As an enduring nostalgist, this New York Times Piece affected me deeply. Tim Krieder examines middle-age and its accompanying feelings of helplessness. I read a lot of myself here, from his comically poignant views on children:
Most of my married friends now have children, the rewards of which appear to be exclusively intangible and, like the mysteries of some gnostic sect, incommunicable to outsiders. In fact it seems from the outside as if these people have joined a dubious cult: they claim to be much happier and more fulfilled than ever before, even though they live in conditions of appalling filth and degradation, deprived of the most basic freedoms and dignity, and owe unquestioning obedience to a capricious and demented master.
I have never even idly thought for a single passing second that it might make my life nicer to have a small, rude, incontinent person follow me around screaming and making me buy them stuff for the rest of my life.
to his deeply sobering thoughts on eternity and reflection:
The problem is, we only get one chance at this, with no do-overs. Life is, in effect, a non-repeatable experiment with no control. In his novel about marriage, “Light Years,” James Salter writes: “For whatever we do, even whatever we do not do prevents us from doing its opposite. Acts demolish their alternatives, that is the paradox.” Watching our peers’ lives is the closest we can come to a glimpse of the parallel universes in which we didn’t ruin that relationship years ago, or got that job we applied for, or got on that plane after all. It’s tempting to read other people’s lives as cautionary fables or repudiations of our own.
Pursuing the delicate balance of judicious reflection and healthy perspective is difficult at best. My failures at achieving peace make me thankful and hopeful that, while we get no do-overs, this life is only the prelude. And it doesn't quite feel like home and peace and comfort and perfection because it's not. That's the hope that keeps the troubles of the world at bay.
