What do we think we are doing here?
I’m not quite ready to buy that red Porsche or chat up young secretaries or barmaids with naughty intent. But lately I’ve been feeling some fleeting onset of what I certainly hope is an hyperbole in diagnosis: “mid-life crisis.”
Symptoms? They are vague. Mainly, it’s the growing realization that the majority of my years are likely behind me now.
I’ve always been on the immature side – that is to say, young – for my age, which yet again is “29” if you really must know. But even I am beginning to figure it out. We’re not here forever.
The question that nags, I guess, is whether my best years are behind me. Maybe that’s the telling one that spurs the others.
What are we here for? Are we each fulfilling our mission? For us “just wanna have fun” procrastinators, how much time do we have left to catch up?
Or is this it? Fretting over whether Vail is a resort OR a town. Wondering at two county commissioners whose personal issues with each other permeate seemingly every debate over public decisions now. Considering the profound question of whether Jake Plummer is the answer for the Broncos.
Too smalltime, I guess. These are issues for mere thousands, Plummer leading the pack.
Now, Ryan, Trista and Kobe and his unnamed accuser – they consume millions, literally. Are we fascinated with our celebs or what?
Then there are the truly important concerns. What in the … are we doing in Iraq? Inflation or deflation? Worldwide hunger and poverty, and our role in all that. Is it really our job to try to control global matters – for good or ill? When does one become the other? It gets big and complicated.
This is about the time I look up at the stars on a dark night. Humans and their weight of the world – hah! How many worlds out there? Try that one on for size.
And then, quickly, back to me. Each of us me’s. So small. So important. After all, It’s me we each have to live with.
Am I living to the very best of my capability? What am I doing wrong? Or better put, in how many ways am I doing wrong? For grins, or at least to stave off utter depression, how about some rights? You have your tally; I have mine.
There’s a universe of possibility in each of us. Our creator most definitely has a sense of humor – maybe a bit twisted, but that’s just one more question we’re not equipped to answer.
No wonder certain monks find salvation in creating intricate and beautiful sand “paintings” that they sweep aside about as soon as they finish. There’s some common ground with the fellas who paint the Golden Gate Bridge for a living.
Is there a worthy end to my “painting”? To yours? To society, to individuals, to ourselves? To eternity?
I had figured that by this time I’d have some answers. All I know with some clarity is that I was wrong when I once assumed my elders knew. But their mandelas washed away before they were finished. Always. As will mine.
So what does that leave?
Maybe what the masters, the ascended ones, always seem to say.
In a word.
But not the kind that comes with fast young barmaids and new red Porsches. At least I know that much. I’m thinking about the stars I see only by their slightest twinkling, knowing I have no answer but the barest framework for approaching the time I have left.
Managing Editor Don Rogers can be reached at 949-0555, ext. 600, or firstname.lastname@example.org