Fatalism 101

I own a somewhat unnerving take on life. I’m young enough to feel that life is long and varied, and that somehow, if I practice enough I’ll find some greener pasture later in life, some prize of contentment. But I am old enough to no longer feel immortal, to no longer see life as a vast expanse of endless time as those who are much younger than me see that which lies before them. I see deadlines and expiration dates, and I see the goal of contented old age as a myth, or perhaps a rare truth, but maybe not for me. Anyone who doesn’t view things that way hasn’t been paying attention, as the tragedy of impaired health and untimely death is all around us, rendering the concept of living happily ever after, fading out with silver hair and wrinkled skin and a soft smile a very far fetched idea.

And that isn’t because of a path of fast, hard living that I’ve taken. Indeed, just the opposite has been my course, cautious and concerned, with all things except the BMI. Perhaps this fatalistic view is bad, and wrong, and perhaps it shouldn’t consume me like it is capable of doing. I see those around me, busily buzzing from one task to the next, from one object to another, constantly in motion and constantly sacrificing in order to some day obtain the right to graze in that greenest pasture. We miss kids games, we miss first steps, we miss sitting on the end of a pier with a fishing pole in hand, wondering what might bite while having no real concern whether something does or doesn’t. We miss things because we subscribe to the faulty premise that our lives will allow time for such pleasures, just on some day other than today.

This isn’t to say that I brood in a house with shades drawn, sitting in the dark wondering what insidious disease will capture my attention and then my life, because I only do that sometimes. But it is to say that being aware of death is the main reason to live. To find value in life, in every day tasks, and to realize that there is no culminating prize in life that comes at some ripe old age. The other evening, I undertook the mundane task of bringing a pillow from one client’s home to another. It’s a long story, as far as why that pillow needed special transport, but it did and I was the courier. And so I left my house at around 7 in the evening and my daughter, aged seven, was happy to tag along. And so we drove.

We talked about school, which had just started the day before, and we talked about homework and guitar lessons, and we listened to music and she held my hand. We picked up the pillow at one house, drove it to another, and settled in for the somewhat considerable drive home. The sun had just set, leaving behind remnants of light that warmed the corn and soybean fields, illuminating the nearing harvest. My daughter sat in the front seat, which I’m not sure if she’s allowed to do, but she did, her legs folded under her, rambling on some more as I drove to where the sun had just set. Earlier that day, one deal had been resuscitated only through advanced paramedic techniques, a mess of blood and nearly shattered dreams scattered across my desk, another deal had nearly come together before both sides retreated, and sellers of various makes and models wondered aloud, in mostly angry tones, why their homes haven’t sold (clears throat, mumbles “price”). With those concerns, each one slowly faded with every detailed mention from that seven year old of her classroom, and of her teacher, and of the way she told one boy at recess that he shouldn’t take so many risks on the playground. After a day of mundane stresses, that drive was enough to make a guy feel luckier than Lou Gehrig.

And so it goes today, another day of work for all of us, another day of thinking that some day we’ll get to where we wish we had always been. We’ll work all day today, and then some of tomorrow too. We’ll think about things we really want to do, like purchase that lake house that we’ve been hemming and hawing over for years and years, and when we’ll decide that we’re getting closer to realizing that dream but that we simply are not there yet. We’ll dream those dreams, and then table them for another day, another season, another year, thinking that someday we’ll be ready but knowing that day isn’t today. But what if it is? What if there is no tomorrow? Or what if there’s a tomorrow but there’s no version of the tomorrow five years from now? What if we’re waiting so long that we have waited right through life? I suppose we shouldn’t wish for tomorrow and maybe, instead, just live for today.

A fun aspect of my business is that I get to see both the financial and emotional gyrations of my clients. I get to see the goal presented, then the goal deferred, then the goal captured. I get to see those who put off their vacation home purchase for years, and then I get to see them pounce on something when the timing is perceived to be right. I get to see the happy endings of a dream realized. I get to hear the common refrain of these buyers telling me that they should have done this sooner, that their Saturdays before these Saturdays were, in hindsight, of the most boring variety imaginable. I get to see their children grow up swimming and fishing and splashing through summer. I get to see all of these wonderful things. But the other side of this is I get to see those who painfully cannot get out of their own way. I get to see those who wish for a vacation home, those who are capable of a vacation home, but those who think that the timing remains uncertain and not quite right. I see those buyers, doused in indecision, assured that the vacation home itself is right for them but the timing is wrong, and I feel sorry for them. Putting off for tomorrow that which can be done today is fine, but it assumes that there’s always another tomorrow.