Zen & the Art of the Midlife Crisis
Kip de Moll
Copyright ©2011 by Kip de Moll
Burlington, Vermont
Snashwords Edition
Discover other titles by Kip de Moll at smashwords.com
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While this book is a memoir and alludes to real people, names are only used with permission and the story is only about me, my perspective and my opinions, in no way casting aspersion or judgment on anyone else. This is my reality and I insist we are all doing the best we can to love each other and get along in the world. I care deeply about everyone who has crossed my path and write only in regard to my own reaction to events, not at all to the actions of anyone else.
Cover painting by Louis de Moll
Text and graphic design by Kip de Moll and members of Indie Writers Unite on facebook
All rights reserved under international and Pan-American copyright Conventions
Contact the author through http://kipdemoll.com
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* * *
To Lane
who has patiently listened so long,
To Sawyer
who has skied the bumps and ridden the chairs with me
and
to ma special friend,
so wise and encouraging
* * *
Table of Contents
in which our hero discovers his resources are squandered and his energy exhausted
"…an unstable or crucial time or state of affairs in which a decisive change is impending"
In which our hero explores his dissatisfaction and discovers he has a choice
"…all seems peaceful and serene" in the marriage of high school sweethearts, captains of the football team and cheerleaders who become President of the World and a Mother Extraordinaire
In which our hero transforms a job to fix the toilet in an apartment into a renovation of his own life and begins an additional repair to the relationship with his son
a tale of two Oregons in which our hero youthfully comes to claim his creativity, but embraces a family and home of his own instead
in which the sub-prime mortgage to finance our hero's construction business eventually forces the sale of the home and dissolution of the marriage
in which our hero faces his daemons and faeries
Sing Your Songs, Write Your Wrongs
in which music and words, long dormant, reassert themselves into our hero's life
in which our hero knows he can, but still struggles to make it all better
in which our hero (in league with his son) becomes a ski instructor of five year olds and learns much more about life, love and joy than he teaches
in which hearth and home are revisited from a new perspective; some old and trusted views are hard to find
time to show from whence our hero cometh, poised on the cliffside once again
* * *
Zen & the Art of the Midlife Crisis
By
Kip de Moll
* * *
Chapter 1: Broke Down
Of course, I should have known better.
Everyone living in cold climates knows that in temperatures below zero, a few short minutes to warm the engine is necessary. The oil should soften and lubricate before working hard, but on my first official day as a ski instructor that early winter morning, already late starting the hour drive up to the Mountain, I refused to listen.
When the oil warning light remained on, even as heat began to fill the cab, I argued to myself that it had been doing that for several days now and had switched off each time as the indicator had climbed to normal. Turning onto the freeway this time, however, the light stayed dangerously red and the engine continued to tick with an unusual rhythm suggesting something strained.
Contrary to the common proverb, years of recognition that I can be so chronically late had yet to even ease the problem, much less create a solution. Guys on the job sites knowingly shook their heads when I gave them a time for my return: certain as I was that I would make it, they were already betting each other I would not. Too often, I had embarrassed my own children, arriving late to coach a soccer game or to a school event, unkempt and bedraggled, waltzing in confidently just past the nick of time, buttoning myself up the front to look prepared, even as my shirt tail still hung out the back.
Every step of the way through my life, if I would only pause to pay attention, intuition has given fair warning as clearly as the flashing light on my dashboard that day, reminding me that certain behaviors can lift us towards redemption while others only lead to trouble.
I was well aware such chaos and spinning wheels were ruining my life. Serious changes much more critical than oil were obviously required. Awareness was slowly leading towards action. It seemed like a positive step for me to be committed on this day to that one small detail of improvement.
The open road had plenty of clear shoulder available on which to lean, allowing the truck to properly warm, yet I stubbornly continued forward, looking another half mile up the road as if some spot in the distance ahead would be better. Maybe it was safer to pull over just after this interchange, but I knew another just beyond that, so decided to get at least that much farther down the road.
If I could go just a little more, I rationalized, I could be just a little further, just a little closer to where I wanted to be, and less stuck where I was. Some how, the extra yardage did make a difference.
And there was always the hope—no matter how strongly intuition, common sense, and the warning light combined to say otherwise—this apparent malfunction might just right itself in the meantime and I could continue on my merry way without having to stop at all.
