Lipstick Mountains Press
A boutique publisher of Arts & Letters & Ideas
Here you are - - where? Where are you? Another day older and deeper in debt? At the age when you're supposed to have it all - - the achievements, the promotions, applause, all the toys, and all the answers. So what's the deal? Why are you asking yourself, is this all there is? Is this it? This? This is it? Where did the time go?
You worked hard all of these years to become the brilliant children of the WWII Generation, the ones who wanted you to have it all, to have more than they did. And now here you are. With more. Or less? You have life more complicated than calculus, and three garages full of more stuff than your parents ever dreamed of accumulating, like a truck or a motorcycle or a racing bike, a Winnebago, a John Deere lawnmower that does wheelies, in-line skates, a golf cart, a boat on a trailer, or a fast car—no doubt you have something big with wheels. Or, something even more prominent with propellers and, God forbid, sails. You have a big-screen TV, a VCR, a DVD, TiVo, and all the accouterments such as cables, dishes, channels, and surround sound--wires, buttons, switches, and remote controls surround you.
You have more education, more opportunities, more creature comforts, and more disposable income. You may or may not dance, but you have all the right moves, plus some cash in your wallet. You know something about wine, something about perfume, and something about flowers, lingerie, baubles, and other things that women find appealing.
Still, you want, you want. Is it more, is it less, or is it something else? What exactly is it that you want now?
Maybe it's more time. I know I want more time: more hours in the day, more days on the weekend. And I want more quiet time, more time to figure it out, more time to find myself, more time to decide who I want to be and what I want to do with my life. I even reflect on who I have become, what I did, and what I said. I want more time to be happy. More time to be carefree, more time to be young.
More time to grow and mature, to age and have wisdom, and then so quickly we die, to make room for the living, the new, and the unborn. Sometimes I wonder if anyone will miss me. Have I put enough footprints on this earth? Too many?
And it went so fast, didn't it? We sound like our parents, don't we? We're even beginning to look like them and walk like them. So what kind of better life are we talking about here? A life you can enjoy here and now? Few of us are enjoying that kind of life. We have become a nation of mountain climbers, all out of breath, scrambling over rocky and dangerous terrain, each hoping to reach a plateau where there will be some kind of payoff for our efforts. There must be something, some award, or reward, like a trinket, a ribbon, or a snack.
And we're re-sounding the question we asked when we were three-years-old: Why? But it sounds different. When once we said, Why? Why is the sky blue? Today, we say, Why? Why did someone else get cancer and die? Why did someone else catch all the breaks? Why did this happen to me? And this? And this?
Why can't I let go--of my past, of my sorrow, of my doubts, an unrequited love, my losses, fears, and insecurities? A pair of jeans I will never fit into again? Why? And why am I so afraid to love somebody and let them love me back? What do I want in my life right now? Am I willing to do what it takes? And why am I afraid, and of what?
Well, what would you do and who would you be if you weren't afraid?