The Beautiful Trap of an Immaculate Life
I moved to paradise, but now it terrifies me
Photographs by John Patrick Weiss
Be wary of the finishing line.
It’s a bit of wisdom I’d love to share with Frenchy, just to hear his reply. But I don’t see him much now, except random moments when our paths cross in this sprawling retirement community of seven thousand homes.
We used to be sort of neighbors.
He lived a few blocks down from my house, back when I lived in that neighborhood. I‘d walk my dogs at night and bump into him traversing the same shadows and pathways.
We’d sometimes circuit a well-lit parking lot adjacent to the country club, bordered by trees, tennis courts, and bocce ball courts. Frenchy spoke of early life in Europe, and why he loves the United States and doesn’t miss his home country.
He spoke of an ill child he and his wife lost early in life. A loss forever carried.
He talked of work and colleagues who affectionately called him Frenchy due to his accent. He shared thoughts about his wife’s struggles with some kind of infirmity. That last bit puts a hitch in his chatty disposition, and he looks away briefly at the horizon.
His house and outside grounds are immaculate. He’s outgoing and intelligent and chats with anyone and everyone, sharing strong political views and varied observations about the coarsening of society.
And yet somewhere behind the conversation and high energy and friendly countenance, a sadness lurks.
It’s in his eyes. The lost child, yes. But something more.
Maybe his ailing wife, or the sense that life has mostly unfolded. This last leg of the journey brings ease and retirement peace, but also the sense of an ending. Sometimes living in a place that’s close to the finishing line does that.
He puts up a good front with upbeat conversation, evening walks, and constant yard tidying. All of it a kind of forced optimism set against the heavy reality of what awaits.
I see it elsewhere in this 55 and up community.
Folks living their best lives, some more joyously than others. But always the lengthening shadow of the night land as estate sales and real estate signs cycle through the neighborhoods, totems of time’s diminishing measure.
When I exercise at the country club I watch newcomers tour the facility, marveling at the views and beautifully designed homes and spotless amenities. The allure and bright optimism of the place welcomes, like checking in at the Hotel California. But we know how that song ends.
Be wary of the finishing line.
The place where you think your work is done. Where you can hang your hat, rest on your laurels, and settle into a comfortable rhythm and cadence.
Don’t let the finishing line become the end of the line.
I don’t know if I’ll stay. I moved here in my early fifties. The homes and amenities are lovely.
But now it frightens me.
Comfort and Security Can Mask a Kind of Slow Stagnation
There is a powerful scene in the movie Up in the Air when George Clooney’s character fires a middle-aged man played by J.K. Simmons. When Simmons laments the loss of his stable corporate job, Clooney asks him a devastating question:
“How much did they first pay you to give up on your dreams?”
He asks the question because Simmons’ character had studied culinary arts before taking the corporate job. He’d wanted to be a chef.
Sitting in my backyard, watching the sunset paint its pink and gold hues, I felt that question echo in the desert air. Except my question was different. I whispered, “How much luxury does it take to make us surrender to an early ending?”
The country club, the manicured golf courses, the endless sun. These were the reward for my twenty-six years in law enforcement. But comfort and security can mask a kind of slow stagnation.
Unpredictable friction in our lives can cause its share of uncertainty and stress, but it can also make us feel alive. Make us feel like the adventure will continue. Like we’ll live forever.
It’s preferable to a sterile, safe, air-conditioned waiting room.
No Salary Can Satisfy the Soul’s Wanderlust
I met a burly guy in Scotland who works for a Highlands tour company.
He mentioned his old life in Edinburgh. The grind and city routines. He found good money there, but no salary can satisfy the soul’s wanderlust.
And so now he takes clients in rugged jeeps to explore the ancient landscape sculpted by huge tectonic collisions and ice age glaciers. He drives along jagged peaks, heather-clad moors, deep glens, and freshwater lochs. He stops at an old bothy to serve whiskey and shortbread.
He owns a magnificent barn owl with a heart-shaped face and pale white plumage. He runs his beefy, rough hands gently over the owl’s feathers as he whispers to it affectionately.
He exudes a kind of inner peace. Because he has avoided the finishing line. Eschewed life’s waiting rooms.
He might be the kind of man who lives forever.
There Are No Finishing Lines for Wild Mustangs
Near the end of our trip to Scotland a few years back, we traveled the back country through quaint towns and breathtaking landscapes.
In one small village whose name escapes me, we crossed an old stone bridge and parked the van near a babbling creek. The air was crisp and clean as I hiked back to the bridge, my rangefinder camera swinging from the leather strap around my neck.
At the top of the bridge I looked out and spied a quiet residence nestled amongst towering trees beside the babbling creek. It was off to itself, but then a roadway lay just above it. Remote but accessible, for anyone coming or going.
Quiet residence in Scotland
Something about that house called to me.
A way station of sorts between the past and the future. Between the early years of parental homes and college dorms and the late years of retirement communities and sanitized waiting rooms.
I think of conversations I’ve had with my son.
Don’t be in a hurry to get there, wherever that may be. Make frequent stops along the way. Explore the side paths and backroads. Who knows what discoveries await.
Beware the beautiful trap of an immaculate life.
More recently I’ve spoken to my wife about this quiet angst. This sense that I’m not done. Not ready to end the race and settle into whatever this manufactured, artificial life beyond the finishing line is supposed to be.
“Carson City?” I say to my wife.
“It’s beautiful there,” she says.
“Crisp alpine air in the eastern slope of the Sierra Nevada,” I say with a sigh.
I close my eyes and envision the golden sagebrush hills, blue sky, snow-capped peaks, and high-desert sunsets. I imagine the changing seasons, diverse wildlife, waterways, and wild mustangs.
Especially the wild mustangs.
Running forever free, the breeze lifting their magnificent manes, galloping across rubber rabbitbrush fields that spill like gateways into the dense pine forests of the Sierra Nevada.
There are no finishing lines for wild mustangs, just endless trails to explore.
(Essay originally published in Mind Cafe on Medium)
