Well, the Jane’s Calamity kiddos have been in college for two months now, and while I do miss them quite a lot, especially around dinner time (we were big on family dinners), it’s not quite as terrible as I feared. And my husband and I eat dinner in front of the TV a lot now, which I sort of love. (We’re re-watching Mad Men, and it’s so good.)

But I definitely feel…weird. And it occurs to me that it’s because something has shifted in a very significant way. I don’t mean the obvious fact of the kids having left home. I mean that the very nature of how I'm experiencing my life has changed.

Stick with me. Maybe you can relate. And maybe, if you’re in the big middle of your life, it will help.

Up until now, at every age and stage of my existence, from kindergarten to college to my thirties, I had dreams of what was next. While I was fully immersed in one era of my life, I could also see the next phase a comin’, and got excited picturing myself in it.

When I was a little kid, I dreamed of being a bigger one: going on the “you must be this tall” rides, staying up late, maybe even getting braces, like my rad babysitter with the Dorothy Hamill haircut.

When I was in my big kid years, I looked forward to being a teenager: high school, boyfriends, proms, learning to drive, getting the damned braces off. Then, as the end of high school drew near, I started picturing myself at college. And as college progressed, I started looking forward to young-adulting: living in an apartment in a city with Monica and Rachel, traveling, building a career, getting an MFA.

As as all that unfolded, I began looking forward to the next phase(s): getting married, settling down, and raising children. (I know, very conventional.) And then as those years progressed, I started dreaming about—

>> RECORD SCRATCH <<

Nothing.

My friends, in the past eighteen years, I never once dreamed about or looked forward to the next inevitable phase of my life—the one I now find myself in now: middle-aged empty-nester.

I had no visions of myself here. The runway up to this moment was the first time in my life I was like “Nope, not looking forward to that.” All I saw when I thought about the future beyond the kids-at-home parenting phase was a succession of years stretching toward the horizon, and my face gradually succumbing to gravity over the course of them.

Oh, sure, I had vague notions of traveling and hiking more. Spending more time writing and reading. Going to more cultural and social events and whatnot. I looked forward to small things like actually putting the red pepper flakes into the recipes that call for them.

But that’s not the same as excitedly anticipating the next big stage in life’s journey. It’s just feeling mildly pleased at the thought of doing more or different versions of the things I’ve done all along.

I am, indeed, doing more of those things. It’s nice! And yet…I have definitely been feeling a unmoored. Like I’m drifting. Floating. Waiting for something to happen (besides, hopefully, selling my new book), but with no idea what that something might be.

What I’m slowly starting to realize is that now that I’m done with all the growing up and adult life-building I did in the first half of my existence, it’s time to shift gears into a different way of thinking about life—one that’s about being more mindfully in the moment. (This is something I’ve never been terribly good at).

I need to stop thinking about my days and weeks and years as progress toward the next thing. I need to, instead, think about how I’m going to enrich and deepen the now. This isn’t to say that I can’t still change or grow as a person, or achieve new things, or try to contribute to humanity in new ways. Au contraire!

But if my life was a river before, tumbling ever-forward, now it’s a lake.

And I can either spend all my time bobbing here feeling mildly melancholy and nostalgic for the river (which I reserve the right to do from time to time) or I can become a lake-dweller extraordinaire.

I can explore its coves and shores. I can learn how to windsurf, or take up fishing. I can scoop water from it and put it under a microscope to see all the hidden life inside. I can cruise around it on a pontoon boat with my friends. I can pluck the litter and invasive plants out of it. I can marvel at its beauty, and watch it change with the seasons. I can skate on it, swim in it, pee in it. (HAHAHA — just making sure you were paying attention. But, also, I can.)

I am extremely lucky to have such a lake, and I would be an idiot if I didn’t make the most of it. Maybe I should have been thinking about life in more lake-y terms all along. But I don’t think that’s really possible, except for the most enlightened among us. It certainly wasn’t possible for me.

But now that I’m here, I’m gonna run off the dock jump in.

Join me, won’t you?

My second most favorite lake: Winnipesaukee

By the way: I came up with this river vs. lake metaphor in the process of writing this post over the past couple of days. Trying to think about my life in this new shape is actually making me feel a little less off. It’s even given me a new sort of spiritual challenge, if you will: to embrace the lake! This is part of why I love blogging / Substacking so much.

Thank you for being here.

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. (And AI is making it increasingly difficult.) If you enjoy my writing, I’d be deeply grateful if you would consider leaving me a one-time tip or upgrading to a paid subscription. Or, hey, buy my book! xoxo

At my most favorite lake: Squam

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