounce ‘baccalaureate’ and ‘cum laude’ and maybe figure out what they meant, too). Senior me was starting to feel frantic about graduating and realized we had somehow racked up almost enough voluntary history credits to qualify, so History is what I wound up with. My starting hypothesis, that getting a degree in anything would improve my job prospects and draw a higher income, and that nobody would actually care what I studied, proved true. The degree paid for itself the first year with the increased income I pulled down. As pieces of paper go, it’s worth more than any of the paper in my wallet… I had a lot of advantages as a returning student. I was fully committed. I knew how to keep house and shop for groceries and pay bills. I didn’t care about partying. I was street smart. I loved school and I loved being in the library and I loved reading my assignments and I loved writing papers. I could type nearly 100 words per minute. There was a guy in my Greek class who was about 80, and a 40ish guy living in my friend’s dorm with a family he saw on weekends, so I didn’t even feel that old. I went to school with single moms and wondered how the heck they did it. I went to class with unmotivated 19-year-olds and wondered why they did it. Going to school for me was a bit like starting out as a bowl of cherries and a bag of flour, and coming out the other side as a pie. |
AuthorI've been working with chronic disorganization, squalor, and hoarding for over 20 years. I'm also a marathon runner who was diagnosed with fibromyalgia and thyroid disease 17 years ago. This website uses marketing and tracking technologies. Opting out of this will opt you out of all cookies, except for those needed to run the website. Note that some products may not work as well without tracking cookies. Opt Out of CookiesArchives
January 2022
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