All the world’s a stage

I will be sixty in November. This knowledge flickers at the periphery of my mind like a neon dive bar sign: both sad and beckoning. 60. Extending an imaginary glass of Scotch from a dark corner is my beloved mother, who lived only one year past her sixtieth. Over these past twenty years, I have felt her absence in every significant moment of my life. But I’m not quite ready to join her for that drink. Not yet.

As this milestone birthday approaches, my thoughts are persistently invaded by Erikson’s stages of psychosocial development. His incisive descriptions of existential challenges, each building on the one before, are both taunting and haunting. I observe Erikson’s accuracy firsthand in my two sons, 19 and 21. Both are settling into Stage 6: Intimacy vs. Isolation (ages 18 to 40). Basically: intimacy is the goal; isolation, not so much. Thankfully, both boys seem to lean toward connection and self-awareness. Still, I worry—an occupational hazard—that isolation can creep in unbidden, and I might not be around to provide solace. Given my mother’s early departure, will I be around for them in the years ahead?

At 59, I am nearing the end of Stage 7: Generativity vs. Stagnation (ages 40 to 65). What follows? Stage 8: Integrity vs. Despair (age 65 to death). Every time I read those words, I have to take a breath. A deep one. Integrity. Despair. This year, I am feeling Stage 7 deeply, confronted by a rampant fear of stagnation. In my forties and early fifties, my capacity for generativity felt entirely different. Back then, I was on fire. No—I was fire. A powerful force. Unstoppable. I could do it all and make it look easy: creating, working, raising children, and caring for failing parents. Why not throw in a graduate degree while I was at it?

Now, nearing Stage 8 as a late-to-the-party menopausal woman, I wonder if all that drive was simply a gift of hormones. Battling hot flashes, worsening insomnia, brain fog, and an infuriatingly unrecognizable body, I feel "other." As my face and spirit lose the elasticity they once possessed, I feel my grip on generativity slipping. Everything, and I do mean all things, feels significantly more challenging. Even writing this blog is an Everest to climb. No sherpa. No oxygen.

But here is the greatest fear I face in my long-term battle for integrity: I’ve been writing songs since the age of five. That process is integral to my identity—or at least it was. For over a year, I’ve been stuck. A lack of motivation. Lord help me, stagnation. What if I have no more songs to write or sing? Does it actually matter? Did it ever? What if I never pick up the guitar or sit at the piano again? Currently, my upright Spinet is a full half-step out of tune. Out of step. Like me.

Perhaps it is a natural, temporary ebbing. However, my current age and stage make the absence of creativity feel monumental—the potential consequences, catastrophic. I have become a full-blown existential crisis embodied from brain to belly. The defining dilemma of this purgatorial space I have inhabited since the pandemic: if I no longer create music, will I be surrendering integrity to succumb to the unseen crevasses of regret and despair?

This is how I felt until last week. Until Alaska.

For as long as I can remember, I have dreamt of seeing the Northern Lights. It has always been at the top of my list. A year ago, I began researching the best times and places to go, checking moon cycles, weather patterns, and forecasts. I settled on North Pole, just outside Fairbanks, where the Alaska State website offers visitors a 90% chance of seeing the lights when staying for three days or more.

It felt like a fool’s errand, given that visibility is never guaranteed, but there was more to Alaska than the lights. The call of the vast wilderness, the abundance of wildlife, and the stunning landscapes made it an easy choice. I will write more about this because I absolutely must; it was the trip of a lifetime. But for today, I will say that. For this trip, the universe had deep pockets and turned them out generously. Alaska proved to be the creative "reset" I needed. Having returned just yesterday, here I sit, writing for the first time in four years (check the blog archive!). I am flexing muscles I feared atrophied. A spell cast by beauty. So much light, brilliant, luminous, green, and glowing. Reminding me that I will always choose beauty and the pursuit of generativity in the constant battle for integrity.