I never pursued money, though a few pennies in my empty pockets wouldn’t have gone amiss. What I wanted was to be the best in my field, as a writer, a mother, and human being. None of which transpired either but I find myself strangely at peace with my failings
“Ambitions? What be those?!” I startled myself with the realization recently that I no longer had any. Or nearly none. Which was odd for a woman driven by her demons (and some angels) for so long. But no, nada, I can no longer hear their siren song. Where did they go, and when??
I can barely see their embers but they burned brightly in my youth. Like a tiger in the night (thanks Blakey). I did not, like certain other orange critters, want to rule the world. I never aspired to beauty contests, nor would I have won any, unless some exist for women of barely five feet. I never pursued money, though a few pennies in my empty pockets wouldn’t have gone amiss. What I wanted was to be the best in my field, as a writer, a mother, and human being. None of which transpired either but I find myself strangely at peace with my failings.
Is this a premature end to all striving? Dying a thousand deaths before Hades is reached? It isn’t timidity because I can be brave (or brazen, depending on whether you like me), but is it age? There’s no denying that ambition diminishes as the years increase, receding with hair, libido and memory. Yet there are older people aplenty who are bonfires of craving, the aforementioned orange critter, for example. Nor can I claim to never succumb to greed, especially when tempted with the chocolatey (with a nutty heart, pretty please). A kind of ‘lobh’ my Dida ascribed to the fastidiousness of second infancies.
Yet, by modern standards of longevity, I may well have another half-century before me. It would appear not to be decrepitude, therefore, but maturity that’s clipped my wings. It creeps up on us all, I believe. What was once an ability to roll with the punches, is now a near-invisibility to folks who might throw ’em. And if that applies also to those bestowing prizes, well, who gives. Prizes, parties, palaver, even plans, I have now consigned to history’s dustbin.
Oh, I make short-term plans. Items to tick off lists at the end of the day/week/holiday/even month, as my memory’s a sieve. Once finished, I scribble over them with faces and forms, weeping willows and birds on song. Like a doff of the cap to Rabindranath, but mine are doodles and not fine art. Nor are they far-seeing. Because, like most governments, I don’t trouble myself with long-term planning (but unlike them it isn’t my raison d'être).
Friends insist that this isn’t just me, nor middle-aged ennui, but the fallout of the pandemic. Its uncertainty apparently killed off the desire to chart a course for many. Did my long-term plans wither and die from contracting Covid? While I admit to still living in a bubble, and that the arm’s length I keep from everybody has undoubtedly impacted my professional opportunities, it isn’t the reason I yearn for next to nothing. I stumbled upon a similar sentiment in an evocative Ann Patchett piece, in which she set about clearing her home of every unnecessary item she’d ever accumulated. Although beautifully written and a pleasure to read, what led her to shed some of her life’s baggage wasa wholly different situation. A friend had been left with the task of sorting out their late parent’s legacy and child-free Ann didn’t want to burden a distant relative with the same responsibility at her passing.
I, on the other hand, have children, who will hopefully benefit at my death from whatever I’ve managed to squirrel away. In fact, if I have any ambition left at all, it is to watch them thrive from the comfort of the sidelines, sound in body and mind. My new weightlessness, you see, is primarily psychological (physically, I can afford to lose a pound or two!). A scrubbing of the slate if you will (h/t Lockey). Not being the Buddha, I will never attain Nirvana, nor am I drawn to any form of religious asceticism. Ha, God forbid! What I’ve arrived at, I reckon, is a comfortably numb state. Not so insensate that I don’t see the horrors of the world and fervently wish it well, doing my bit for it at opportune moments, but floaty enough to be able to luxuriate in its gentler aspects.
And though disconcerting, like a part is missing, being able to travel light after the rollercoaster of my life is simply tremendous! Some of you will scoff — “Don’t believe you’re without ambition, just wait till Musk offers you a million bucks for dodgy ideas he’s run out of!” Or you might just not be ready for a semi-sanyas, hanging on to the bucket list you’d unironically drafted. A few of you, however, have found that you’re calmed by the tranquil echo of an empty tank. How did I do it, you ask?
Problem is, I couldn’t tell you. When propulsion is essential in our youth, our freshly-forged aspirations drive us onwards and upwards in our flight towards perceived pinnacles. But then, it develops the drag of clunky fuselage; paraphernalia pinning you in place that you hadn’t even clocked. I, for one, didn’t realise I wanted rid till it wafted away one day. Just like that. It didn’t feel gradual and it wasn’t preceded by some big, revelatory event. What was left in its vacated space was a lot of love for a few special people, and good vibes for everyone else. And that may be striving enough.
