Ed. — From the Sunday, Sept. 22, print edition.
VIRGINIA BEACH — My grandfather loved to quote quick-witted literary figures in American history.
His favorite line, oft repeated: “Golf is a good walk spoiled.” He attributed it to Mark Twain and used to goad those in our family who preferred the sport to Penn State football.
He also enjoyed reminding us that Ben Franklin had it right when he noted there are only two certainties in life: death and taxes.
I was in my early thirties when my grandfather passed, too young to have enough life experience to confirm or counter Franklin’s phrase. But I’m old enough now to know that Franklin had it wrong. In this world, there’s one other thing we can always count on – nothing stays the same for long, including ourselves.
Our youngest, now 21, was finishing fourth grade when this truism caught my attention. I was freelance writing and teaching evening classes then so I could take my son to and from school each day.
We rode a two-seater bike for a while, and then we rode separately or walked the dog the short distance to the school down the road. We spent the time along the way chatting about whatever came to mind, making plans for the afternoon when I’d meet him at the gate for the ride home.
I didn’t notice the time passing when I sold the two-seater to another parent eager to try it out with her child, nor did I make a note of the days going by when my son started beating me home by peddling ever faster.
We kept on — the speed of life outpacing me without notice.
That spring, my husband, Tom, and I explored other areas for a bit more space. We spent our weekends — our youngest in tow –– visiting various houses within our price range until one finally caught our eye.
It was a small rancher not far from the water and within biking and walking distance of the nearby elementary school. I was excited as I stood in the small backyard, making plans for the first day of school as if we had already inhabited that life. I imagined all the back and forth to come.
But when I shared my plans with Tom, he laughed and said, “You know that’s only going to happen for about a year. Then he’ll be in middle school and riding a bus.”
I was dumbstruck.
There I was, imagining my world in the future without a moment’s alteration or second thought to the changes wrought daily. I wasn’t shocked or saddened that my son would outgrow me. I was stunned by the passage of time in my own life. I was making plans for a future me I hadn’t planned for yet.
This realization shifted my perspective, but the lesson about the constancy of change, that nothing stays the same for long, took some time to stick.
When I make decisions about the future today, I think about that moment in the backyard of a home I never occupied. I consider all the years between now and those supposed days to come and project myself forward to see who I might be when a decision runs its course.
Recently, I shared this perspective with my sister, who’s maneuvering through a few life decisions.
I told her it was important to imagine herself occupying those places of her current imagination as the person she might be years from now rather than the person she is today.
We agreed that thinking about our older selves isn’t as much fun now as it was when we were younger. But we understand that such considerations are a kindness to our future selves
They’re a way to make space for inevitable change and to welcome who we become in the process.
The author is a former Virginia Beach Planning Commissioner and college professor. Reach her at leejogger@gmail.com.
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