Birthday Week Thoughts: Bicycling my way into the Fifties

Blogging: Birthday Week
Bicycling my way into the Fifties

©Mark H. Pillsbury

Leaving the past decade feels momentous. Was it a mountain-top experience; or in reality, a “mole-hill?” It depends on the perspective—the viewpoint. I’ve never carried the heft of “age” so physically, the wear and mileage shows at every doctors visit. Skin, teeth, eyes, muscles, feet… Could they all decline at once, right around this milestone birthday? I’m serious. This isn’t the obligatory midlife melodrama blog post. I won’t berate generic marketing campaigns aimed at driving me to false comparisons. You know the ones.

Still, I’m wondering whether this decade taught me more than the others. Happy where I am, better in so many phases of life, it is the surviving that gives my reflection meaning. As I’ve often written  here on the New Rostra blog about resiliency, recovery, recalibration as a result of our brokenness; this post is also a good point at which to bisect my story. My birthday month isn’t a midlife crisis; but instead, a vista from which to look both forward and past.

Last Saturday night I viewed a couplet star, grouped too far away to see with the naked eye. My lifespan’s brevity compared to the time it took for the light to reach that telescope, warped my sense of time; forcing me to admit my few decades don’t amount to more than a blip on a nanometer. And what am I to make of my accomplishments? How do I set goals this late in life, with reality setting in? It’s a mental tug-of-war between what-might-be and what-might-have-been; a battle against cynicism that thinks, “I’ve seen it all by now.” As I think about this age, I’m aware that the knowledge that makes me cherish innocence, makes innocence unattainable; nonetheless, I’m reminded by Solzhenitsyn that I must still “cherish innocence,” not losing the wonder of discovery, even by riding a bike around the neighborhood. (Psalm 51:12)

Stepping off the busy-bus for a few moments to reflect on this midpoint; I’m happier in being, more than doing, in thinking more than talking, in giving rather than taking, resting instead of rushing. I’m even comfortable with renouncing the vanished naivety and utter futility of the “Illusion of Control.” For the past 18 years, my family and my church has helped me the most to grow and expand my definitions of love, joy, peace, centeredness, humor, inter-dependence, humility, and purpose.

In this beautiful October, always one of the best months of the year; my mind focuses on this life, my loves, dreams, and the purpose for being. By sweet grace, the tempests have stalled for the briefest of moments; the Ferris-wheel of life slowly turning to the top of the circle, giving me time to breathe. Smiling at what came before, future storms at bay; I wonder over what flows out of my heart: thinking, learning, reading, working, loving, laughing, teaching, cooking, walking, bicycling… even singing!

Songs are like photographs from my childhood: listening to the AM Radio during the summer, teenage driving with the sound turned up, or the long commute between Austin and Dallas. From the Bangles to Rush, Soul Train, Don Kirshner’s Rock Concert, Starplex Amphitheatre, the ACL Guadalupe studio recordings attended; these are just some of the ways song burned into my psyche. I’ve gone from 8-tracks to Pandora® hearing songs like “Walking on a Thin Line,” Huey Lewis & the News, the one-shot album of Bad English, sneaking out to a Tom Petty concert, Shalomar’s “Dancing in the Sheets,” and maybe a slow dance to Lionel Ritchie’s “My Love?” Strangely, somewhere in the night (or the 1980s); I became a big fan of Frank Sinatra (thanks Mary!). As an example: “It was a very good year” lyrics are shown below (1965).

The bell’s about to ring. I have to cram 50 years of memories back into my memory locker and run to class. I appreciate you taking the time to listen to me during this break. Humbly working in life’s Second Act not to waste the wisdom gained from the first; I’m not going to risk my time and energy on some of the activities and things I did before. I want to live my life true to my conscience, my family, and the calling of God’s word (sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel); not what I think others expect of me. I’m planning on being more appreciative of the small things in life that can’t be bought. Can I rest more than work, listen more than speak, love more, worry less; will I feel dumber the smarter I get? Maybe it’s true that 50 is the new 30.

(October 2014)

“When you hit your fifties life starts comin’ up on ya fast,” Gordo Tallman said to me on the occasion of my forty-ninth birthday. “Before that time life is pretty much a straight climb. Wife looks up to you and the young kids are small enough, and the older kids smart enough, not to weigh you down. But then, just when you start puttin’ on the pounds an’ losin’ your wind, the kids are expectin’ you to fulfill your promises and the wife all of a sudden sees every single one of your flaws. Your parents, if you still got any, are gettin’ old and turnin’ back into kids themselves. For the first time you realize that the sky does have a limit. You comin’ to a rise, but when you hit the top there’s another life up ahead of you and here you are—just about spent.” (By Walter Mosley ©2010, Penguin Group Publishing, New York)

"I think of my life as vintage wine from fine old kegs;

 From the brim to the dregs, and it poured sweet and clear.

 It was a very good year.” –Frank Sinatra (1965)

"Sixty feels exactly like 50, with aching feet and more forgetfulness. (AAA had to come unlock my car this morning, as God is my witness). But your inside person doesn't age. Your inside person is soul, is heart, in the eternal now, the ageless, the old, the young; all the ages you've ever been." --Anne Lamott (2014)

Psalter's prayer: "Clean my heart God,

Cast me not away from your presence
Restore to me, the joy of my salvation."

