I walked down by the river today. A rainy morning spent blowing my bunged up nose while lying in bed reading, gave way to one of those perfect autumn afternoons which demanded I head outdoors regardless of my head cold.
I strolled through the gorgeous Homestead Park admiring the wreathes of fallen leaves encircling every tree. Two small boys charged about, kicking up the leaves, before finding something else to capture their astonishment or admiration. A bubbling water feature! Stepping stones to a hidden bench! A squirrel! Their joy made me smile.
And just like that, memories of my own small boys charging around this park, brandishing wooden swords, popped into my mind and gave my heart a painful tug. Where did those boys go? And why didn’t I relish them so much more when they were that age, instead of chivvying them on. Why didn’t I take more joy in their joy? How incredibly short and precious that time is.
No-one tells you when you have children that you’ll never know when that last sticky kiss on the lips or piggy back ride will be. But one day they just stop; and you will grieve for the loss of the little people they used to be because they will never be those people again.
I headed to the river embankment where the ice cream truck was having a busy day serving people who were all out enjoying the long fingerlike rays of sunshine and mild temperatures. I sat down and watched as a young mother and father licked their ice creams while pointing out the duck-ducks to their toddler. I remember standing in this very spot with my boys, feeding the duck-ducks bread before it became unfashionable to do so.
I’d also sat in this very spot after realising that my marriage wasn’t what I thought it was, sobbing so hard that two strangers came and asked if I was alright. Little did I know then how much my life would change in those intervening years.
I made my way back home, walking past the boys’ old school, with whispers of memories drifting past, some making me smile, most giving that same familiar melancholic tug on my heart. Autumn always does this to me, this change of seasons. But I know it’s more than just the time of year.
Because now I find myself in the gap between two lives. The life I had and my future life. All being well, I have at least another 30 years to live. 30 years ago I was just starting out adult life. But now it’s like that epic first chapter has closed and I have to start a new book. I can write whatever story I want it to be. Only, I don’t know what that story is. I’ve got way less spark to write it.
Who am I now? What do I want? Where should I live? It feels like everything has changed in one go. No children at home, no husband, no career ladder I feel the need to climb, far fewer friends. My ambition and drive have taken a leave of absence. One part of me is saying: it’s ok. You don’t have to do anything. You can simply enjoy lying in bed reading on a rainy morning and watching ducks drift in autumn sunshine. That right there is life. And I feel strangely comfortable accepting these small moments of beauty and calm without them needing to be bigger.
But it also feels lonely. And small. And directionless. And entirely lacking in purpose. This lack of striving feels foreign.
It’s somewhat cruel that biology decides to throw menopause into this already changeable time of life; like navigating a rickety bridge from one river bank to the other while someone blindfolds you and puts obstacles in your way. It makes me want to stand still and yell: Seriously?! You’ve got to be kidding! But no, apparently you get all of these life changes in one messily wrapped parcel. What a gift.
This gap between the life that was and the life that is to come, can be hard to cross. I keep hearing the monotone voice of the London underground announcer repeating: ‘Mind the gap. Mind the gap.’ But right now I feel like I’m sat on the platform waiting for the right train to the right destination to turn up, lacking the energy to go anywhere in particular.
All I can do is to keep exploring and see where life takes me. It doesn’t have the well-defined path of education, job, marriage, kids of the early version of me. Now it’s more of an open-ended ticket to go in whatever direction I want. I know there is freedom in that. But it’s also daunting. This remaining life is so very important. I want to live it well, I just don’t know what this no-boundaries-or-guardrails-future looks like.
One day I might look back and realise that I have bridged the gap without even noticing and wonder what I was worried about. Maybe life will unfold in a mysterious and beautiful way. Maybe a new opportunity will open up and I’ll meet new people and live in new places. Maybe new friends will enter my life and make me laugh so hard I forget any past sadness. Maybe my sons will have little children of their own and I can revel in their joy.
Maybe I just need to have patience and for now, mind the gap, take the slow train and see where it ends up.
