Lara Zuberi's Blog - Posts Tagged "turning-40"
Life-A well-Written Story-- At the brink of 40
I turned forty about an hour ago.
My seven-year-old was next to me, counting minutes and then seconds until he could sing happy birthday as I stepped into the next decade. I do not consider myself particularly vain, so the inevitable hint of grey in my hair, and the unironed contours of my face are not at the center of my thoughts right now. The question that begs to be answered at this juncture is rather, how well do I understand life.
At two, as I walked and stumbled, uttering phrases that made little sense, I probably thought I understood life a bit.
At five, as dimensions of my personality emerged and began shaping who I’d become, I probably understood it better.
At sixteen, the world was mine, and I was sure that I understood it completely.
On my twentieth birthday, I wrote something about my deep understanding of life, and although I do not recall the exact words of what was titled 'Reflections in the Candlelight', I do remember the naivety engraved in the conclusion of that passage, something to the effect that I had seen it all. I do not have a compelling desire to look through scraps of yellowing paper in order to unearth that amateurish piece of writing.
In my younger days, my birthday had always been an exciting time of year for me, an excuse to spend time with my amazing friends and cousins, piling on solid bricks of memories with every milestone. My birthday falls in the midst of summer break, ensuring that academic pressures did not interrupt the fun. It was religiously hot in the sweltering Karachi sun, but weather was seldom a deterrent in the attainment of pure joy in those bygone youthful days.
At ten, I was a happy kid, a much- endeared, studious only child, my days filled with books and tests and friends, not to forget the countless attempts at quenching my creative thirst by always making time for writing, art and music.
At twenty, I was a medical student, with few worries beyond the pursuit of academic success.
At thirty, I was an immigrant physician in America, having completed my residency, and married for seven solid years.
At forty, I'm a mother, an oncologist, an author, and a divorce�.
Twenty years ago, I had envisioned myself as the first three.
Had there been a title in my college days of ‘least likely to get divorced�, I could have probably won it without much competition.
Strangely enough, I wrote an article at twenty, about the devastation of divorce. I wrote it in first person from the perspective of my friend who was going through it, in the form of a letter to her former husband. I mailed it from my college to Karachi’s leading newspaper, Dawn. I felt her pain and wanted desperately to share it with the world, never imagining that two decades later, this would become my own reality. To my surprise, I received several heartfelt responses from readers, and it began a conversation regarding arranged marriage and divorce and its consequences. It’s ironic that that very article played a pivotal role in propelling me into the writing world as I realized the power and impact that words in print can have.
I had not predicted this to become the path of my own life, and yet I have embraced it, and am proud of myself for making brave decisions that I don't regret. I feel complete and free, and rediscovering who I was, and who I'm meant to be, as a mother and a person, is a gift that I'm eternally grateful for.
Benjamin Franklin said that most people die at twenty-five and are not buried until seventy-five. I wanted so earnestly to disagree with this beautifully articulated, profound thought, and now, I can.
I don't feel any different, fortunately, in the level of my physical endurance, although I have to confess that sleep doesn’t come as effortlessly, and gone are the days when I could indulge in a guilt-free scoop of ice cream.
I’ve gained knowledge by virtue of my educational path, but I've gained wisdom, I hope, by way of life lessons. I’ve reduced my working hours in order to spend more time with those who will always matter far more to me than my job, even though I love my job, and consider myself blessed to be doing what I am so passionate about. I've spoken with people from many walks of life. Patients and friends and readers have confided in me, sharing their personal stories with utmost candor. I consider their trust a priceless gift. I’ve learnt that everyone has their share of problems, and profile pictures on face book can hide them well. In the process of sharing the pain of others, I have been healed myself.
I’ve learnt the nonlinear mathematics of balancing finances, the complex geography of the world, the peculiar science of relationships, and the fine art of saying No. I make decisions, both personally and professionally, and this has been truly liberating. I am more confident, more courageous, more grateful. I’m less trusting, but less judgemental. I’m able to see the spectrum of color in a world that I viewed before solely as black and white.
Its become easier to make acquaintances and harder to make friends--though I have found the very best and have hung on to them. I have friends that I made when I was seven, and they’ve continued to be an integral part of my life through ups and downs of each decade.
I used to be afraid of driving, and now I’ve driven long- distance for hours in the night. Though I’ve laughed plently at my own dearth of mechanical aptitude, I can now fill air in the tires of my car. Despite coming from a family who fears animals, I’ve killed a snake that was about to enter my home. I spend less time thinking of what others think of me, than I spend on pondering over verses of timeless poetry. I spend less energy on pleasing people than I spend on pleasing my conscience. I facebook less and read more. I procrastinate less. I walk more. I cook less. I travel more. I cry less. I think more.
