Compost Studios

Every 20 years we reinvent ourselves. Think about it. In the first 20 years, we grow up and get ready to separate from our parents. In our second twenty years, we leave home and struggle to build a career, a family, a network of friends, a place in a community, a spiritual center. We work to acquire the requisite creature comforts and accessories. We “settle down.”

And then comes 40, and we wonder exactly what we’ve settled into and what we’ve settled for. We itch to remodel all that we’ve built—and with critical eyes and the tools we’ve accumulated, we begin the hard and messy work of correcting our mistakes. Do we just need a fresh coat of paint or do the walls have to come down? How much of the work can we do ourselves? What can we afford? It can be exhilarating, empowering, and liberating—and sad, scary, and unnerving. Like adolescents we may be angst-filled, self-consciousness and uncertain but we also have an edgy confidence and determination. The renovations begin.

Our first 20 years as an adult have given us the wisdom and the courage to gradually shed all that is bringing us down. With a sharp eye we examine our marriages, our careers, our lifestyles, our spirituality and begin to consider what to keep and what to leave behind. We bring in the big green dumpster and pack it with the grief, guilt, and mistakes we want to bury. We take the black balloons from our birthday party and let them go. We crane our necks and watch them disappear into a bright blue sky.

We remodel our lives inside and out. We clean out the closets of our hearts and homes, redecorate and repurpose each room. We part with those things we were too sentimental to let go of years before—the baby blankets and sleepers, the school papers, the letters, the souvenirs from lost loves and old adventures. We vow to carry who and what we love in our souls and not pack it away in cluttered closets, attics, and basements.

We finally have the chutzpah to retreat from empty jobs. Back to school for master’s degrees or into entry level jobs in new fields. A transportation specialist becomes a middle school teacher. An art historian becomes a guidance counselor. A biologist becomes an accountant. An office manager becomes a social worker. An econ major becomes a doctor. A physical therapist becomes a masseuse. A nurse earns a marketing degree. Incomes rise and drop as self-doubt yields to determination. We applaud each graduation. We eat cake.

But not all the changes that come are ones we want to celebrate. Life after 40 is also a time to mourn. Cheerful children become difficult adolescents, grown children leave home and accumulate adult problems, the ghosts of the babies we can’t have haunt us. The marriage we thought was forever isn’t, the faith we’ve always embraced doesn't makes sense, our parents are less a source of strength than a source of worry. The medical tests are numerous and scary, we’ve attended quite a few funerals, we’ve buried a lot of hope.

We carry it all—the longing, the joy, the fears, and the losses—and we move forward with varying degrees of certainty but lots of persistence. We’ve come this far, we’ve borne this much, we’ve earned our laugh and frown lines, and we’re ready for the curtain to rise again. Let the critics say what they want--we’re writing the script, designing the set, and producing the show. I’m going to call mine, “The 20-Year Itch.” This is the Second Act.

October 13, 2005