“Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes. How do you measure a year in the life?”
Today is the 1-year anniversary of my divorce (excuse the oxymoron). Some introspection seems in order. No surprise—because I am who I am—my mind immediately turns to a Broadway show lyric—Jonathan Larson’s deceptively simple, yet brilliant “Seasons of Love” from Rent (see above). I can’t get it out of my head.
How do I measure the past year? In many ways, it’s been a rough one. I moved out of my comfy, lovingly curated, craftsman-style suburban home and into a modern, 1-bedroom apartment in a large complex close to New York City. I got rid of a lot of physical stuff, some of which I miss, some that’s best tossed and forgotten. I know I didn’t really need those hundreds of Playbills, books from graduate school, clothing that was too big, too small, too out-of-date, too ugly. Depending on my mood on any given day during the clearing-out process, I either kept too much or tossed too much. I uncovered a few unpleasant surprises along with some priceless treasures. When I unexpectedly found a bag filled with every congratulations card sent in celebration of our wedding 30 years prior, the shock was so strong that I felt like I’d been tased. (I had no idea I’d kept those mementos of happier times). But I also found a hilarious illustrated note written by my son to the Tooth Fairy, explaining that he had misplaced his tooth and asking her to check “Yes” or “No”: would she cough up the bucks, despite his lack of physical evidence?
Although arduous, purging the physical stuff was easy compared to dealing with the emotional upheaval. When I first moved to my new place, after living in my New Jersey house for over 17 years, and previously, in 2 Brooklyn apartments (for a total of over 30 years with my former husband), I felt as though I were staying at a hotel. It was quite pleasant and comfortable, but it didn’t feel like home. Even after a year, I’m still feeling somewhat displaced. Growing up, my mom had a plaque in the kitchen that read, “Home is where the heart is.” I wonder: when will this feel like home? Have I somehow lost my heart along the way?
So, how do I measure the year? My first impulse is to say that I haven’t really accomplished anything. (Oh how we women love being tough on ourselves). But instead, I’ll give myself a break and choose to believe that not all accomplishments are visible; some may be internal, hidden from view, but still real.
Here are some of the things I’ve done over the past 12 months:
I’ve applied for a hundred jobs and not gotten hired.
I’ve gone on a hundred dates and not found a lasting relationship.
I’ve seen a hundred plays (maybe more; I never keep track). Even the bad ones have brought me joy.
I’ve climbed thousands of flights on the stair master and swum thousands of laps in the pool.
I’ve made new friends and lost some old ones. I’ve tried my best to be a good friend to both old and new.
I’ve had a birthday. I’ve lied about my age.
I’ve cried too much, but I’ve probably laughed just as much.
I’ve written thousands of words—about musicals, plays, and my life.
I’ve started and ended every single day with gratitude to the Universe for all that I have. Because although my life, like every other life, has not quite played out as I’d planned, the good stuff has way outweighed the bad.
There remain so many things I want to accomplish. I know it’s on me to figure out how to accomplish them. I’m increasingly aware of the presence of a ticking clock. (Is it my imagination, or is it growing louder)?
When I look back at these past “Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes,” I’m reminded of yet another Broadway lyric. This one’s from the grand master himself, Mr. Sondheim. It’s from Follies, a magnificent commentary on life’s grandeur—both faded and otherwise. (Try, if you can, to hear the words in the gravelly, been there/done that voice of Miss Elaine Stritch):
“I've run the gamut, A to Z. Three cheers and dammit, C'est la vie. I got through all of last year, and I'm here.”
Curtain, Act 1. Stay tuned.