If I were to characterize myself, I’d be the grasshopper in Aesop’s Fable #373, “The Ant and the Grasshopper.” The grasshopper dances and frolics all summer, while the ant toils away, gathering food for the winter. When winter comes, the cold and hungry grasshopper begs the ant for food and shelter, and is refused. The moral of the story, of course, is the daily grind is a far worthier pursuit than fun and games. I have trouble with this concept. I’ve been content to drift along on the gentle waves of a privileged life. Being content is not a recipe for professional success, however. My friend Laura and I talk about this often. Neither of us would say we were ambitious, an almost shameful admission in America. When I was younger, I chose a path that suited me, that of corporate housewife. We moved every couple of years, so I worked part-time, usually at jobs that had some benefit to the family: free childcare, free gym memberships, or discounted clothes and gear. I took pride in being a good housewife. I drifted. Things changed.
Lyme disease, as in every aspect of my life, forced me to reevaluate. I am now in a big hurry to “do things”. And by doing things, I mean being true to myself and not being afraid. Life is short. I know that now, at the solidly middle age of 58. Maybe part of this hurry IS middle age, the tidying of loose ends that were neglected earlier. Most people toiled away and neglected friends, family and fun. I was fortunate to have the opposite equation. We could get into a whole discussion of whether the trade-off of marriage was worth it, but why? I can’t change my choices, nor do I want to. I have been able to experience life events fully without the interruption of a job. I was present during my mother’s illness and her death. I have helped my parents through surgeries and moves and have gotten to spend time with them. I was able to torture my daughter by being there for most of her life. Okay, there was that time I forgot her at her math tutor’s house and maybe I was late for a few things, but I was there. My not working allowed my ex-husband to concentrate on his career, and while that didn’t work out so well for me in the long run, I still don’t regret it.
What changed? There was no epiphany, nor was there one cataclysmic event. There were a series of small events. A marriage foundering slowly. An only daughter leaving the nest. A random afternoon spent watching the Westminster Dog Show with the daughter. The announcer told the story of the Hungarian Komondor, whose long, corded coat protected the sheepdog from wolf bites. She thought that was fascinating, and from that a germ of an idea sprouted. I started to write a book about Golden Retrievers. Believe me, if I had known how hard writing a book was, I never would have done it. I slowly dipped my toes into the waters of the writing world.
While I wouldn’t recommend a serious illness to anyone, I am once again grateful for Lyme, and especially for neuroborreliosis. The reawakening of my once inflamed brain has produced both an urgency and sharpness of thought that has been highly beneficial to my writing and myself. Man, the above sentences are a testament to silver linings. I can hardly imagine how anyone could benefit from losing one’s mind for an extended period (say, longer than an acid trip), yet I did. What I do with this newfound urgency is an ongoing struggle. I am not fully recovered. Energy and stamina are precious commodities in my world. Writing about my past, especially the physical and sexual abuse, is surprisingly exhausting. Dating is exhilarating and exhausting. Taking care of myself and my home is calming and exhausting. Looking for a “real” job falls to the bottom of the list for now. Lifeguarding will have to suffice as I put myself back together. I don’t have an old life to return to. There is no loved one, no job, no “normal.” I was in the throes of reinvention when Lyme hit.
It has taken years to discover my voice, and what I must write. I was my own worst enemy. When I think of all the time I have wasted doubting myself when I was younger, I cringe. Oh, I still doubt myself, often and with great energy. The difference is that doubt doesn’t stop me. I must write, and I must write about deeply personal things. Is this what ambition feels like? Or is this a form of self-therapy, or personal flagellation? I could have chosen an easier path. The arts are no way to make a living.
The metamorphosis from ant to grasshopper continues. I know I shortchange myself, it’s a problem. I work much harder than I let on. I also think waaaaay too much, as any friend of mine knows. As I attempt to embrace the thorny new normal, I will remind myself that I’ve survived happily for most of my life as a grasshopper, dancing, frolicking, and experiencing life.