In the middle of reading Cory Doctorow’s book Enshittification, I went to the bathroom to grab a tissue. On my way out, I glanced in the mirror. The glance felt surreal, as if I was seeing myself the way others see me. Which, of course, is the point of mirrors, but I don’t usually contextualize it that way. “This is what others see.” This experience, in turn, made me think about who those other people are and how I show up in their lives. Which, in an odd way, is part of how we define ourselves: by the many ways others see us (as husbands and wives, mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, employees, bosses, friends, neighbors, etc. etc.)
In that brief moment while glancing in the mirror on my return to the sofa, I saw myself as “a fixture” – the guy who takes daily walks around the neighborhood, who routinely hangs out at the local pub, who talks with all of the bartenders and other patrons, who plays songs on the jukebox, etc. etc. I was simultaneously comfortable and uncomfortable with the idea of being a fixture. Ok with the role (almost proud of having accomplished it in such a short period of time) yet feeling limited by it as well. I contain multitudes yet I seldom wear in public those other masks (poet/writer, closet romantic, pet and animal lover, observer who is mildly infatuated with wonder).
This week, we learned of the passing of women’s rights activist and journalist Gloria Steinem. Last week we lost Dolly Parton. Both influential and monumental women who had done good things in the world. With her passing, people on social media are sharing the dedication to Steinem’s book, My Life on the Road. In that dedication, Steinem thanks the doctor who recommended the doctor who performed an abortion for her when she was twenty-two (abortions were mostly illegal then). At the time, the doctor had asked two things of her: never to share his name and to “do what you want to do with your life.” By the time of the book’s publication, the doctor had passed, and in her dedication Steinem wrote, “I’ve done the best I could with my life. This book is for you.”
Earlier in the day, I was scrolling through substack articles and posts and came across someone’s advice to write for the sake of writing as opposed to trying to fit into some trend or other. They wrote, “Maybe you were meant for fame—moderate to grand, or maybe you were meant for obscurity, or any of the valences in between.” They concluded, “On a long enough timeline, we all fade away.”
By now, you can probably see the multi-braided thread of mortality, purpose, self-perception, and legacy weaving through my thinking. It’s humbling to realize how many immense talents have passed through this world: Steinems and Partons, Kerouacs and Ginsburgs, musicians, writers, artists, and activists… many of whom will become little more than cultural footnotes several centuries from now (assuming we last several more centuries). And if we don’t last, the footnotes disappear too. Human history only matters when there are humans around.
It’s precisely this type of contemplation that makes me both comfortable and uncomfortable in my various roles: fixture, nonprofit executive, wannabe poet/writer, friend, barfly, etc. etc. I’m not sure I’m the best I can be at any of them (uncomfortable). At the same time, I recognize the value I bring to those roles (comfortable). All of which is underscored by just how temporary our existence and our impact are.
My father used to talk about “making your mark on the world.” He meant it to be an inspiring message to my brother and me. He would frequently preach the value of working on your little corner of the world. In his youth, he aspired to be a great baseball player, in graduate school and afterwards, he aspired to be a scholar. For much of my life, he wanted both my brother and me to do something “remarkable” in one field or another. As children tend to do, we rebelled against this expectation in our own ways. We also made peace with it in our own ways.
For me, making peace with “making my mark on the world” is an uncomfortable dance between desire and acceptance (which can sometimes feel like resignation). I believe it’s human nature to want to make a difference. That difference can take on many forms: curing cancer, being a good neighbor or parent or family member, being kind to strangers, running a business, inventing something, creating some type of art.
Humans, by nature, are not idle. We fiddle, we prattle, we tinker, we meddle. We strive, we thirst, we seek. Some of that is hedonistic and some of it is altruistic and there’s a whole lot of room in between the two. The back end of, the reward for, striving, thirsting, and seeking is usually found in the recognition we receive. Our poems get published, we get promotions at work, our friends continue to invite us over for dinner. Sometimes, that recognition only arrives with our eulogy, sometimes later, sometimes never. The sharp and pointy edge of striving, the one that tends to cut us and caution us, is disappointment. Making peace, for me, is accepting one of Buddhism noble truths: desire is the root of suffering. It’s in the belief that the world needs musicians and listeners, leaders and followers, bartenders and patrons – try to be good regardless of which side you’re on – which is a roundabout way of saying be in the moment.
Of course, being human also means being uncomfortable with stasis, being uncomfortable with one’s role as a mere observer and/or consumer. One of the great challenges of life is to accept that we are (and we have) enough regardless of what we’ve accomplished… to move through the world fueled by intrinsic motivations and the desire to make life easier, better, and more full of wonder for others. This, I think, is what people mean when they say coming into one’s own or when they say to be beloved.
I’ve been thinking about these things because America (and the world) has lost some extraordinary people these past two weeks: actor Tim Curry, singer and philanthropist Dolly Parton, writer and activist Gloria Steinem, and poet Wendell Berry. All of them, through their unique talents, made the world better, more just, or more enjoyable. We call them extraordinary because those kinds of contributions are beyond the reach of most of us. And that’s where I found myself after a quick glance in the mirror – thinking about who I am to the people who know me, accepting that it’s enough and also wanting to be more.