I spent the first forty plus years of my life convinced that the ultimate measure of human success was lids that fit every piece of Tupperware, child-approved-nutritional-team-snacks that wowed every parent during half-time at little league soccer games, and a resume that could make any recruiter weep. According to the Franciscan friar Richard Rohr, I wasn’t just neurotic; I was trapped in the “First Half of Life.”
In his book Falling Upward, Father Rohr explains that our lives are split into two distinct acts. In Act One, we are obsessed with building the container (but, really, does that container have a matching lid?). We crawl over each other to secure the right job titles, establish our identities, and construct ironclad boundaries based on black-and-white thinking. We wear our achievements like armor, desperately trying to look respectable to the neighbors while hiding our flaws in the back of the closet behind the out-of-style winter coat with linebacker shoulder pads left over from the ’80s . The problem is, we get so busy polishing the outside of the container that we forget it’s supposed to actually hold something.
Then comes the intermission, which nobody signs up for willingly. I think of this as Menopause for All; it gets hot, you scream, yell, sweat and feel crazy. Rohr is kinder and notes that you don’t just stroll casually into the second half of life; you usually trip, fall, and skin your knees to get there. It takes a crisis—a divorce, a lost job, a health scare, or looking at a kitchen full of expensive gadgets and wondering why you still feel empty. Your carefully crafted ego collapses. You find yourself in the dark, wondering who you are when you aren’t being “The Successful One” or “The Perfect Parent” or in my case, the “Perfect Parent Wanna Be.” It feels like a breakdown, but it is actually the necessary descent before the awakening. You finally realize that your ego was just the box, not the gift inside.
If you survive the crash, you enter the Second Half of Life, where the rules completely change. You stop worrying about what the neighbors think and start looking inward. This is the era of “shadow work,” which is just a fancy spiritual term for admitting that you are the one who ate the last piece of cake at midnight and lied about it. You trade your rigid, black-and-white rules for mystery and paradox. You realize life isn’t a test to pass, but a mystery to live. You let go of the need to control everything, mostly because you finally realize you never had control in the first place. You stop focusing on the container, and you finally start enjoying the messy, beautiful content inside. And, oh, I’m messy!
I love Richard Rohr, truly; he is a rock star for my soul. But with all due respect, I also love a wise, very young, sage who touts THREE stages of life that are much more inviting.
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When I was a high school teacher, my favorite time of the day was after the last bell. Not because the students were gone, I genuinely loved teaching. But after the final bell, my son rode the bus from his elementary school to my campus. It was a liminal time when I transitioned from teacher to Mom.
I would meet Drew at the front door and we’d walk the long and quiet hallway to my classroom. He was at that delicious and fleeting age when it was still okay to reach out and hold my hand … and my heart. There were days I wished the distance was further, just to have more undivided time to hear about playground escapades, who snorted milk through their nose, and whatever else was bouncing around in his beautiful head.
I specifically remember one day, we were almost to my room when he looked up and asked what my favorite stage of life was. I wasn’t taken aback; Drew was the kind of child who always thought outside the box, usually while coloring outside the lines and imagining new worlds yet to be. I thought about it and answered him with total honesty: my favorite stage has always been the present. I love the moment, I enjoy the now, and try not to trip over the laundry on my way. Of course, I knew he had already been doing some philosophical heavy lifting of his own and had an answer waiting for the question. So, I asked, “Drew when is your favorite time of life”.
Without hesitation he replied, “When I am in the middle.” -I needed clarification- He explained that, to him, the middle meant the years when he would have children of his own. His kids would be at the very beginning of their lives, his dad and I would be the older generation, and he would be right there in the center of the universe. Oh, how I love this kid. To want nothing more than to be a human sandwich, firmly pressed between the people he loved and the people who loved him.
I realized that at that moment, I was in the middle. I had my parents on one side, my son on the other, and it felt warm, safe, and completely incredible.
But time continues and my stage of life changed. In the past 5 years I have lost my mom and dad, promoting me to the outside of the life sandwich. But I must say, it is not so bad. Granted, there is that undeniable, quiet emptiness that comes from loss. I’m afraid I will never quite adjust to wanting to pick up the phone to call Mom & Dad about the most mundane yet precious moments. Fortunately, I still feel them with me.
Just as the theologian Richard Rohr writes about the second act of life, although according to little Drew it is actually the third act in life, I’ve found myself letting go of so many silly, useless worries that once kept me awake at 2:00 a.m. I am remembering who I was in the very beginning, and I’m starting to deeply appreciate the messy, beautifully chaotic inside of the whole experience.
Undoubtedly, the best part of this transition, though, is seeing Drew’s dream come true. My boy is finally in the middle! Recently, he and his wife, Kelsey, introduced the world to their most beloved little girl, officially turning Drew into the peanut butter and jelly of our family sandwich.
And I, I am happily perched on the outside and the view is priceless. I cannot express the joy I find in watching Drew’s new life in the Midde. No doubt it is everything the little boy he once was knew it would be.
