2010 was a bad year for me. First I lost my job, a job I’d held for 19 years, a job which afforded me not only a certain lifestyle but also defined me as a writer. With the ensuing unemployment followed by under employment, I was forced to sell my condominium in a short sale, an event that announced to my friends, family and neighbors that I was now a failure. Smaller losses also ensued: my expensive hobby as a flying trapeze artist, ski weekends in Tahoe, shopping sprees, retirement accounts and health insurance.
My final loss was most devastating of all. Right before Thanksgiving, which was also my 50th birthday, my 14-year-old shih tzu, Jersey, the love of my life, succumbed to a three-year battle with kidney failure. His death, I believe, hastened by financial constraints which necessitated the elimination of his weekly acupuncture sessions that helped keep his kidneys functioning. With both my heart and spirit broken and feeling a sorrow I will never be able to describe, I was forced to face the sum of my dramatically downsized existence. By the end of 2010, I had lost my identity.
“Freedom,” according to Kris Kristofferson, “is just another word for nothing left to lose.” Being free, I sought to do something meaningful with all this lack of commitments. I stuffed what few clothes I had, mainly yoga outfits, into a carry-on backpack, sold off some furniture, and stuck the rest of my belongings in a storage unit. Then I bought a one-way ticket to India.
I’m a recovering alcoholic and, as such, have suffered existential crises before. I remember my father, when I was in my early 20s and on the brink of being expelled from college, earnestly asking if my lack of direction was an attempt to find myself. Back then, I was totally fucked up, misguided, but not lost. I had parents, pets, a sister, friends, extended family, an apartment. Thirty years later, if my father, who I have since lost, were to ask that question I would have to reply, sadly, “Yes.”
I’m trying to find the writer in me. Or, if she no longer exists, something else. After 20 years of recovery accompanied by the requisite immersion in metaphysical musings, I’ve come to believe–or at least hope–that everyone has a purpose in life. But for the first time ever, I have no idea what mine is.
Attempts to restart my stalled career have met with abject failure.The first draft of a novel I began five years ago now seems trite, irrelevant, boring. I’m in India, practicing yoga daily, and two months into this new life, I am just as clueless about my future as I was when I first landed in Mysore. “Practice [yoga] and all is coming,” my guru, Shri K. Pattabhi Jois, who passed away in May 2009, famously proclaimed. I have just one question for Guruji: When?
Being lost at age 50 is a lot more pathetic than seeming lost at age 20 was. Twenty year olds are entitled to their mishegas. Fifty year olds are not. Fifty year olds should be contemplating retirement, looking forward to grandchildren, winter homes in Miami, discounted museum entry fees. Fifty year olds should own homes, drive late model cars, contribute heavily to charities, tithe, take care of their mothers instead of moving back to their childhood homes so their mothers will take care of them (as I’m planning to do). Fifty year olds should not be sitting on the balcony of their un-air-conditioned guest house in sweltering Southern India fretting over whether to spend 300 rupees to take a taxi to the local animal shelter or tough it out on the dilapidated local bus for 10 rupees.
I’ve gone through myriad emotions since arriving in India. For the first few weeks, every morning after yoga, I sobbed, images of Jersey and my sister and my father and my collie dog Gus, all of whom are now gone, rolling through my mind, and missing each of them so deeply it literally hurt. But sadness is not something I suffer bravely. I have a method of dealing with sorrow that is quite effective, though unpleasant for everyone with whom I come in contact. I turn my attention away from thoughts that make me sad to thoughts that make me angry. I choose anger over sadness. And believe me, I find no shortage of things in India, and everywhere else, that piss me off.
When it comes right down to it, though, the thing that pisses me off most is me.
I have another three weeks in Goa, practicing yoga at Yoga Bones, before heading to Bali for more yoga. Guruji’s words roll through my mind like a mantra: “Practice and all is coming.”
I just hope he’s right.
You’re my hero, Lynn. I aspire to write as honestly as yourself. We’re all lost, I think. It’s just that some of us realize it sooner. One breath at a time, we dance together in the divine comedy.
Hi Lynn – I’m sorry I didn’t realise things were so bad for you. I wish I could have been of some help. You are definitely a good writer and should think about ideas for a different book. Perhaps a book about your travels in India?
Great post Lynn, can’t wait to read more about your 50-year-old mishegas.
Lynn, you are a talented writer and an incredible person. I admire your work, your energy and your adventurous spirit. Don’t get discouraged or judge yourself by others’ expectations of what someone “should” be doing.
This is a wonderful blog post. Thank you so much for sharing with us. Maybe this is your purpose in life? To educate those of us who are not yet 50, showing us how fragile and unexpected life can be.
I hope you find what you’re looking for in India. I strongly believe, though, that you need to be open to that experience and the only way to do that is to accept yourself the way you are, anger, sadness, mistakes included. Until you have done that, until you LOVE yourself, you will not be able to find fulfilment outside of yourself. It’s hard to see the love in others when we can’t see it in ourselves, I’ve found.
*hugs*
Thank you Erin, Abigail, Chhi’med, Jacqui and Naila, for the loving feedback and support. This means so much to me. Naila: You exhibit wisdom WAY beyond your years. You are a very old soul in a very young body. love, lynn