As a writer, one of the most intimidating but also exciting things is a blank page. On the one hand, it means that the possibilities are endless. But it also means that I have to navigate into new territory. And I may or may not have an idea of where I’m going, which can be scary.
At times, the words for a story will come easily. Sometimes I will get stuck and have to remind myself to begin again. And that is the beauty of beginnings and endings. They provide a vast landscape of directions in which we can go.
The same can be said for life. We come to the end of something and wonder, What comes next? Depending on what type of ending we experience, imagining what’s next can be an adventure or a struggle. The one common denominator between the two, though, is uncertainty.
Our lives are made up of a million of those situations—births, deaths, world events, and a whole host of other things. We are surrounded by constant change. Sometimes we see it coming. Other times we’re blindsided by the transition.
A Personal Perspective
The concept of beginnings and endings was never clearer to me than it was in 2002. With one phone call and nine words—“Your results are consistent with someone who has MS [multiple sclerosis]”—life as I had known it ended, and a new, more complicated life was beginning.
And for a long time, that is what I focused on. I zeroed in on those two markers and painted my life with the broad strokes of what they each represented. My life was divided into two categories—before diagnosis and after diagnosis. I mourned what had been and dreaded what was to come.
That is, until a very wise person—my therapist—reminded me that there’s a whole lot in between beginnings and endings. I can’t control which days are good and which ones I’m going to be knocked down by pure exhaustion. But I can remind myself that tomorrow is a new day.
What I often forget is that each day is a blank page. And while I may not be able to control the things that are out of my hands, I do get to decide the narrative surrounding those times. I can determine where the story goes. Sometimes it’s a sad story of pain and resignation, while other times it’s one of determination and triumph. It is ever evolving, just as all of our stories are.
Focus on the Middle
There is a quote from one of my favorite movies—Hope Floats—that I often find myself returning to. It seems to sum up this whole concept of beginnings and endings very well. It states: “Beginnings are usually scary, endings are usually sad, but it is the middle that counts the most.”
That is so very true. The majority of our lives are spent in the middle. It is there, between all the endings and beginnings we encounter, that we should bask in the blessings of life.
Sidebar: Midlife and Sister Death
I am proud to say that I have just recently entered my 50s. Strangely, it hasn’t shaken my foundation as I thought it would. Forty was a different story—and 30 was worse. But 50 feels somehow less invasive. You can still feel the remnants of youth at 29 and even 39. At this age, my youth is like a neighborhood friend who moved far away.
I am in the autumn of my life. Perhaps I’m not jarred at this because autumn is my favorite time of year. The heat of youthful summer is gone, and the often bitter sting of old age has not set in. I can feel it, but the cold doesn’t yet pinch. Still, I am acutely aware that I am closer to the end than I am to the beginning. All bodies age. It’s seasonal. It’s right.
This milestone birthday is, really, the final farewell to my younger self. Recently I walked through my old neighborhood and was flooded with memories: houses I visited, streets I biked, neighbors who have passed away. Somehow I felt like a trespasser, as if I didn’t belong there. That chapter of my life—and my youth—is over. I walked away from it and back to my current home and my current life. This is where I am supposed to be.
As I have been associated with the Franciscans for nearly a quarter century, I habitually try to find parallels between my life and that of Francis and Clare, my spiritual aunt and uncle.
When Francis’ life began to slip away, plagued by illness and in terrible pain, he saw death as a not only a respite, but also a part of life—the final step before something far more beautiful begins. He never resisted God’s design. He worked in concert with it.
Age and cultures define death differently. The French writer Simone de Beauvoir called death “an unjustifiable violation.” Her contemporary (and lover), Jean-Paul Sartre, however, was tranquil when thinking about the end of life. I’m in the middle of those two minds. Being so rooted in middle age has forced me to consider the end of my earthly journey, but (God willing) I have “miles to go before I sleep.” The sweet hereafter, I hope, is the respite I have earned. It isn’t punishment at the end of a long race; it’s the medal for a race run well.
St. Francis, in his “Canticle of the Creatures,” wrote, “All praise be yours, my Lord, through Sister Death, from whose embrace no mortal can escape.” When it is my turn, I hope to embrace her in kind and walk the path cleared by those who came before me—a tireless spirit moving in concert with the Almighty.
