My wasted life

I experienced a quiet revelation last week. Quiet, but far-reaching. 

Writing it down makes it sound more dramatic than it was, since I’d already mostly come to terms with the separate elements of the story. But just the same, it was shocking, and it is—or should be—life-changing.

I realized that I’ve wasted my life on three things: a mean-spirited and ungrateful family; a writing market that neither needs nor wants me; and a religion that rejects me and my kind.

That’s a shocking discovery, even as I tell myself that using the word “wasted” undervalues the many, many gifts and treasures and the inner peace and indeed the happiness that I’ve found along the way. 

But just the same, it’s a horrifying realization, and it’s true. I have devoted my life for decades to those three things, and all three reject me.

Why would I have done that? Why continue, year after year, decade after decade, so doggedly and devotedly and uncomplainingly serving those three false gods in the face of such indifference? And in the case of the family, “indifference” is far too polite a word. 

But the obvious, practical question is more important than the “why”—particularly if you’re anything like me, since I can spend an awful lot of time exploring the subterranean byways of that particular rabbit hole. 

The real question, the one that matters, is the frightening one: OK, so what now? What do I—you—do? Particularly since my remaining time on this earth is now limited.

And the answer is equally obvious. 

First of all, Stop. 

Stop wasting your life on such people and such ambitions. 

And then—step #2—do something else.

All very well to say—but maybe not always quite so easy to do.

**

It’s the family stuff that hurts the most, but at least right now, I’ll set that aside. Except to note that in that case, stopping really does mean stopping—realizing that family estrangement is, sadly, quite common in our society (about 27% of US families are afflicted by it; I assume that Canadian numbers are similar). If you come from a background like mine—a Christian one—that’s a deeply difficult step to take. Turn the other cheek. Go the extra mile. Love with no hope of a return. Father forgive them, for they know not what they do. How many times must I forgive—seven? No, seventy times seven.

Etcetera, etcetera.

Put all that aside. Recognize reality for what it is. They don’t like you. They don’t want anything to do with you. They don’t want your love. So stop pestering them. Let them go—with a blessing, always with a blessing. But let them go.

Same thing applies to a lifelong dream that has shaped and structured my life and kept me going, year after year: OK, so here’s another rejection slip, but next time, next time—next time?? 

All those measureless dreams of promise.

Adversity is a good teacher, and that particular tough school has taught me how to write. But at a certain point, I—we—have to ask, Is this worth it? And don’t be afraid if the answer comes echoing back that it’s not. Time to go.

And as for the third thing: God?

Well, that’s a different question, because whatever his official interpreters and spokespersons here in this world of time may declare, there are two realities, and in fact they are different. There’s God—and then there are the institutions and structures and authorities and dogmas; and they don’t necessarily line up. 

In my particular case, the big issue is sexuality and identity. Official church teachings are both ridiculous and shaming. Once you understand that, the power is yours (along I would argue with a duty) to work out a separate peace—whatever that may turn out to be. 

And here’s the thing: the force that I call “God” is still with me, irrespective of what his or her or its official spokespersons may declare.

Which brings me to the real issue, the only one that matters, and that is the afore-mentioned question: “What Now?” And that takes me back, as just about everything takes me back these days, to those quiet sessions, alone with him, in the night, breathing in and breathing out. And with that gentle, life-giving prayer, a new life begins. Still inchoate; still unclear—as it needs must be; but it begins. 

Which brings a corollary blessing, since, if there’s a new beginning, the old life couldn’t have been wholly “wasted” after all.