I'm not as idealistic, perhaps, in that I know well that miracles can greet the very selfish, and catastrophe can strike the kindest of souls. I have realized that goodness is not as powerful a weapon against adversity as I once thought it to be. I have not, however, permitted pessimism to infiltrate my psyche. I believe strongly in human resilience, and in the unmatched healing power that time holds within its palm.
I've changed in many ways, although at the core, I’m not entirely different from the ten-year-old or the twenty-year-old that I once was. If there’s anything I’ve held on to, in all these years, its empathy, and I value that as something I’ve inherited and learned, and also passed on to my only child.
Turning forty has suddenly granted me permission to give some sincere advice, so I hope that you will take it.
Read. Respect. Write. Pray. Learn. Work. Love. Smile. Sing. Give. Grow. Hope. Carry on.
I've learned to look at life as a well-written story---and so it must, while being filled with purpose, be filled also with surprise. I hold on to the conviction that the best stories are often written in first person, so one cannot expect another to fully understand one’s joy or one’s agony, and utmost credit must be given for a sincere attempt at doing so.
So I turn the pages, one by one, working to deepen my understanding of what I've read and learnt so far, acutely aware that there is still a lot I do not know. All wisdom is relative, and growing up does not guarantee its attainment. I try not to rush through this beautiful book of life, making sure to capture my son's innocent laughter, my mother's loving hugs, my father's reassuring voice, all at once--pausing to absorb the hues of every sunset, and admire each petal of the magnolia that blooms outside my window. I make sure I walk along the beach, letting my feet dip into the Florida ocean and feel the sand slipping gently away.
So, my friend, keep turning the pages, and don’t let the twists in the story of your life frighten you. Well-written stories are meant to be unpredictable—so embrace the turns and bends. You may not be able to alter the main plot, or change the characters, but remember that you are the protagonist, and that role gives you the power to manage the joy and sorrow that come your way, and to find the fulcrum of your being.
You cannot control what others say or do, but you can control your reactions to them. Don’t be afraid to edit and cut and paste--rewrite some pages or some chapters if that will make your story more genuine, and if it will lead to a more fulfilling conclusion. Your life-story doesn’t have to be for everybody, as long as it has a small, but credible readership. It doesn’t need to be a bestseller, and it doesn’t need to be a critically acclaimed masterpiece either. Just make it a worthy contribution to the vast literature of lives.
Be inspired, and write it well.
My seven-year-old was next to me, counting minutes and then seconds until he could sing happy birthday as I stepped into the next decade. I do not consider myself particularly vain, so the inevitable hint of grey in my hair, and the unironed contours of my face are not at the center of my thoughts right now. The question that begs to be answered at this juncture is rather, how well do I understand life.
At two, as I walked and stumbled, uttering phrases that made little sense, I probably thought I understood life a bit.
At five, as dimensions of my personality emerged and began shaping who I’d become, I probably understood it better.
At sixteen, the world was mine, and I was sure that I understood it completely.
On my twentieth birthday, I wrote something about my deep understanding of life, and although I do not recall the exact words of what was titled 'Reflections in the Candlelight', I do remember the naivety engraved in the conclusion of that passage, something to the effect that I had seen it all. I do not have a compelling desire to look through scraps of yellowing paper in order to unearth that amateurish piece of writing.
In my younger days, my birthday had always been an exciting time of year for me, an excuse to spend time with my amazing friends and cousins, piling on solid bricks of memories with every milestone. My birthday falls in the midst of summer break, ensuring that academic pressures did not interrupt the fun. It was religiously hot in the sweltering Karachi sun, but weather was seldom a deterrent in the attainment of pure joy in those bygone youthful days.
At ten, I was a happy kid, a much- endeared, studious only child, my days filled with books and tests and friends, not to forget the countless attempts at quenching my creative thirst by always making time for writing, art and music.
At twenty, I was a medical student, with few worries beyond the pursuit of academic success.
At thirty, I was an immigrant physician in America, having completed my residency, and married for seven solid years.
At forty, I'm a mother, an oncologist, an author, and a divorce�.
Twenty years ago, I had envisioned myself as the first three.
Had there been a title in my college days of ‘least likely to get divorced�, I could have probably won it without much competition.
Strangely enough, I wrote an article at twenty, about the devastation of divorce. I wrote it in first person from the perspective of my friend who was going through it, in the form of a letter to her former husband. I mailed it from my college to Karachi’s leading newspaper, Dawn. I felt her pain and wanted desperately to share it with the world, never imagining that two decades later, this would become my own reality. To my surprise, I received several heartfelt responses from readers, and it began a conversation regarding arranged marriage and divorce and its consequences. It’s ironic that that very article played a pivotal role in propelling me into the writing world as I realized the power and impact that words in print can have.