In an instant that improbable solution vanished entirely with the increasing pace of the ticks. Then suddenly one loud tock shuddered the body and all choice was gone. The truck would drive no farther, rolling to the arbitrary spot on the side of the road, exposed and helpless, me alone and defeated inside, banging the steering wheel repeatedly with my fist and a wealth of curses so artfully strung together, but providing absolutely no relief.
If only I had pulled over 100 yards back. If only I had stopped on the closer side of the interchange. If only I had waited a few short moments patiently in the driveway for the engine to properly warm. If only I had gotten up a few minutes earlier. If only I had gotten to bed sooner.
If only I had managed my life differently that I was not past fifty years old, stranded helplessly on the side of the road, divorcing for the second time, impoverished by a determination to push a doomed business to failure yet another hundred yards towards that elusive mountain of success lying somewhere off in the distance.
If only, if only, if only…
Intuition is a subtle trait that strikes often after the fact with a blow to the head and an ache in the heart. We know it could have been different. We saw the signs and ignored their message, plowing ahead with our own focused wishes, sweeping cautions to the side. Only when we pay attention and begin to make changes before the act does our life actually begin to improve.
My own story travels so many roads like this, speeding happily along, but ending on the side as everyone else rushes past. Never one to be cautious, I was raised to be confident and unafraid of challenges, undaunted by the size of hurdles. My heritage supported triumph over adversity and finding golden moments in dark circumstances. I was raised to believe I could be sitting in a broken truck that was fixable and late for an appointment that could simply be pushed back a little farther or rescheduled completely. To every problem there is a solution, I faithfully believed, and if we could just work hard enough, drive, walk or crawl far and fast enough, we could eventually reach those mountains far, far away.
This story had worked for my own parents. High school sweet hearts, my mother was captain of the cheerleaders and my father captain of the football team, roles they played their entire lives until the last few years when Alzheimer's silently crept into my mother's brain to rob all of us of her abundant wisdom and good cheer. Well into retirement at that point, my father finally emerged from the weight of his professional successes to care for his beloved wife in a tender way that made their sweet fairy tale complete, admitting in an email to his progeny, shortly after moving her into the skilled nursing unit, "I have fallen in love with your mother all over again."
I, on the other hand, sat on the side of this road with all resources depleted to the point of wondering if I could even get this truck off the highway, much less pay to have it fixed. My credit cards were all over-limit. My bank account was over-drawn, my friendships over-extended. The lesson learned from these epiphanies was long over-due.
My cell phone, however—though in jeopardy of being shut-off at any moment—was still working, so I could at least call for help. If they could take a check, I calculated, I could write one that would be good in a few days. A stiff charge might be attached if it bounced once (or even twice) along the way, but by then I would be well off the road with more money in sight. With the truck at a garage, in the meantime, a friend or two could probably give me rides before I figured out how to pay for the repairs. There were always solutions, always ways to get it figured out.
The first freeze of early winter was seeping back into the truck like water had I driven into the river, fueling a desperation to my voice that convinced the dispatcher that whether or not my check was good, I needed the help—my first break of the day. A sleepy friend was fortunately still a good friend indeed who would wait to hear where the truck would be delivered and then come to pick me up.
A building contractor who needed to present himself as the image of success, I have lately had newer trucks in no need of repair, so I had no idea where mine should be towed. Already knowing the engine was blown and probably too expensive for me to fix, and already behind on the lease anyway, no matter where it went, I would likely be giving directions to the repo man. This rude fact battered my thoughts as relentlessly as those dangerous ticks had ruined the engine. As I had already driven myself to the bitter end of my construction business, I was not blind to the fact that losing this truck would be the final action of throwing away the key.
Even while shivering in the frustration, however, there was subtle warmth spreading from the inside of me to battle the freezing temperature of this external disaster. Having intellectually decided that I could no longer risk a career in construction, I was still taking little handyman jobs and tempted to accept the invitations to estimate on bigger projects. No matter how unsuccessful the years had proven to be on my tax forms, I knew the ins and outs of the business, the dos and don'ts, and still believed, under the right circumstances, I could make it all work. This was how I knew, on a day-to-day basis, to bring money in to send back out again. My insurance had lapsed, but my fingers were still poised to dial in my buddies who knew I could always get work and my paychecks were eventually good.
I realized that the destruction of this truck was more purposeful than I would like to believe. In order to make the real changes that were necessary, to really turn my back on this unhealthy, but always hopeful lifestyle, I had to give up my most physical tool, strike a match to that bridge behind me and somehow celebrate its bursting into flame. Without the rack and bed to haul materials and tools, without the physical representation of the guy and his pick-up truck, I could better embrace whatever it was I needed to do to have the life of health, love and prosperity I wanted and deserved.
