Sixties Chick

I am sitting in the Mayor’s Reception Room, an ornate, mahogany-paneled room with high coffered ceilings. The walls are lined with gilded framed portraits of the former mayors of Philadelphia. From the looks of some, the ones wearing the wigs, they go back to the earliest days of the city’s history. They represent the movers and shakers of yesteryear – all old, white, men. The achievers of their day.

The audience of a couple hundred people is made up almost exclusively of African Americans. These are the people who now occupy positions of power in city government, the ones who now run the municipal show. Achievers all.

In front of us, on risers, sit 17 young women, Asian, black, white, Hispanic, all in their 20s, all here to be acknowledged for their achievements – achievements that already go well beyond what I can imagine accomplishing even now, forget at such a young age. There’s the founder of this nonprofit, the head of that community law project, the vice president of such and such bank, the music director of some orchestra and the very youngest entrepreneur ever enrolled in the Chamber of Commerce. Young women with a lot of drive, focus, persistence, passion and belief in themselves. Outstanding young women, the quintessential achievers.

It got me thinking about achievement, there below the inscrutable gaze of those old, tight-lipped, white men. What does it really mean – this construct that can make us mere mortals shake our heads in wonderment. How do we process this cult of achievement without feeling bad about ourselves, as though we’d fallen short, wasted our lives, like we were good for nothing ne’re-do-wells? Surely I can’t be the only person who, when faced with a roll call of exceptional go-getters, asks herself, “Are they simply better than I?”

Now, not withstanding an ever so slight twinge of envy, I would be the last person to downplay anyone’s good work on this planet. In fact, for me, anyone who manages to get to the gym every day deserves my deepest respect. But I think it all depends on why we think we are here. On the earth, that is.

So after I take a deep breath and forgive myself for what seems like a few bad choices made along the way, I suggest that this challenging, tragicomedy we call life, is about self discovery. That everything we do, good works included, is designed to move us toward that end. The work, the passions, the goals, the failures, the fellow journeyers en route, friends and foes alike, all serve to help get us there – to help us figure out who the hell we are so we can know what we’re doing here.

The ancient Greeks, smarter than most, thought the idea was important enough to inscribe on the Temple of Apollo at Delphi. “Know thyself,” was written, big and bold. They didn’t specify how. “Just do it” is implied, whatever way you like. You want to feed the homeless, great. You want to be a father of three, wonderful. You want to strip in Vegas, God bless you.

A cop out? Maybe. But I think the Greeks had something. The value of the “doing” is that it can lead us to the “being.” The external trek serves the inner search. The inner search gets us to the knowing, the knowing – to love, which is what it’s all about anyhow. Without it, we’re talking ego and we all know the trouble that can get us into. Just ask O.J.

If you’ll forgive my presumption, I’ve decided I deserve an achievement award too. With all humility and a slight wink to my feckless younger days, I hereby confer upon myself a lifetime achievement award for my on-going, valiant attempt to know myself. At times, kicking and screaming, and always with varying degrees of success, I honor myself for my willingness to get to the “bottom” of me. Not because I find myself so terribly fascinating, but because I’ve always had a suspicion that it was the only way I could uncover the fully joyful, loving, divine being that is me. And every one of us, for that matter. Without honors, titles, kudos, medals, applause, and even thanks, I salute myself – for  at least trying to face my inmost self with courage. On some days, just for simply getting out of bed. On some days, even that’s an achievement!

“I am so lonely,” a friend tells me the other day, awash in tears. “Me too,” I say, “at times.” Neither of us has a mate so our being lonely would make sense to most people, I suppose. At a party a few months back, when I mentioned that I had been going through a lonely spell, two women friends of mine looked at me in astonishment. “Isn’t your daughter at home these days?” asked one. “Yes,” I replied, “what, you never feel lonely with your husbands around?” I could see that they got it, instantly.

Now please, so you don’t go thinking “oh, so sad for her,” let me clarify. I’ve got three wonderful sisters who I talk to regularly, friends who I love and who call often, a daughter who’s around this year between colleges, a dog who loves me more than anyone else on earth and neighbors who I frequently talk to in my “comings” and “goings” during the day. But sometimes, I just feel lonely.

Opportunities abound for fellowship. A Tuesday night jam at a house around the corner, dinners with friends, trips to the Adirondacks for cross-country skiing, movies, assorted committee meetings, a concert here and there. Some I instigate, like an impromptu Saturday night of dancing, of pulling back the rug and moving the furniture in the living room. Still, sometimes, I just feel lonely.

OK, you might say, it’s because of my work, hours at my desk, alone in the office, me and the computer, with the occasional nudge on the thigh from Rio, my loyal companion. Maybe if I were busier, had more work, volunteered more, a fuller agenda, more kids, I wouldn’t be so lonely. Maybe so, but I see a nation of people running 24/7, busy as little beavers, and they seem pretty lonely to me.

Again, let me be clear. I love to be alone. I relish it. I can find something to do to entertain myself without even trying. Hours can pass without my noticing. Give me a book and a sofa, and I’m content. Still, sometimes, I just feel lonely.

Loneliness. The feeling comes, the feeling goes. And I don’t think it matters if you’re top in your field or on the social registry, or a celebrity rock star. Aside from the holy men on the mountain tops, it seems to be a very human thing. It’s kind of like the sore throat I had the other day. It hurt like hell; it was all I could think about while it was here. Then it went away and I forgot all about it.

As I get older and wiser, I find that working my way through loneliness is not always about plotting the next activity, nor even about reaching out to others – though sometimes either one can be just what the doctor ordered. No, sometimes it’s about sitting down in a quiet place, doing nothing, and shutting out the noise of my ever fruitful mind (closing of eyes, optional.) Instead of going outside of myself… these days, I’m going inside. Counterintuitive as it may sound, and much as I may resist, I am beginning to think that getting through the loneliness is about sitting quietly, all by my lonesome – just me, myself and I. (Ai, Yi, Yi.) Alas, instead of traveling to Timbuktu, I best be taking the trip within.