Pop 89: Everyday a Mythology
By Madonna Hamel
Lately, I find myself repeating a bit of wisdom an older woman shared with me way back when I was only half listening. At that point I had yet to reach my third third of life. So, I was a tad insulted by her hard-won truth. Or perhaps it’s more accurate to say: I couldn’t quite grasp what she was telling me. I was probably mad at someone for not taking me seriously. I was no doubt wrapped up in speculation about what they were saying about me to others and how they underestimated my intelligence or insight.
“For the first thirty years of our lives, we worry about what people think of us,” she told me. “And then, for the next thirty years, we proclaim we really don’t give an F about what anybody thinks about us. And then, finally, in our last thirty years, we get it: Nobody’s thinking about us!”
True humility is realizing that we aren’t that special, we’re just another soul trying to get by in life. We’re doing our best to hold fast to a handful of true friends with whom to have a few laughs. We’d like to have enough agency in our old age to walk to a cafe for coffee, the store for milk, a neighbour’s house to visit. In my case, I just want to be able to read all my books, hang out with my siblings, write some soothing or entertaining language to lighten someone’s day or worried mind, be it in a column or a greeting card.
The more I ponder on the wisdom of my aged friend’s insight, the more I see how it parallels a theory I have about how we approach life as a journey through myths and legends, fairy tales and yarns, then veer into the harsh realities of earning credentials, making a living, raising a family, facing losses, debts and U-turns.
Ideally, in our first thirty years, especially in childhood, the world is a place of wonder, filled with infinite possibility, momentous occasions and encounters. I myself believed in angels and the power of prayer and mercy. My mother read us stories at night from a series of books called My Book House. I was told the world was my oyster - I could do anything if I put my mind to it! But I had no idea what I wanted to be - I needed the advice and observations of the adults in my life to help me see where my talents lay. Eventually, in my twenties, I needed to make an impression to get the right people’s attention. It mattered how I was seen by others. I planned to travel the world and write a handful of best-selling novels. The idea of being a well-known writer was far more important to me than the actual act of writing itself.
For many of us, the “idea” of who we are in the first thirty years is nothing less than mythic in proportion. Anything less would be a waste of time - we plan to do great things, shake it up, rock the world. Myself, I looked to mythical and musical heroes and literary characters as models of achievement, as templates of achievement and self-realization.
Then came the second thirty years with all its side trips, detours, accidents, bumblings, losses, hits and misses. I wandered far from the mythic and the feats of heroes, the visitations of angels, the perceived kindnesses of strangers. Between 30 and 60 is a dangerous time; we can lose track of dreams and signs and wonders. Dubious ambitions can blindside a person from what beauty there is in the moment, in simple things. Some of us buy into superficial emblems of success. We become critical, cynical, fixed in our opinions. Too smart for our own good, we give up on miracles. If we’re single, we might give up on love or decide we don’t need anyone. We derive pride in our ability to not let the opinions and beliefs of others “get to us.” We are thoroughly “independent,” “realistic,” and “self-sufficient.” We’ve arrived; we got this, thanks.
Then we turn 60. We’re in our third third. And reality really steps in. We really are limited in our god-like capacities. We really don’t have all day. We really do love life. At 50, maybe we could kid ourselves that we were still middle-aged - some folks do live to 100, after all. At 60 the chances of making it to 120 are slim to none. We are definitely coasting downhill. We start noticing things like the light in the hills, the owl hooting, the sound of a loved one’s laughter. Everything is important. It’s all mythological. It’s a real paradox- to be rendered humble and right-sized is to become teachable, reachable and re-inspired, like a child again. To be hit by reality is to be hit by the momentous wonder inherent in each moment.
As I write this, I am travelling between towns and provinces on big and small highways, noting the changing geographies: the way the prairie sky opens the heart to agape, to an all-encompassing infinite possibility, how it teaches us perseverance. Then come the mountains, hellbent upward, eros in stone. And I drive and drive until I cannot drive anymore, stopping and touching my feet to the waves as they meet the shore. Here, where my sister and I bring my brother for a new kind of healing treatment, we must begin our third completely, arms open. Here is where we meet ourselves. The ocean teaches us, says my brother, to receive. Can we be open to these last thirty years, when “nobody’s thinking about us,” yet everything calls?