When do you officially become an adulthood? When you turn 18? Or graduate from high school? Or college? Perhaps, when you get your first full-time job? Or get married? Have kids?
There isn’t really any kind of clear cut, bar mitzvah-type ritual to mark the transition.
Sharon Olds reflects on what it means to grow up . . .
Physics
by: Sharon Olds
Her first puzzle had three pieces,
she'd take the last piece, and turn it,
and lower it in, like a sewer-lid,
flush with the street. The bases of the frames were like
wooden fur, guard-hairs sticking out
of the pelt. I'd set one on the floor and spread
the pieces around it. It makes me
groan to think of Red Riding Hood's hood,
a single, scarlet, pointed piece, how
long since I have seen her. Later, panthers,
500 pieces, and an Annunciation,
1000 pieces, we would gaze, on our elbows,
into its gaps. Now she tells me
that if I were sitting in a twenty-foot barn,
with the doors open at either end,
and a fifty-foot ladder hurtled through the barn
at the speed of light, there would be a moment
--after the last rung was inside the barn
and before the first rung came out the other end--
when the whole fifty-foot ladder would be
inside the twenty-foot barn, and I believe her,
I have thought her life was inside my life
like that. When she reads the college catalogues, I
look away and hum. I have not grown
up yet, I have lived as my daughter's mother
the way I had lived as my mother's daughter,
inside her life. I have not been born yet.
Olds’ point is simple: it doesn’t matter if you’re eight of 80 years old, you will always feel like you’re still in kindergarten, learning your days of the week and ABCs.
I’ve gone through most of the milestones that symbolize matriculation into adulthood—graduations, marriage, fatherhood, jobs, and careers. Yet, I still feel like I’m that gangly, awkward 17-year-old who got his high school diploma so long ago. Despite everything I’ve done and all the lessons I’ve learned, when I look in the mirror, I see still a spoiled brat of a little brother.
For most of my so-called adult life, I’ve had a partner in crime—my beautiful wife. We met when she was in high school and I was directing summer youth theater. (I believe it was a production of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.). It may have been love at first sight. That summer, she consumed me. Five years later, we got married on a windy, cold October day.
I’m not gonna lie—it hasn’t all been smooth sailing. My wife and I have had our fair share of ups and downs. Some of those downs were almost marriage-ending. But, here we are, going on 30 years of messy wedded bliss. We have a daughter who’s in medical school and a son who’s a senior in high school. So my wife and I must have done something right, even if we both still feel like clueless teens.
Perhaps that’s the secret of staying youthful—not losing that connection with your weird younger self. Tonight, my wife and I attended an anniversary party for a couple we’ve known for close to 35 years. They are, quite simply, two of the best human beings I know. Compassionate. Kind. Loving. Generous. Sweet. Accepting. There really aren’t enough superlatives for this man and woman.
Something magical happened at the party. I was surrounded by people I’ve known since my grad school days. Yes, we all have a few more miles under our belts, and our hair has turned a little grayer (if it’s present at all). But it felt like we were twenty-somethings again, our eyes filled with dreams and hopes. I swear, it was as if those 30-plus years melted away, and we were all itching to save the world.
When the dancing started, all the couples (young, old, married, single, gay, straight) got out and swayed to James Taylor’s “You’ve Got a Friend.” At that moment, we were all newlyweds, looking with newborn eyes at a world fresh and bright.
Saint Marty wrote a poem for his friends today, based on the following prompt from August 15 of The Daily Poet:
On this day in 1969, the Woodstock Music and Art Festival opened. Listen to the music of Janis Joplin; Jimi Hendrix; the Grateful Dead; Crosby, Stills, Nash, & Young; Joe Cocker; Joan Baez; or any of the other performers who appeared that weekend and write a poem inspired by one (or several) of their songs. If you are unable to listen to their music today, write a poem about a concert you've attended.
by: Martin Achatz
for Jonathan and Amy on 30 (plus one) years
I read a story about a couple
who met at Woodstock going on
60 years ago. Her car broke down
on the way to the farm, and he
pulled his Volkswagen Beetle over
to give her a lift. They spent
those three days together in mud
while Hendrix shredded the country
with his fingers and Joplin spat
out a little piece of her heart onstage.
And this reminds me that love
can be found by just sticking
your thumb out on a busy
road and not being afraid
to climb into a weed-soaked
backseat to get where you want
to go. Yes, the Vietnam War
was still bleeding on and Tricky
Dick was still in the White House
and the students at Kent were safe
for another year, but if there’s
enough room in the sleeping
bag, you can save the world
by those tiny acts you commit
in the dark with someone you just
met who wants to play your
body like a Fender Stratocaster
until you kiss the sky.
