The Bent Page

Go back to the September after you graduated high school. Think of yourself at that time and place and all that you thought you knew. Now, if someone described your life as you now live it, would you have believed them? This question is about facts. A person simply tells you, “This is what your life will be like.” There are no judgments, no explanations, no clarifications. “This is it.”

I don’t think I would have believed that person, not even if I, myself, had come back to tell me. (Not sure on the grammar of that sentence but you know what I mean.) Seriously, my life has taken more detours than an alley cat, and all the while I was damn sure I was reading the signs correctly, but I never ended up where I thought I was going. Yes, life can be like that. It’s not necessarily bad. In fact, I think it’s good. There have been many more happy accidents than bad incidents, a fair number of good finds, and just a few encounters with tragedy and disaster.

Still, it makes me wonder just what’s in store for tomorrow, or next week, or ten years from now. I know people who are singularly driven toward a specific goal. They’re like a running back who’s headed for the end zone with the football. There are all types of obstacles in his way, but he’s focused on the touchdown. My question for people like this is not what happens if you don’t make it but what happens if you do make it. Then what? It’s sort of the old be careful what you wish for, you might get it – type of thing. Sure, you could head out for another score, maybe even another game, or retire to the stands. That’s fine. Just the same, sometimes the thrill of playing greatly exceeds the joy of winning.

I’ve thought about the great artists of history this way. When Michelangelo finished the Sistine Chapel, did he sit back with a cappuccino and think that he’d done the best work he ever would? I’d guess not, but then again, I’ve heard stories about people who realized their best work was behind them. I suppose this is true for athletes because eventually their bodies wear out. What about writers? Or painters? Or businessmen? Do you have just so many arrows in your quiver and when they’re gone, they’re gone?

I’ve strayed away from the premise of my original question. Coming back to it now, I’m imagining in the present that my future self has come back to tell me what my life is like twenty years in the future. I’m listening closely, nodding my head, accepting it all. The only thing I can conclude is that I’ll have to leave room in the schedule for plenty of unpredictable occurrences if I’m going to get to the place I will be twenty years hence.