Life by Braille
“I wish I knew what the hell I was doing, like, ever.” — Drew Gilbert
This was my friend’s facebook post yesterday. I actually laughed out loud. Not because what he said was so funny, but because I totally relate.
I’ve been thinking about this lately. A lot.
It occurred to me, when I was sitting in the midst of the most inspiring group of *GSDers I know that I’m not going to make it. I’m not. I’m never, ever, ever, in the fifty or so years I’m likely to have left on this planet, going to make it. I’m not. Why?
Because the destination is a mirage.
The concept of “making it” assumes that the destination is a map pin that one can screw down into the cork and put one’s thumb upon. At forty one, I’ve simultaneously “made it” through dozens of challenges and goals and am light years beyond what I ever dared dream when I was 20 and idealistic, and yet I’m still standing on the starting line, muscles quivering, waiting for the starting gun for my life.
The reality, of course, is that I’m exactly where I should be. I’ve made it. I am making it. I will never get there. I can’t possibly make it. Why? Because I keep upping the danged bar.
Maybe if I’d just be satisfied with mediocrity… maybe then I’d make it.
If you asked me, in retrospect, to define for you how I got here… to this moment, I could tell you. I could look back and break it down. But if you were to ask me today, where I was going, I would laugh and invite you to buckle your seatbelt next to me and enjoy the ride.
I have no idea where I’m going.
None whatsoever. All I can tell you is that I’m moving forward.
I don’t think I’d have wanted to know, when I was 20, what my early forties would look like, or feel like. Although there were points in my mid-thirties that I’d like to have known that certain things would pass and that time would, indeed, carry me away from hard things.
I feel the same way, now, about sixty… I can’t imagine it. What it will feel like. What I will look like. What I will be passionate about. What I will be doing with my time. I don’t want to know.
I prefer to live my life by braille.
I am a concrete learner. I always have been.
- I’m unlikely to take your word for much of anything.
- I’ll relentlessly question.
- I’ll test theories.
- I’ll read avidly.
- I’ll argue.
- I’ll seek evidence.
In the end, I’ll usually go with my gut.
I feel, quite often, like I’m completely in the dark, with my field of vision ending just before the reach of my finger tips, leaving me feeling for the next thing at the edge of my senses. I can’t see where I’m going, but I’ve found that there are tiny bumps in the fabric of the universe that lead me along, from one moment to the next, revealing tiny pieces of my story, one letter at a time. It’s my job to keep following with my fingertips, and to write it down into my reality.
My pendulum swings between absolute wonderment at the many miracles that have coalesced around me in any given moment, gratefulness to the path that has carried me from there to here, from her to me, and an annoyed consternation that is a perfect echo of Drew’s voice:
“I wish I knew what the hell I was doing, like, ever.”
There was a time when it felt important for me to know what I was doing. To be sure of things. To understand. To be confidently in control of my own process, at the very least. Even better if I could appear to be in control of things like the process of raising my children and maintaining my marriage.
Where I stand now, it seems more important to be honest about the process. To admit, like my friend, that I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. To admit that this is, in fact, life by braille.
I think it’s okay not to know.
Perhaps, that’s the entire point of this experience we call life: To grow up and into knowledge of the world. Then to go on learning enough that we finally come into some knowledge of self; beginning to understand that very little, in fact, can be known with any certainty.
Perhaps the reason we can’t see the path at more than an arm’s length, is because the path itself doesn’t exist beyond that distance, but is being created, one bump in the fabric of the universe at a time. It is created by braille, even as we discover it by braille.
Maybe I overthink things.
All I know is that the not knowing, the mystery, the wonder of what might be over the next hill, around the corner, and in the next breath, has become, for me, the greatest joy of living.
The great unknown that changes everything. The absolutely known that transforms like the apparitions that dance in firelight into something completely unexpected. The power of a magic card trick, performed by stranger, to render us naked, body and soul.
Life is breathtaking, isn’t it?
Can I tell you a secret?
Okay, it’s not much of a secret: I’m actually a relentless planner and a control freak. I am the one who lays out goals for my life by the day, week, month and year. I’ve stalked my career path carefully. I’m doing exactly what I planned to do ten years ago when I decided to become a writer and editor. I’m even working for the exact company that I chose in that first month of reinvention. I met the financial goals I set for myself fifteen years ago, within one month of the date I’d set for myself a decade and a half ago.
Does that seem in contrast with the idea of living life by braille?
Maybe it is. And yet, in my experience, it’s not.
Life by braille doesn’t mean living with no forethought.
It’s not just blithely following one’s heart through the world like a child chasing a butterfly.
I’m a firm believer that I’m writing my own story, one letter at a time. Each, a configuration of bumps, carefully placed in recognizable patterns. I’m painstakingly embroidering the tapestry of my life. The threads are handed to me from some great “before” that I have no perspective on. But, it’s up to me to weave them into something beautiful in the now. The alphabet was part of the legacy I was handed by humanity, it’s up to me to rearrange those letters into words, words into stories, stories into my life’s work.
That takes a lot of planning, and feeling around in the dark.
Life by braille.
That’s me. Making the most of what I’ve been handed. Feeling my way forward. Delighting in the discoveries. Uncovering the light in my darkness. Maybe you recognize the process. Maybe you’ll join me in celebrating it.
Hence the name of this publication.
*GSDr: get shit done-er
Photo Credit: Dominique Archambault