##

Leaving New York: True Love

Track Four #TrueLove

He loved Central Park. It gave him a feeling of liberation from confined space; oozing out of the pores of the freest city in the world--of possibilities outside its verdant borders. Staring out at the Park, the reality of his abrupt exit from FormCorp nearly suffocated him this evening on the way to the airport; slowly making his way north on Fifth Avenue, a sad soundtrack playing in the dark limousine.

The four years spent in Manhattan exceeded every dream he’d had of life in the City that Never Sleeps. It breathed life into him every morning as he walked the concrete canyons to work, even trudging through grey, slushy snow. As CEO of a wholly-owned subsidiary, he spent four years immersed in FormCorp and the culture of the financial district. Large corporations have diverse networks and traditions so ingrained they live like old families, oblivious to their dysfunction and set in their ways. With many of his ideas ignored or marginalized by the parent company and on the verge of a leadership shift; he’d decided to leave without much fanfare. It was time to go, but the city's twinkle faded before his eyes, refracted by tears. The city was moving on without him.

As an outsider from New York, coming into lead a major division was a difficult challenge; the ethos of this culture was an elitist brand of excellence, and every team was a team of type-A leaders. As hard as it was to gain the high ground in his group within the larger corporation, the years had flown by in “New York time,” making this evening’s final ride even more shocking. This was it. He was leaving her. The end of a short, torrid love affair, doomed from the beginning. How appropriate that the driver, Mike; like a friend by now, slipped Coldplay’s latest reflective album "Ghost Stories" into the stereo system; a musical representation of his crushed, defeated torpor. He lifelessly leaned against the door staring out at the city bustling by, seemingly like a lover fading down and away on a busy street, lost in the crowds.

He would miss the wild changes in seasons, fashionistas, the art, and the word-on-the street. Dining in Manhattan always presented challenges, but he enjoyed the “hunt” of finding just the right place to eat. Often you didn’t brag about some local discovery because you wanted to keep it to yourself, keep it from being overrun. Here, everything moved with such a velocity; from public opinion, to speeding cabs, the rise and fall of the markets, even the lithe Central Park “joggers” had a running pace he always envied. This was the City of the World; nothing like it.

["Most other American municipalities are segregated by class and culture, education and personal choice. But in New York everybody is jumbled up together and bounced around until you have African princes walking side by side with Appalachian Daughters of the American Revolution, and aspiring starlets making room for hopeful housewives past their prime. Even with real estate costs climbing above the reach of almost everyone, you can still find all the elements of humanity riding #1 train down under the West Side of Manhattan."

--Walter Mosley (The Long Fall 2009)]

His company spent a lot of time helping its leaders learn what to do, say, how write email, or drive production and profits; however, not enough time was spent helping those same leaders learn what to stop doing. His early mistake was not in governance of his team, but failing to ask the right questions about the company which owned FormCorp. Before he even took the job in New York, he could have delved deeply into its leadership structure and how its centralized nature diluted the power of the divisional CEOs. Like why did the Executive VP working closely with the President & Chairman have the right meddle in his operation? She wasn’t above him on the org chart, but he couldn’t get her out of his business: "that's just not how we do it at FormCorp," was the mantra; but he believed that without freedom and creativity, collaboration looks like conformity.

His ability to change or even accommodate the executive leadership team of FormCorp’s parent company was slight in the first year of his tenure; and yet business practices they couldn’t stop doing would be the harbinger of his end, even though three years later. This may seem as minutiae out of a MBA class; but power struggles are as old as time; and it came down to that.

Taking a risky leap exposes one to all sorts of danger and timing is everything.

He’d heard those bromides forever, but their truth hung on every word of the songs Chris Martin sang this lonely evening. His family had moved back to California already, giving him time to close up his tenure at FormCorp and exit the city. All the “what-ifs” had been tumbling around in his mind for weeks, as the end approached; he’d even considered taking some time off to consider resurgence--staying in the position but taking a different approach. Ultimately, it was the permanent finality of this trip out of town making him feel so broken, ancient, and sad--and gone.

 “It is often said that New York is a city for only the very rich and the very poor. It is less often said that New York is also, at least for those of us who came there from somewhere else, a city for only the very young.” ― Joan Didion, from Slouching Towards Bethlehem  

Stuck in traffic on Fifth Avenue, listening to Coldplay’s transparent, very personal CD, “Ghost Stories,” he recognized that his sorrow was different than Chris Martin; but they both carried bruised and tattered hearts. The melancholy of the fourth song, “True Love” played as a soundtrack to his grieving; lament reflecting back off the tall glass towers peering over the Park. Going to the airport on his last trip out of town lifted the burden of his corporate battle against dysfunction; even though physically, he slumped down, hidden in the dark leather seat like it was a cave. His sentiment was mournful, even weeping, like Jonny Buckland's ethereal guitar solo toward the end of the track. She couldn't look him in the eye as she left, that was the worst of it.

Darkness engulfed like none before. A long, successful run in this business made him to this point unaware of the pain of rejection or the agony of defeat. He saw his underlings and some friends endure disaster before, and subconsciously, he probably knew that renewed growth would come out of this day; yet on this drive none of that coalesced in his mind. For a while he was in control, but he lost it. He sobbed. Unbelieving, agonizing with regret. The song was about a pain too great to face:

"Tell me you love me, New York; if you don't, then lie. It can’t be over. Lie to me."

(end)

#Fiction ©Mark H. Pillsbury (2014)
©Coldplay 6th album "Ghost Stories" rel. by Atlantic Records in N Am. on 05/19/2014