Empty, emptier, empti(n)est

Every morning I woke up in the grip of two opposite fears:
that my time on earth was streaming away behind me with
unbearable swiftness; that another day loomed up in front
of me with leaden interminability. Not since the age of eight,
when I was still learning to master boredom, had life struck
me so much as simply a problem of what to do.

Lost & Found, Kathryn Schulz

The older I get, the earlier I wake up. My husband’s family calls it senile Bettflucht, a German term poking fun at the way “the olds” are always fleeing their beds. So, 5:30 a.m., to an (almost) empty nester in the feast-or-famine freelance game, means there are nearly 17 hours to kill before it’s time for bed again. A much younger me cannot fathom it: “You mean, you have the whole day to yourself? You can read as much as you want? Wander around until you get lost?” “Well, yes” says today-me, “I suppose, theoretically...”

The thing is, now that you are sleep-deprived, alone far more than you probably should be and have less time-sensitive busy work, an empty calendar can be anxiety-inducing to the point of paralysis. And those thousands of open tabs in your brain? No longer obsessed with mothering, they are postively exploding with a Philip Glass symphony of past regrets, future fears and existential quandaries. This is not, my therapist assures me, uncommon. Particularly among women of a certain age, when domestic pressures start to ebb, you finally have the head space for issues that do not involve kissing booboos, corralling sports gear and editing college essays. I am not saying there aren’t some empty nesters (mostly—but not all—men, I have found) that have a certain lightness, a carefree FINALLY! vibe in this stage of life. Mazel tov! What I am saying is simply that, for many of us, the experience is more like going through all the stages of grief simultaneously.

The good news is there are books and podcasts with sound advice (or at least validation), there are therapists accessible on zoom and a whole gaggle of girlfriends likely going through a similar if not the same thing. The bad news is that your old techniques of release are not as effective as they once were. Instead of euphoria, now all there is at the bottom of a bottle is a bad case of the runs and missed deadlines. The idea of sex, which was once so liberating and empowering, seems to have more women feeling dread than desire. And where we might have gotten away with dancing in public in our 30s, there aren’t a lot of clubs today making the 50-somethings feel particularly welcome.*

On my worst days, the once so productive me would seek solace in the screen with the zeal of a completist (66 hours of Scrubs, 77 hours of Friends, 104 hours of HIMYM and 153 hours of Gilmore Girls add up to a lot of nostalgia and very little satisfaction). My best days saw me working out, eating my greens and self-helping so hard my head would throb. For more than a year, I have attempted to dare greatly, resist the attention economy and heal the shame that binds me. I have discovered creative living beyond fear, the wisdom of my body and the path of integrity. I diligently worked my mirror, untethered my life and loved what is. I inquired into my values, searched for lasting happiness, and suited up for the war of art. (Bonus points if you can name the books!)

Two things became crystal clear. One, even though you might understand something intellectually, that does not mean you can (or will) put it into practice. And two, contrary to popular opinion, maybe too much knowledge can be a bad thing.

It dawned on me that I have gotten pretty comfortable over the decades, in my intellectualizing, with my little luxuries, on my couch. Not that any of those things were giving me happiness or, as Oprah prefers, “happier-ness”? And yet, slowly, and ever so steadily, the gratitude practice and the talk therapy, the journaling and the meditating, has started to have an effect, just like the bastards said they would. One could argue that I was focusing too much on theory and not enough on practice. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time—see also parenting, dog training, creative writing courses. But this time I felt a new level of intentionality (a word that is equal parts cringe and spot-on) and an internal call to action. Maybe those bastards were right about something else, too. That if I was to honor this wild, precious life of mine, there is indeed no time with the power of now.

The trips I’ve planned for 35 Houses are an attempt to shake things up a bit, to strike out on my own for the first time since my 20s and to open myself up to lessons and landscapes, truths and teachers that I damn sure won’t find on my couch. It starts in just a few weeks with one carry-on bag (!!) and a visit to houses 1, 3, 7, 8, 10 and 23. I’ll be in New Jersey, New York, Georgia, Florida, Missouri and Kansas, reconnecting with at least 2 girlfriends I haven’t seen in more than 30 years. I still can’t believe it is actually happening.

Wish Me Luck and Watch This Space!

* Seriously, what is up with that? Now that I have ample disposable income, no need for a babysitter and the good sense to leave my table and the bathroom tidier than I found it, you’re telling me there are no savvy nightclub owners out there that would prefer my patronage over a bunch of poor, vomiting and tragic students?