A dozen years ago my nephew Jason told me, during an intense heart to heart about our lives and without malice, that I was “on the back nine” of life. After I hurled a choice expletive his way, I soberly realized the truth of that statement: my life was likely more than half over. I didn’t figure I’d live to be 104 but ouch anyway.
Now I’m even closer to entering that great clubhouse in the sky, and I don’t want to go. Doors are closing and some things will never get done. Dylan Thomas had it right: “Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” But what can you do?
One way to try and keep the light burning is to turn to the emotional salve of reading or listening to reminders from a variety of sources that provide affirmation. You know the type— “now is all we have,” “live your life to the fullest,” “don’t delay because you never know when your time will come,” etc. Not necessarily the most practical advice, but better than nothing.
One inspiring cool cat is named Derick Grant. My wife sends me his reels from Instagram where he sits on a couch and delivers matter of fact challenges in a delightfully off-hand and sometimes humorous way. In one he posed a bunch of deathbed questions, “You’re going to ask yourself, did I do it? Did I really do it the way I wanted to? What was the quality of my life like? What was the quality of my relationships like? Did I love hard? Did I wake up every day and say here’s an adventure, let’s go get it while we can?” Tough questions all.
Recently, an invitation crystallized a practical way to embrace adventure in an unexpected way. My friend Chad invited me to a “spoken word campfire” event at someone’s house I didn’t know.I also didn’t know what a spoken word campfire was except that it involved a fire pit and people reading their own or someone else’s poetry or sharing stories of some kind. Sounded intriguing, plus I wanted to hang some with Chad. So I said yes.
Before we got there, I wondered who in little old Beaufort would show up, since in the 18 months I’ve lived here I’ve failed to detect any kind of hipster scene that might support such a gathering, at least how I envisioned it. Of course there is no reason for me to know that scene at all, seeing how I am way beyond that demographic and fail to qualify in so many other ways too. I have been to poetry slams before, which is related, but that was decades ago, in bars and dingy basements. Off we went.
When we arrived at the comfortably funky house at the edge of Pigeon Point the light was just fading and the woodsmoke found its way to my eyes. Somehow the burn felt okay, it was nice to be outside, doing something different, and the folks gathered were putting off positive vibes. I tried to relax into the scene and not feel self-conscious.
Little did I know that you don’t need hipsters, per se, to hold a gathering of this kind. Instead, it just takes a group of like-minded souls who choose to make their own meaningful slice of life by opening up to each other about how they are doing, their thoughts about the world, then sharing their feelings about all of it. All while flames flicker & dance and logs crackle & pop.
There were fourteen or so individuals that formed a circle in a hodgepodge of seating. Then someone got us started with a goofy icebreaker involving tossing an imaginary knife that cracked people up. Most of those gathered were younger than me, many in their twenties or thirties, probably a few in their forties. There were several educators and one guy who worked in conservation.
Only one gent revealed his actual age, saying he was eighty-four. He had fluffy Einstein-ish white hair and carried a trumpet-like instrument that he would play intermittently, in between bits of poetic lyrical musings. At one point he riffed about his journey in life consisting of the push and pull of being “a part,” as in joining, and being “apart,” as in staying away from people. It was personal, true, and loaded with wistful reflection.
This was after a theme had been built via several poems read by different individuals that linked together social media dangers, airport fever dreams, loss and desire, and the wonder of ending up where we happened to find ourselves. Somebody read some Shakespeare that fit the mood too.
The through line was making human connection and it took a story by an educator about her recent trip to a conference to bring it all into focus. She talked about getting into some heavy conversations with strangers and taking risks by sharing yourself and being vulnerable. She got animated and talked about how that is what we need so much more of—intentional human connection. Nods and murmurs of agreement all around.
The gathered then enthusiastically added more thoughts about how it could be done. A young woman talked about gardening in her front yard, just so she could meet the neighbors. This was after she quit social media and felt like she didn’t have any options except meet people in person. Turns out it worked.
So in terms of what we can do in place of rage at dying light, or scrolling endlessly in search of satisfaction, or living apart and not knowing the route of return is simple: seek connection nearby. Maybe this is around a fire or digging in our front yard. First, though, we just have to say yes.