Unburdened at last, I could solve the immediate problems with an emotional detachment. I knew I would never sit in that comfortable and dusty cab again, nor wanted to, if the truth be told, so it was easy to climb out and into the tow truck, not even looking back as the driver rattled his chains and hauled it on board. I remembered the name of a trust-worthy mechanic, the brother of a former co-worker, where I could take the truck for an evaluation I already knew I would not repair—more problems solved.
We chit and chatted, the driver and I, about little things, becoming fast friends in a warm box on a cold morning who would never see each other again. He was going on forty-eight hours without sleep and full of emergency coffee to get him through the endless calls, and I disoriented and sublime. We dropped my truck at the chosen yard and he drove me up the road to a diner to wait in warmth for my ride, spending the few dollars cash I had saved for gas on a good breakfast instead: fuel for a different journey.
* * *
Chapter 2: the Crisis Defined
Around the world, many cultures recognize the age of 50 as a threshold to a deeper spiritual exploration. Elders are respected for their wisdom and experience, revered for their accomplishments, and given the permission to rest and reflect.
In America, however, it is often described as a time of hormones run rampant. Women joke about hot flashes and men see an opportunity to trade in for a younger, blonder sports car. Marriages break down and careers are abandoned. Family and friends look on with astonishment and whisper suggestions of an intervention until, unknowingly, they too begin to dance their own particular version of the common ailment known as Midlife.
We look at our lives in detail and seek solutions to our unhappiness, finding answers on the outside, purchasing relief through compulsive activity and distraction. In this culture, too often we measure ourselves by bank accounts, the size of our homes, toys accumulated, or the awards and degrees of our children. Comparisons to our neighbors easily stir competition and judgment, no matter how centered we may want to feel. Our only faith is that the condition is temporary and sanity will one day be regained.
Obviously triggered by the shift from unlimited futures to an impending and inevitable finale, like leaves changing colors, the time can also be full of beauty and serenity. We can examine our dreams still within reach and determine which to keep and which to let fall away. We can honor what has been accomplished, and make adjustments in our habits to focus on those things we have learned are most important.
Ask most anyone we meet on the street: life is described as hectic, too full of details, a daily race to accomplish just a portion of the list we need to do. We roll our eyes with understanding and shrug helpless in passing, wanting to sit together today, but promising we will do it soon for sure. Weeks rush towards months, and another year vanishes, faster every time, bewildering our best intentions and numbing our resistance.
In my own midlife evaluation, it is easy to find disappointment in so many of the normal categories. I have struggled in my work, failed in marriages, been emotionally distracted too often from my children, siblings, parents and friends. I have hurt associates in their pocketbook. I have bounced far too many checks and once even "stole" a Christmas tree (don't ask).
My life is far from the idyll I often imagined while nestled safely in the home of my successful and loving parents. Raised on the assumption that a world of plentiful oysters eagerly awaited my bait and hook, I somehow—despite an ivied education—never learned how to properly fish for them.
I have worked hard enough, exhausted myself, in fact. I dove deep and swam the distances. Risk has rarely daunted me and obstacles have never seemed too large to overcome. My optimism remains imperturbable, my enthusiasm nearly unbounded.
But I have remained on the outside, looking on as friends and neighbors, also in hectic struggles of their own, have day by day managed to move methodically toward careers, marriages, and retirement while I keep ending up on the side of the road as helpless and frustrated as the day I lost my truck. Mired in the madness of the scramble, it has been impossible to see the barriers that have separated me from the achievement of my dreams. My determination has blinded me.
It has taken a series of fortunate events to decide that other ways must be learned. Instead of beating down the door (that might not even be there), a slow progression of ideas leads me to believe that a real difference can only happen by <i>intuitively</i> feeling my way along the wall, eyes, toes, knees and fingers, inch by scratchy inch, poking and prodding until an opening is revealed.
Now I have reached a point of acceptance, recognizing that some things can be changed while others are just a part of who I am and always will be. I have had very little luck previously in recognizing the difference. My head is bruised and battered from so many hits against that same brick in my wall.
But healing is always possible.
This is a story about change: finding a way around the wall. I have no formula, no grand vision, no particular expertise. Nothing spectacular or profound do I need to proclaim from my box of soap except that I am human after all: frail and vulnerable—just like the rest of us, each and every one of you who might stumble upon this book or have it shoved lovingly in your face.