I had not predicted this to become the path of my own life, and yet I have embraced it, and am proud of myself for making brave decisions that I don't regret. I feel complete and free, and rediscovering who I was, and who I'm meant to be, as a mother and a person, is a gift that I'm eternally grateful for.
Benjamin Franklin said that most people die at twenty-five and are not buried until seventy-five. I wanted so earnestly to disagree with this beautifully articulated, profound thought, and now, I can.
I don't feel any different, fortunately, in the level of my physical endurance, although I have to confess that sleep doesn’t come as effortlessly, and gone are the days when I could indulge in a guilt-free scoop of ice cream.
I’ve gained knowledge by virtue of my educational path, but I've gained wisdom, I hope, by way of life lessons. I’ve reduced my working hours in order to spend more time with those who will always matter far more to me than my job, even though I love my job, and consider myself blessed to be doing what I am so passionate about. I've spoken with people from many walks of life. Patients and friends and readers have confided in me, sharing their personal stories with utmost candor. I consider their trust a priceless gift. I’ve learnt that everyone has their share of problems, and profile pictures on face book can hide them well. In the process of sharing the pain of others, I have been healed myself.
I’ve learnt the nonlinear mathematics of balancing finances, the complex geography of the world, the peculiar science of relationships, and the fine art of saying No. I make decisions, both personally and professionally, and this has been truly liberating. I am more confident, more courageous, more grateful. I’m less trusting, but less judgemental. I’m able to see the spectrum of color in a world that I viewed before solely as black and white.
Its become easier to make acquaintances and harder to make friends--though I have found the very best and have hung on to them. I have friends that I made when I was seven, and they’ve continued to be an integral part of my life through ups and downs of each decade.
I used to be afraid of driving, and now I’ve driven long- distance for hours in the night. Though I’ve laughed plently at my own dearth of mechanical aptitude, I can now fill air in the tires of my car. Despite coming from a family who fears animals, I’ve killed a snake that was about to enter my home. I spend less time thinking of what others think of me, than I spend on pondering over verses of timeless poetry. I spend less energy on pleasing people than I spend on pleasing my conscience. I facebook less and read more. I procrastinate less. I walk more. I cook less. I travel more. I cry less. I think more.
I'm not as idealistic, perhaps, in that I know well that miracles can greet the very selfish, and catastrophe can strike the kindest of souls. I have realized that goodness is not as powerful a weapon against adversity as I once thought it to be. I have not, however, permitted pessimism to infiltrate my psyche. I believe strongly in human resilience, and in the unmatched healing power that time holds within its palm.
I've changed in many ways, although at the core, I’m not entirely different from the ten-year-old or the twenty-year-old that I once was. If there’s anything I’ve held on to, in all these years, its empathy, and I value that as something I’ve inherited and learned, and also passed on to my only child.
Turning forty has suddenly granted me permission to give some sincere advice, so I hope that you will take it.
Read. Respect. Write. Pray. Learn. Work. Love. Smile. Sing. Give. Grow. Hope. Carry on.
I've learned to look at life as a well-written story---and so it must, while being filled with purpose, be filled also with surprise. I hold on to the conviction that the best stories are often written in first person, so one cannot expect another to fully understand one’s joy or one’s agony, and utmost credit must be given for a sincere attempt at doing so.
So I turn the pages, one by one, working to deepen my understanding of what I've read and learnt so far, acutely aware that there is still a lot I do not know. All wisdom is relative, and growing up does not guarantee its attainment. I try not to rush through this beautiful book of life, making sure to capture my son's innocent laughter, my mother's loving hugs, my father's reassuring voice, all at once--pausing to absorb the hues of every sunset, and admire each petal of the magnolia that blooms outside my window. I make sure I walk along the beach, letting my feet dip into the Florida ocean and feel the sand slipping gently away.
So, my friend, keep turning the pages, and don’t let the twists in the story of your life frighten you. Well-written stories are meant to be unpredictable—so embrace the turns and bends. You may not be able to alter the main plot, or change the characters, but remember that you are the protagonist, and that role gives you the power to manage the joy and sorrow that come your way, and to find the fulcrum of your being.
You cannot control what others say or do, but you can control your reactions to them. Don’t be afraid to edit and cut and paste--rewrite some pages or some chapters if that will make your story more genuine, and if it will lead to a more fulfilling conclusion. Your life-story doesn’t have to be for everybody, as long as it has a small, but credible readership. It doesn’t need to be a bestseller, and it doesn’t need to be a critically acclaimed masterpiece either. Just make it a worthy contribution to the vast literature of lives.
Be inspired, and write it well.
