by Sheila Connolly
Have you
had moments in your life when you felt as though your personal universe has
rotated on its axis, just a bit, and things aren't the way they were before?
It doesn't
have to be one of those big life events—a birth or death, a job loss or move,
or (if you're a writer) a phone caller who says, "we want to buy your
book." We all recognize those, and
mark them on our calendars to celebrate again and again.
Nor am I
thinking of those moments when you hover over the Send button and tell
yourself, if I do this, things will change.
I'm
thinking of something more subtle yet more pervasive. You may not even notice it when or while it's
happening, but suddenly you look back and say, what just happened? When? It's
not any one event but a string of events, small in themselves but cumulative.
I've always
called this a "sea change," but online sources tell me I'm wrong,
that a sea change is a larger, more significant transformation. Most sources agree that it originated with
Shakespeare in The Tempest.
Full fathom five
thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Would that
we all could enjoy the "rich and strange" part, but obviously in this
case, the late father has been radically transformed by death.
Maybe what
I'm thinking of what most people would call "luck." You may believe
you have a luck ration for your life—you're lucky, you're unlucky, consistently
over time. Or maybe both—you win at
cards, but you get into fender-benders a lot. It's your own luck ranking—and
sometimes it changes.
Once upon a
time I thought I was a lucky person (or at least that's what I wanted to think). On the plus side, I've lead an interesting
life; I've had wonderful educational opportunities and some stimulating jobs
with great co-workers; I'm in a long-term marriage, with a smart, funny daughter
we both adore; I've finally found a profession that I love and that is very
rewarding to me.
But if I
were a glass-half-empty person, I could say that I'm the product of a broken
home, with an alcoholic father and a depressive mother; that we moved all over
the map when I was growing and even since; that I've had multiple, diverse
careers and have been unceremoniously booted from several positions and I never
even saw it coming; that my husband is nearing retirement and has no idea what
he wants to do with the rest of his life because he has no interests outside of
work; that my daughter is still "finding herself" at 27.
Weirdly
enough, it all goes into my writing—my last, best career. I may complain about the non-linear track of
my employment, but along the way I gathered experience and knowledge that go
far beyond what I could find just doing Google research. It's as though I've been in training to be a
writer for my whole life.
That's what
I would call the sea change: the happy surprise of finding a whole new
direction in my life, long after I expected to. The turn that lets me use
everything that has come before in a meaningful way. And the only choice I have
is to welcome and embrace the change.
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