Nearing the end of one’s forty-ninth year is perhaps an odd time to contemplate major aspirations in higher-education, and yet.. here I am.
The generalist’s dilemma is how to concentrate for long enough to be really good at any one thing, when dozens of topic areas hold not just passing interest, but intense fascination. A firm belief in MacGyverism has sustained me as I careened along a motley career path, from woodworking trades through manufacturing to public accounting, from corporate finance to technical management at valley start-ups. I had a lot of fun along the way, and earned a decent living, but what always mattered most to me was the people, for whom it seemed I could never carve time from corporate priorities to do quite enough.
Why I rejected the study of psychology at several critical junctures is too long a story for this introduction, but it meant that the other very interesting studies I chose didn’t fill my horizon with hope or my heart with lasting passion, and after a semester or three, something more interesting, and certainly more lucrative, usually came up. The infernal Protestant work ethic is deeply imbued, and the impetus to earn a decent living for myself and a growing family gobbled up all available resources for a couple of decades, until burn-out forced a contemplative break. After casting about for a while, and reading a lot, I finally turned inward and was reminded of what gives my life most meaning: helping others be healthier. While it’s definitely too late to consider med school, and anyway probably never a good fit for my rebellious spirit, the life table tells me there’s probably still time to learn something new, and helping others live longer and/or healthier lives seems an apt aim for whatever time I have left.
Bringing internal dialog to the surface lets me realize that old obstacles and objections are no longer valid – now that my child is grown, it’s okay to focus some energy on developing myself, especially in future service of others. I’ve figured out what I want to do when I grow up, and I feel extremely fortunate to have (for the first time in my life since leaving home at seventeen) the support from my family and the freedom to focus that bring collegiate success finally within reach.
Life occasionally wreaks havoc on our plans, so I remain flexible and optimistic. “The Belle of Amherst” suffered from Bright’s Disease, and only made it to age fifty-six before her poetic pen was laid back in its tray. From a more youthful person’s perspective, the prospect of starting a new career in one’s mid-fifties may appear absurd, but midlife can bring a crystalline wave of clarity, some steely determination and a hopeful ray of optimism which, when combined with a few shekels, are enough to power any dream to fruition. Trundling hopefully toward our dreams seems like as good a way as any to spend whatever time we each may have.
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
–Emily Dickinson
