Mom in the Mirror

Infinite beginnings, only one ending

After facing a series of endings in my personal and professional lives, I have come to believe that it is not the conclusions which upset us, it is the unexpected beginnings.

When my father died, I was genuinely devastated that his life was over -- that he would no longer get to eat cherry ice cream or go swimming or feed the birds. But the greatest pain I felt was for myself, that I would have to endure the rest of my life without him. It was the beginning of my "life without father" that hurt the most.

When any relationship ends, we mourn. But I think we mourn for the lost possibilities -- the next phase of our lives, without a loved one.

I remember when my college boyfriend and I broke up. Every time I thought about what was next for me, I had to mentally erase him from the picture. I couldn't anticipate my graduation, my first job, my white picket fence without him. At 20, I saw an incomplete future. What felt like limited options was really just a lack of imagination.

Confronting a future that wasn't the one I planned really frightened me. And I think that's one of the largest hurdles we face in times of loss.

There is a saying: "Man plans, God laughs." With or without faith, feeling in control matters to us. As a result, continuity has great appeal, because it seems to keep life predictable.

If you raise your children in the same neighborhood where you grew up, you know at least some of what to expect. Never mind that life is still a journey into the unknown: The postman, the pharmacist, and the first-grade teacher are all familiar signposts along the way. You know what is around the corner, literally if not figuratively.

I think the desire for this sort of continuity is one of the reasons soap operas have such enduring appeal.

Day after day, year after year, you can watch the same people making the same mistakes. In fact, when the characters change, the results can be unusually jarring.

Fans organize letter-writing and electronic campaigns when a popular actor or actress exits a key role and his or her part is recast. But, in general, fans embrace one of the quintessential soap opera cliches: people returning from the dead.

It is tremendously comforting to discover that someone you love (or loved watching) is not permanently gone, but was just temporarily missing. Soap operas enable that fantasy.

There are other fictional vehicles that offer the same kind of comfort. I became a Nancy Drew fan at a very young age, when my family was disrupted by divorce and dislocation.

I didn't know whether my mother would be home after school -- or in what state I'd find her if she was -- but I knew Nancy, George, and Bess would be there. And even though I had no clue who I would become, over the years, I always knew who they would be.

As I grew older, I discovered more contemporary serial heroines, crime-solving and otherwise. The arrival of a new book featuring a favorite "friend" was a cherished event, and the hope that another would be published soon was sweet anticipation.

Meanwhile, school, jobs, relationships ended and began again. These "little deaths" are difficult, but it is the rebirths which follow that create the greatest difficulty and turmoil.

The labor pains I feel giving birth to change are protracted and terrifying. But then I remember to breathe in, breathe out, and repeat as necessary.

So, like much of the furniture in my house, life as I know it remains unfinished, unvarnished, imperfect. There are infinite beginnings ahead until, at last, there is only the ending.

This LifeFiles column originally appeared on about 70 TV station websites managed by Internet Broadcasting Systems.

A license, a map, and the open road

I have always believed you can tell a lot about how a person lives by the way he or she drives. Now I have new evidence to support my theory.

I recently heard that a chain-reaction car accident was caused by overcorrection. A police officer or highway patrolman at the scene said something like, "The driver was trying to avoid another vehicle and swerved too far to the left."

I overcorrect all the time. When I catch myself moving too far in one direction, I switch gears and head the opposite way. And not just when I'm behind the wheel.

When I was younger and hurt by a boyfriend, I swore off men altogether. When I decided to start exercising after a lifetime of lethargy, I began by jogging 3 miles a day. When my son plays the soundtrack from "Shrek" for the 10th time in a row, I tell him if I hear it one more time, I'll take his CD player away. Extreme? Definitely.

And typical.

Some overreactions are harmless and even amusing in hindsight (our metaphorical rearview mirrors). Others linger dangerously.

Many therapists make a living helping adults overcome overcorrections they made as children: "If I ask for what I want, they won't give it to me" (so I can't ever ask for what I want) or "If I don't make my dad angry, he won't hit me" (so I can't do anything that might upset anyone).

These lessons help children survive under difficult circumstances, but become faulty bridges into adulthood as our realities and choices change.

Context is everything. Looking at a road map of Chicago will do me no good on the streets of New York. And relying on a coping mechanism that has outlived its usefulness will likewise leave me lost and confused.

Of course, our lives don't proceed along predictable paths. And the roads we know best are not the only roads there are. There are any number of ways to get from point A to point B, and personal freedom is all about being able to decide whether to take the scenic route, the fastest, or the road less traveled.

The surest trip in life is the one right down the middle, closest to the median and the yellow line. But who wants to do the expected all the time? On the road, it keeps us safe. But in our lives, it can be disappointing, especially when the most interesting things are often happening on the side roads, just beyond our peripheral vision.

Even the most focused person can get easily distracted. We sense a movement, turn to look, and bam get blindsided.

Maybe it's a man or woman who catches our eye and we end up in an affair we later regret. Maybe it's a vacation we can't afford. Maybe it's a shattering twist of fate we couldn't protect ourselves from, in spite of being buckled in and alert.

We all get in accidents. Some leave scars, permanent signal lights that mark us and warn others.

Despite all the signs we learn to read -- dangerous curves, uphill battle, dead end -- and the adjustments we learn to make, there is only the journey and our license to take it.

When was the last time you had yours renewed?

This LifeFiles column originally appeared on about 70 TV station websites managed by Internet Broadcasting Systems.