I was lying on a bench at the park today, watching the clouds and enjoying the breezy shade while the grandkids played in the sand, building a pyramid they swore would use up all the sand in the playground. As I lay there contentedly listening to them play, it occurred to me that even though I wasn't expecting to have the grandkids with me this summer, I'm still doing basically what I would have done with my summer anyway. I'm out in the garden, I'm enjoying the sunshine, I'm reading and going for walks and going to the lake. When I first learned I'd be babysitting all summer, I sort of assumed that meant giving up all my plans, but really, even though some things have to be postponed, the essential stuff is still happening.
I was talking today with someone who told me his daughter was studying animation in school, and how he hoped she'd find work as an animator. We discussed how, back in our day, going to school guaranteed you a job, and the job would likely support a family. But these days, education does not guarantee employment, and even if you're lucky enough to find work, it likely doesn't pay enough to live off of. While we assumed we'd be homeowners, the next generation assumes that dream is out of reach. They have much different expectations, and frankly not a lot of hope or optimism. With all that is going on in the world right now, I suspect my grandkids' futures will not end up being what I or their parents anticipated or hoped for when they were born.
Along the same vein, I heard someone the other day refer to their company's ten-year strategic plan, and I was startled. Did they really think life would be "business-as-usual" and that all was returning to normal? Did they think they could predict or control the long-range future? But then I was startled that I was startled, and I stopped to examine my own mindset. Have I really developed the conviction that we don't have ten years left as a species? How can we possibly, I argue, when we've passed so many tipping points and set up such dire circumstances for ourselves? There's really no pulling out of it. Life may continue, but not along the same old lines with the same familiar and predictable patterns, and I balk at the thought of even trying to pretend nothing has changed or will change. Rigid long-term plans will have to adapt or crumble. Sooner or later, even the most apathetic or optimistic will have to concede that "the norm" is no longer possible or even ethical.
This concept can either depress you or exhilarate you, depending on whether you see it as an ending or an opportunity to begin afresh. To redefine what we want life to be. To identify what is truly important and capture it in the way we live in the future. We can't create a new way of being, though, until we acknowledge the old way didn't work and abandon it. As long as we keep doggedly insisting on "business-as-usual," we'll never move forward into something better.
I'm not sure if this post is coherent or captures what I'm trying to say. Maybe I need to ponder it a bit more. Lying on a bench at the park, with the wispy clouds above me and the sound of children building a monumental sandcastle nearby. As good a place as any to contemplate the end of life as we know it. Somehow the idea doesn't frighten or disturb me all that much. The essentials are still possible. It's everything else that must fall away.
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