Work in Progress
On turning 60, finding wonder amid the turmoil, and figuring things out.
I’ve been thinking a lot about In the Telling and what I want it to be. The truth is that I just haven’t figured it out yet.
I haven’t figured a lot of things out yet.
In less than three months, I’ll turn 60—a number that just boggles my mind. I don’t know what 60 is supposed to feel like but, surely, it’s not this. I’m only aware that I’m not basking in the glow of youth when I look in the mirror or down at my hands, seeing the sagging skin and increasingly crooked fingers. Otherwise, I feel younger and more childlike than ever.
I’m amazed at the number, if for no other reason than it came upon me so quickly. I used to buck the “life is short” trope, believing there was nothing that took so long to complete as life. But I get it now, because while I can recall thinking my childhood was taking too long and that I’d never be a grownup, the years since I graduated college have passed in the blink of an eye.
I didn’t know it was possible to be both world-weary and filled with wonder at the same time, but that’s where I am. These feel like the darkest of times with the world teetering on the edge, yet most days I spend a fair amount of time feeling positively giddy—like when a bright red cardinal perches on the snow-topped birdfeeder outside the window, sharing a nosh with a blue jay and a woodpecker; or when I hear the crescendo of Beethoven’s 9th Symphony (the Ode to Joy) or Pavarotti belting out Nessun Dorma.
On Friday, while driving the hilly, twisting backroads of Morris and Warren counties, I reveled in the beauty of the wooded landscape with its narrow bridges over babbling brooks, and the stately old homes with their magazine-ready holiday decorations, and a lone doe crossing the road in front of me. I felt happy that this is where I lived, blessed to have reclaimed residency in a place with so much character and serenity.
I am home.
That’s the first time I’ve said that in the six weeks since I’ve been back in New Jersey.
Today, this place I call home is covered in snow, and it makes me happy. To hear the crunch of it beneath my feet, and take in the aroma of fireplaces burning wood, is a full sensory experience I hope to never take for granted. I spent a good fifteen minutes this morning brushing five inches of snow off my SUV and scraping ice off my windshield—but knowing there was a mug of hot chocolate and a croissant awaiting me inside the house brought me back to my childhood, and it made me feel like I found home again.
That’s when I realized that home isn’t a place; it’s a feeling—and that feeling can be elusive and transient. It can lay dormant inside of you, waiting for just the right trigger to rise to the surface. And even after it lives with you for a long while, one day you may awaken and find that it’s gone.
So, there’s that.
But finding home still hasn’t offered much clarity on what I want to do next, or what I want this medium to be.
I’ve tried to be a lot of things in this life. A poet. A photographer. A writer. A wife. A daughter. A sister. A cousin. A friend. A single cat lady. A dog mama. A girlfriend. A world traveler. An entrepreneur. A creative director. An influencer. A teacher. A tomboy. A girly-girl. An ex-pat. A pianist. A guitarist. An artist. A runner. A smoker. Alone. Alive.
Some of these things I did with varying degrees of success; others were spectacular failures. Some never moved out of the dream stage, others got me on stage. Some I put minimal effort into and got minimal results, while others got my all but still didn’t go anywhere fast enough to hold my attention.
When I look back on some of these things, I cringe—not at the result, but that I undertook them at all. The book of poetry, for example, wasn’t born out of any deep, abiding love for poetry, but because I was trying to be a poet without any understanding of the medium.
A year like the one I’ve had, where I lost both my father and a long-held job, can spin your compass until you’re dizzy. But there’s also liberation from the loss. Two big pieces of my identity were bound to my father and my job, and now I’ve got them back. The rediscovery process is daunting, but it’s also exhilarating.
As for In the Telling—well, I feel a little lost here. Maybe you’ve picked up on that. I think I tried too hard to emulate other Substacks I admired instead of listening to my own voice. So, I hope you’ll stick around while I figure out what I want this space to be. And I have a favor to ask: Please give me feedback on the stories I post here. If there’s something you’d like to hear more about, let me know. If you have a similar story to tell, post it in the comments. If you think someone you know will find any value in what I’ve said, share the post with them.
Until I get my bearings, I’m only going to post here once a week, and only one post each month will be free to all.
Thanks so much for reading this—and, if you’re one of my subscribers, please know how grateful I am for the time (and money) you’ve invested in me.
Have a very Merry Christmas, a happy Hanukkah … and a great week!
I've enjoyed these since joining a couple months ago, keep it up! You're an amazing writer! Tough talent to make a career of, but nonetheless, I hope it remains a part of whatever your next professional step is. Happy holidays Noodles!
I, for one, look forward to receiving my In the Telling posts. I always want to hear what you have to say. But in all honesty, it has been clear in your past few posts that you have been struggling for something to say and have been writing more to fill the page space. I have chalked that up to the tumultuous change in your life, as opposed to thinking you didn't know what you wanted In the Telling to actually BE.
Think back to when you first came up with the idea of In the Telling. What did you envision it to be back then? Does that help get you back on track to where you want to be again now? I will say, your earlier posts told stories about YOU, your earlier years, your travels and adventures, stories of things that served to define who you are now. Within the past few months, it has become more like a journal where you report fact - the what and why, but not the who, where and how (how it made you FEEL). Knowing you as I do, you have had so many adventures, so many travels, and you have great stories to tell from these adventures and what you took away from them. Even just your trips back up to NJ and getting together with old friends - who did you see (respecting confidentiality of course), where did you go, what were your impressions, how did it make you feel each time you saw them? I feel as if you're giving the meat but not the potatoes and gravy., We want the good stuff. The real you stuff. I know it's in there waiting to be shared.
I love you without end.