Birthschmerz

Where Truth Lives

Maybe it has something to do with my birthday on June 1st, but I seem to grow weepy and weary before Memorial Day these past few years. By weepy, I mean nostalgic and reflective. By weary, I mean saturated with Weltschmerz. I think about those I’ve lost and recount my journey thus far—the wins, the losses—and brace for what’s next. Isn’t there a slap waiting for us right around the corner? Maybe that’s just me. My mind wants to believe a different possibility exists, but it knows better than to override what the body tells it. We carry these things in our bones, after all, don’t we?

Some pretty shitty things have happened of late: catastrophic changes, catastrophic losses. I often wonder, how much can one person take? How much can one family take? I think about the unfairness of it all. Even in pain and suffering, there is no meritocracy. Lori Gottlieb once said something along the lines of “There’s no hierarchy to pain.” I’ve mulled this statement plenty. Sometimes I see her point, but usually, in trying times like these, witnessing the continued pain and suffering of others, I cannot fathom the veracity of this statement.

Last week, before Memorial Day, I spent time with two sets of family, both mine and Russ’s. This week, the world looks a little different for some of them—not in a good way—and I am grateful I carved out the time and the expense and made the trip. I am grateful for the laughs had, the stories told, the meals eaten together, for petting the cute dog and the cats, and for the time spent visiting with their kids.

Last year, a young colleague, new to the workforce, was contemplating going to Ireland with a friend. I said, “Oh yeah! You gotta go!” But my other colleague, a few years older than me and with decades of industry experience, said, “No, you need to be practical and save your money.” We were both right. The difference for me is time and place, but I have to admit, I never saved money when I was her age, too ambitious I was in the horse world to “make it.” If I could scrape together a few extra dollars from paying the bills and use a credit card to pay for the rest, you could be guaranteed I was on the next plane to watch Burghley in the flesh. I’d return broker than broke and brimming with satiation. It was in my forties that the rubber met the road, a late start to flipping the script from abundant enthusiasm to prudent saving. But even now, I look back without a single regret for how I spent my time, and for *most* of the choices I made during that period of my life. But now, at 54, I look back and wonder how it all managed to work out.

In the mid-nineties, after I graduated from college, I was a working student for Olympian Jimmy Wofford. He once tried to secure the ride on a fabulous horse for me. The horse and the kid riding him had arrived in Virginia from California to train and compete at the advanced level, except the kid couldn’t be bothered to come to the barn to ride. He was too busy smoking pot and playing video games at the friend’s cottage where he was bunking, while I (with others) was busting my ass in the barn for twelve hours a day, seven days a week, paying my way for the same privileges. Jimmy called out the miscreant and contacted the horse's owner, who wasn’t his parent. Unusual. Especially for someone so young.

Jimmy came out of his office in the barn, draping his arm around my neck and giving me a squeeze. He said, “Well, kid. I tried. I told her you were a good rider, but poor as a church mouse. But she wants to send the horse back [to California].” He closed with, “Sorry, kid. Maybe next time.” My first thought was, someone went to bat for me? I felt a funny mixture of embarrassment and gratitude at the revelation. This had never happened before, and I didn’t know how to handle the feelings I was experiencing, but before too long, the disappointment of rejection registered, seeping into my bones like warm honey, my stomach twisting into a knot. The truth lives there, after all, doesn’t it? But I also felt something else familiar that day: shame. Poor as a church mouse? That’s what Jimmy thought of me? I thought I was middle-class. I guess circumstances do matter.

What have I learned in fifty-four years? I’m not sure I know. I’m no arbiter of existence, after all. But I am certain that lifetimes start slowly and gain speed with each passing year. By the time you realize more birthdays are behind you than ahead, the days, the years, are already inconceivably short. We don’t have much control over anything, merely ourselves, but any magic in the world lives in connection with others, witnesses to our lives, and us to theirs. So, take the trip. Write a book. Get the dog. Hug your friend. Say “I love you.” What else is there?