Travel is supposed to broaden your horizons. That's the cliché, isn't it?
You know what would really broaden them? Time travel. Somewhat difficult to arrange, you opine, with an arched brow. But it isn't, really. If you want to experience life beyond the narrow confines of your immediate time and place, you don't have to book a flight or haul out the suitcases. All you have to do is build friendships across generations. Leave the country of your own cohort.
Margaret
Of late, I've been thinking a lot about my neighbour, Margaret. Margaret died last year. Her death wasn't unexpected, she was 93, but I miss her terribly. Though decades older than me, she was the most modern woman I've ever met. In her nineties, time was measured in thimbles but acumen came by the ladleful.
Over pots of Earl Grey, we parsed human conduct and dispensed wisdom. Margaret would not suffer fools, advising that you should never let anyone decide for you who you are. Her eyes were asterisks of bemused delight when she wondered aloud why she and her husband, both in their tenth decade, were still here. With a shrug, she answered her own question: "Maybe we're here to be an example."
"Life is a shipwreck, but we must not forget to sing in the lifeboats." Isn't that lovely? I think this is what Margaret was getting at. Sing while you can. And dance. And laugh. Be kind. Be principled.
It's one thing to read insightful words, it's another thing entirely to witness people approaching their hundredth year with grace and aplomb. Margaret made old age seem like a gratifying destination. Now that she's gone, I often wonder: is it up to me now to sing in the lifeboat? If so, can I carry a tune?
Diana
Like Margaret, my friend Diana was decades ahead of me, but she was incandescent with raucous vitality and charm. Diana died at 79, a decade and a half ago, but she left a touchstone I keep close at hand to this day.
I remember my hand-wringing declaration that I must be doing it wrong, "it" being life. Diana snorted, patted my hand and, looking me squarely in the eye, said: "Like there's a right way?" To this day, that little chestnut steadies me more than almost anything else I've been told.
Given a month of Sundays, none of my contemporaries could have made such a sage pronouncement. And even if they had, their statement would have been suspect, as surely it would have lacked gravitas. My contemporaries were likely to be just as bewildered as I was, and nowhere near as benevolent as Margaret or Diana.
The other direction
The traffic goes both ways. Not long ago I sat alongside a much younger woman as she unpacked how much harder her first year of parenthood had been than she expected. She fixed me with a quizzical look when I told her my own version of the same year, then erupted with laughter. I assured her that it would all get better, and watched the corrugated lines on her brow melt away.
When she left, I felt seaworthy. A seasoned traveller. I'm reminded that I got through all of that, and that I'll get through whatever else lies in wait for me.
The shipwreck is inevitable. The most we can hope for is to sing, loudly, in the lifeboats. If you want to learn the lyrics, best spend some time with the choirmasters.