It Can't be About the Journey; It has to be About the Destination

A month or so ago in an OMIG, I was discussing a double transition I was going through. Although I did not mention the issues, I had in mind selling out and going boatless, and retiring and going jobless.

I described a long narrow corridor like in my house, growing up. I thought of myself opening a door in the middle of that corridor. Leaving a bedroom, I guess. Crossing the narrow space and opening the door on the opposite side, leading into what? I didn't know. (In my house of origin, it was the 'guest bedroom'!) But I was excited. The old bedroom no longer fit me. I needed to make this crossing. Quickly. Painlessly as possible.

But then when boat didn't sell. I fell into an infantile tantrum. The prospective buyer was an idiot. The brokers were incompetent. And the surveyor? Well I liked him. However in the last day or so, I've heard him described as a 'nazi'.

Where am I in my transition? Well, that corridor is becoming way much wider than it first seemed. As wide as it is long. Maybe the corridor is not the right metaphor.

Last week in my OMIG, a man read this piece by Danaan Parry aloud:

The Parable of the Trapeze

Turning the Fear of Transformation into the Transformation of Fear

Sometimes I feel that my life is a series of trapeze swings. I'm either hanging on to a trapeze bar swinging along or, for a few moments in my life, I'm hurtling across space in between trapeze bars. Most of the time, I spend my life hanging for dear life to my trapeze-bar-of-the-moment.

It carries me along at a certain steady rate of swing, and I have the feeling that I'm in control of my life. I know most of the right questions and even some of the answers.

But, every once in a while as I'm merrily (or even not-so-merrily) swinging along, I look out ahead of me into the distance, and what do I see? I see another trapeze bar swinging toward me.

It's empty, and I know in that place in me that knows, that this new trapeze bar has my name on it. It is my next step, my growth, my aliveness coming to get me.

In my heart of hearts, I know that for me to grow, I must release my grip on this present, well-known bar and move to the new one.

Each time it happens to me I hope (no, I pray) that I won't have to let go of my old bar completely before I grab the new one. But in my knowing place, I know that I must totally release my grasp on my old bar, and for some moment in time, I must hurtle across space before I can grab onto the new bar.

Each time, I am filled with terror. It doesn't matter that in all my previous hurtles across the void of unknowing I have always made it. I am each time afraid that I will miss, that I will be crushed on unseen rocks in the bottomless chasm between bars. I do it anyway.Perhaps this is the essence of what the mystics call the faith experience.

No guarantees, no net, no insurance policy, but you do it anyway—because somehow to keep hanging on to that old bar is no longer on the list of alternatives. So, for an eternity that can last a microsecond or a thousand lifetimes, I soar across the dark void of, "the past is gone, the future is not here yet." It's called "transition."

I have come to believe that this transition is the only place where real change occurs. I mean real change, not the pseudo-change that only lasts until the next time my old buttons get punched.

I have noticed that, in our culture, this transition zone is looked up-on as a "no-thing," a no-place between places. Sure, the old trapeze bar was real, and that new one coming towards me, I hope that's real, too.

But the void in between? Is that just a scary, confusing, disorienting nowhere that must be gotten through as fast and as unconsciously as possible?

Yes! Yes! Yes!

As I used to say from the helm on the water, if you know you're going to have to tack (or reef!) before long, better to set to it and get it over and done with before you really, really, really have to do so. I reflect on my life. Without delving into details, I recall easy transfers from one trapeze bar to another. They might have been gutsy at the time, but they were quick and easy to perform. Maybe because I felt I had a margin of error: I either had a safety net or I thought I could swing back and recapture the old bar. If I fell, my youthful body would bounce into a crouching position and I could quickly regain my footing. Once I recognized my next bar, which always appeared somewhat unexpectedly, I would reach out and grab it.

Parts of my life were lived staying on a comfortable and predictable swing. Coasting in some comfort. But those trapeze bars which appeared out of no where sort of grabbed me. There was no large doubt. They were mine. The empty new bars were significantly more 'me' than the old familiar, outgrown bars I wanted to relinquish. And there were no unfathomable gaps between the old bars and the new. No indecision. Just like walking across the hallway. As the Nike ad says, Just get to the new destination. . . . . .

But the Parable continues and says it's all about the journey:

NO!

What a wasted opportunity that would be!

I have a sneaking suspicion that the transition zone is the only real thing, and the bars are illusions we dream up to avoid the void where the real change, the real growth, occurs for us.

Whether or not my hunch is true, it remains that the transition zones in our lives are incredibly rich places. They should be honored, even savored. Yes, with all the pain, and fear, and feelings of being out of control that can (but not necessarily) accompany transitions, they are still the most alive, most growth-filled, passionate, expansive moments of our lives.

"We cannot discover new oceans unless we have the courage to lose sight of the shore."

So, transformation of fear may have nothing to do with making fear go away, but rather with giving ourselves permission to "hang out" in the transition between trapezes. Transforming our need to grab that new bar, any bar, is allowing ourselves to dwell in the only place where change really happens. It can be terrifying. It can also be enlightening in the true sense of the word. Hurtling through the void, we just may learn how to fly.

Before the Brother finished this reading, he had cracked me wide open.

At the time, I was speechless. My first reaction was to feel shamed for my cowardly impatience. Time has passed now and I have reassessed this metaphor. My POV has to be age-appropriate. Young men can afford to entertain themselves with the process of learning about flight. I am an old man whose pre-occupation is with the landing gears as well as for the proximity and length of the landing strip. Time is of the essence with this old man. I want to get from the places I have really liked being in the past, i.e., an employed yachtsman; I want to become what I will really love being in the present/future, a retired yacht owner.

Yes, my beloved Trophy Wife, I am impatient!