I’m sitting in my living room and my eye falls on the back of a small rocking chair…dark oak, carved (not pressed), a small nursing rocker I found long ago. I’ve given it away twice, and both times has found it’s way back to me. And I remark on the nature of it…not what you’d likely find in someone else’s home. And my first thought is that it’s not ordinary. And I look around the room, and see little that one would describe as ordinary. And somehow, that explains my life: I’ve never wanted an ordinary life.
I’ve often asked how I ended up where I am, what I am at this age: single, childless, solitary. But I’ve never until now seen it quite this way. I’ve no idea why…what whimsical star made me thus. But I see it clearly…I’ve never wanted the ordinary. There is no journey in the ordinary, no place to go. And, as long as I remember, I’ve always been going somewhere…
“I’ve often asked how I ended up where I am, what I am at this age: single, childless, solitary.” You never found that single person or enterprise for which you were prepared to relinquish that most precious thing: personal freedom. So, you remained uncommitted and therefore open to a wealth of experiences that people “ordinarily” renounce in a fateful decision that constricts and suffocates. You envisioned it and thereby avoided it.
Thanks. Michael. I’d like to agree with you. But there is something of a paradox in all this. First, you are correct: I’ve never been willing to give up my freedom. For some time now (ever since I’ve done the work of figuring it out), when asked why I’m I never married, I’ve said, “…because I am afraid of commitment, permanence, and responsibility.” And that is true. To an extent, it is simple unwillingness to give up my freedom. But I’d have to admit also to fear…I suppose, of not being able to cope with the alternative.
I think you would have chafed and fidgeted under the pedestrian obligations, but would have carried them through as chosen by you and no one else. But having chosen the common life, you would hardly have time and opportunity to think about those issues about which you write so well.
Thanks, Michael. My life would certainly be different from what is now. Better or worse, who’s to say? Indeed, we are unconscious of it, of course, but our needs and habits adapt themselves to our situations, even if just as self-protection. I’m reminded of my mother who raised five kids and had umpteen grandkids, and had never spent a night alone until age 73 or so, when my father died. Within a couple years, she had a hard time dealing with kids in the house…didn’t like the noise.