One of the most satisfying moments for a parent, in my experience, is seeing one's grown children assume the commitment to raising a child of their own. If they do well at it, this is an assurance that one hasn't done such a bad job oneself. Beyond that ego satisfaction, raising children, like marriage, is a sign of engagement in life - though there are many other ways of engaging in life, and certainly not every parent has made a mature commitment to being a parent.
Many of our friends have grown or growing children who have never, as the saying goes, found themselves, which is hardly surprising. Finding oneself has not been easy since modern societies have told us that we must invent ourselves rather than accept the definitions imposed by traditional society.
Since I have to admit that I am an old man, at least chronologically (see how I can't accept the definition), my engagement in life is different from what it was when I was an ambitious student, a new husband and father, a man trying to make a career, and so on. Ambition is part of being engaged in life, but how much sense does ambition make toward the end of one's life? Or, what sort of ambition is appropriate for one at the beginning of one's eighth decade?
Recently, because a good friend forwarded me a message from a man who was a professor at Princeton when I was an undergraduate, I sent him an email, which he answered almost immediately. As it turns out, he's only ten or eleven years older than I am, though at the time I never even wondered how old he was. He was a professor! But, from my present perspective (and his, I assume), he was a kid then.
Being in contact with that professor put me in mind of my immaturity when I was in college, of how little I knew about myself and the world, about how thoughtless I was. Being smart enough to get into a top university didn't mean I was smart enough to know how I wanted the rest of my life to unfold. I said I was an ambitious student, and I was, but my ambition was restricted to getting very good grades, to excelling, not to anything beyond that. I have always found transitions difficult.
But I was engaged. I didn't drift while I was in college, and I didn't rebel (maybe I should have). I was fortunate enough to get a Fulbright scholarship to study in France between college and graduate school, and I used that year to drift. I had no particular aim beyond talking a lot of French. A friend of mine in the Fulbright program used her time to write a very ambitious paper about something, and that idea never even crossed my mind. I read a lot, wrote a lot of letters home, did some traveling, and went to lectures at the university. Sometimes I reproach myself. I should have used the year more productively. I should have accomplished something. But, in retrospect, having a year to drift, and getting a monthly stipend to subsidize my drifting, was valuable.
Maybe I should let myself drift now.
Many of our friends have grown or growing children who have never, as the saying goes, found themselves, which is hardly surprising. Finding oneself has not been easy since modern societies have told us that we must invent ourselves rather than accept the definitions imposed by traditional society.
Since I have to admit that I am an old man, at least chronologically (see how I can't accept the definition), my engagement in life is different from what it was when I was an ambitious student, a new husband and father, a man trying to make a career, and so on. Ambition is part of being engaged in life, but how much sense does ambition make toward the end of one's life? Or, what sort of ambition is appropriate for one at the beginning of one's eighth decade?
Recently, because a good friend forwarded me a message from a man who was a professor at Princeton when I was an undergraduate, I sent him an email, which he answered almost immediately. As it turns out, he's only ten or eleven years older than I am, though at the time I never even wondered how old he was. He was a professor! But, from my present perspective (and his, I assume), he was a kid then.
Being in contact with that professor put me in mind of my immaturity when I was in college, of how little I knew about myself and the world, about how thoughtless I was. Being smart enough to get into a top university didn't mean I was smart enough to know how I wanted the rest of my life to unfold. I said I was an ambitious student, and I was, but my ambition was restricted to getting very good grades, to excelling, not to anything beyond that. I have always found transitions difficult.
But I was engaged. I didn't drift while I was in college, and I didn't rebel (maybe I should have). I was fortunate enough to get a Fulbright scholarship to study in France between college and graduate school, and I used that year to drift. I had no particular aim beyond talking a lot of French. A friend of mine in the Fulbright program used her time to write a very ambitious paper about something, and that idea never even crossed my mind. I read a lot, wrote a lot of letters home, did some traveling, and went to lectures at the university. Sometimes I reproach myself. I should have used the year more productively. I should have accomplished something. But, in retrospect, having a year to drift, and getting a monthly stipend to subsidize my drifting, was valuable.
Maybe I should let myself drift now.
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