School came easy to me. I was a good student, at least measured by grades and behavior. I don't expect anybody to feel sorry for me because of this, but it turns out that excelling comes with its own set of baggage. Who'd have guessed?
We all want recognition for how we carry ourselves in the world. But recognition, in the form of regular praise, top grades, and awards, can be addictive. Do X, Y, or Z - get the cheese at the end of the maze. Do it again, bigger and better, get more cheese. The feedback loop seduces even as it subtly (or not so subtly) affects behavior. Failing to do X, Y, or Z, taking a chance on, say, doing Q, feels risky because the rewards and consequences are unknown or unpleasant. In high school, on track to be valedictorian, I didn't take typing, even though it would have been useful, because it most likely would have blown my 4.0. Consequently, I am typing this blog entry using four fingers and a thumb.
By getting caught in the good feedback loop I learned to avoid taking risks. I learned to follow rules and expect rewards to follow. I was juiced up on the praise and acceptance of others (although it turns out that jealousy of others was an almost acceptable substitute). I learned how to be a "good boy," which served me well in life, right up until it didn't.
As an adult, being a "good boy" just doesn't work. Careers, relationships, passions, social engagement, spiritual inquiry - none of these are successfully negotiated by someone who cares too desperately what others think of him or her. Life, it turns out, holds no truck with black and white rules. Rather, life is a multicolor, paradoxical, mind-blowing endeavor that calls to us to embrace it, even as it chooses, at times, to chew us up and spit us out. It's all part of the great dance of the universe.
In order to live life as the good man I aspire to be, it has become necessary to say goodbye to the "good boy" I've tried to be. This means I can no longer afford to act from a place that tries to please everyone.
"What can I do today to make the world a better place?" This question stares me in the face every time I open the refrigerator to feed my face. It's a reminder that deciding not to please others doesn't give me license to ignore them. It's a reminder that, to be a good man, I need to act from that deep internal place that calls me to serve others even as I care for myself. I need to joyfully jump onto the universe's dance floor and dance my butt off.
There are worse places to set the scene for the third act of your life than Boulder, Colorado. The Chamber of Commerce promises 300 days of sunshine a year, a statement that if not true at least isn't much of a boast. You can hardly turn the corner without running into another brew pub serving really good beer. Restaurants abound, and the norm is for them to serve organic and/or local food to the extent possible. You can hike, bike, walk, run, ski, and enjoy beautiful and sometimes rugged nature. You're 30 minutes or less from Denver, 45 minutes to a few hours away from stunning mountain towns. Entertainment, meditation communities, education - all that and more is here.
I moved to the Boulder area last September after living in the Lansing, Michigan area for more than 20 years. I miss the people and communities (theater, church, yoga) I left behind, but have otherwise not looked back. Boulder has called to me since I was six years old, a phenomenon I wrote about in a post in 2009. That it took me more than 50 years to answer the call is the stuff of life. But when I turned 60 last month and took my place for the third act of my life, I was in Colorado. I was home.
I've taken the first nine months here as a sort of "self-funded sabbatical" to make the transition. It takes a lot of work to move. You have to transfer licenses and registrations, find new doctors, discover where to shop and where to go for other services. I'm on my second dentist, my second hair stylist, and my second yoga studio. I've bought some new clothes more appropriate for a climate where the weather changes four times in a day. I've joined some groups to help me meet new people and to learn the ropes of hiking the open space, the Flatirons, and the front range. I've broken into the local theater community and will perform in "Spoon River Anthology" in a couple months. I've grieved the end of my marriage to a woman I still care about deeply. I've gently begun the process of looking at what meaningful work I can do to make a living, work that will pay the bills and help make the world a better place. And I've spent lots and lots of time with my daughter and her family who moved here a month before me.
I'm not sure how exciting my third act will be. I hope to work and write and act and do yoga and hike and fall in love again and travel and do any number of things. But a lot of the act will feature me not doing, but being - resting into the beauty and wonder of a universe that has been there all along, hiding right behind the busy-ness I constructed for most of my life. The third act will be about resolution, love, and service. The critics might not approve, but they had too much to say about the first two acts for me to bother with them now. (Especially harsh was that judgmental bastard in my head.)
"Wherever you go, there you are," so the saying goes. Well, yes and no. Some places support you in ways that others cannot, help you live more authentically. Since moving here last fall this has happened to me more times than I can recall: I turn around for one reason or another, see the mountains spread in front of me, feel a fountain of gratitude rise up in me, and spontaneously say, "Thank you." Maybe it's just the sentimentality of a guy getting on in years. Or maybe it's the sound a soul makes when it is finally home.
