Chaos in politics, at work, in my family, wow.
I’ve been trying to figure out a role for myself. Not even so much a dream, just seeking what I can offer the world. At work, one of my favorite co-workers is resigning because she got a better job at Target. Part of me is envious because I got turned down by them twice and have no idea why. Part of me is so happy for her. I love her and her boyfriend. They are two really good people who managed to find each other. And I gave him a good reference that helped him get a better job. And I have paid him well to get some furniture out of my apartment. It feels so good and right to try to help the next generation.
Then there’s my mother basically indicating that she may be ready to die. So unexpected. Trying so hard not to freak out about that.
I don’t know what will happen politically this year, but I know the demographic trends. I’m looking at 2020, 2024, 2028, and 2032. This year is not it. And the coronavirus adds a deadly dimension to what is going on. I see absolutely everything as a long-term reality. Nothing is instant.
The old is passing away. The new is coming. I am part of the in-between generation. Because of my extended stay in academia, I feel more connected to the younger generation than the older one.
I feel like I have a lot to offer in the transition. I can write. I can tutor. I can encourage.
All of this is abstract, academic, and theoretical–until your mother suggests she is ready to go. People forget that, in the past, many mothers died in childbirth. The foundation of the new is often built on the grave of the old.
Such is the grief-ridden trajectory of history.