On the Urge to Change Your Life
Is it possible at 32?
“You must change your life.” — The final sentence of Rainer Maria Rilke’s poem “Archaic Torso of Apollo.”
It’s a Tuesday afternoon in my wife’s hometown of Santiago Atitlan. My mind’s dull from a bout of mindless online meandering, and now I’m reading Thoreau’s Walden on the shores of a volcanic lake. I’ll be thirty-two in just three weeks.
After skimming several hyper-detailed descriptions of sand, lichen, and trees (admission: Thoreau can get boring), I arrive at his chapter on “Higher Laws,” and I’m immediately enthralled. Here, he writes of life as “startlingly moral,” of how “goodness is the only investment that never fails,” of how a person must live according to the “constant suggestions” of their genius. This “life in conformity to higher principles” has remarkable results: “life emits a fragrance like flowers and sweet-scented herbs, is more elastic, more starry, more immortal.”
And here I sit, burnt out from almost an hour of dimwitted scrolling. If life’s emitting a fragrance, I’m too numb, or too preoccupied with my own annoyance at myself, to notice.
Damn, Thoreau. Transcendent indeed!
And now I aim at myself, for maybe the thousandth time, that same line with which Rilke so powerfully punctuated his poem. You must change your life!
But the enthusiasm lasts barely a moment, interrupted by a vaporous cynicism soon distilled into a bitter question: Can you really change your life at thirty-two?
My young adulthood was defined by self-directed epiphanies. I’d experience something on a night out, or encounter a phrase in a book, or hear an idea from a friend, and think, “Yes, yes, yes — that’s the person I want to be!” And with remarkable efficacy, I pulled it off. A night of drunken back-slaps and hugs taught me alcohol was a solution to social timidity — and so I dedicated myself to regular binges. A book of wisdom from the Dalai Lama ingrained an avowal of loving-kindness, a handful of sociology classes inculcated a commitment to political engagement, and Lorca’s “Theory and Play of Duende” committed me to the life of an artist.
Again and again, I said, “I must change my life.” And again and again, I did.
What made it so easy to plot a new course? Surely, it was youth — the fact my life had so little weight to it, meaning a slight adjustment to the steering wheel could bring a radical change of direction. Who I was was still undefined, so I was free to define it.
Now, I’m in my thirties. I’ve gone to bed more or less at the same time, eaten more or less the same things, and even thought more or less the same thoughts for almost ten years. My life is a massive cruise ship, and it would take a lot more than a little mental nudge to change course.
Or so I believe in my most cynical moments.
But let me take a step back. Am I really the same as I was ten years ago?
At twenty-two, I would get blackout drunk at least once (often twice) every weekend. I would routinely arrive late and hungover to open my father’s business, a bait and tackle shop — and then resent him for being upset about it. I’d waste an ungodly amount of time on online nonsense — SNL clips on YouTube, idiotic games, in-depth analyses of every soccer transfer rumor. And while I considered myself a writer, I’d produce little more than the beginnings of a political treatise or a few saccharine lines I’d hastily label a poem.
Now, I never have more than two beers in a sitting, and I’ll go months without drinking at all. I’m a father, and I fill my spare time doing everything I can for my family, from freelance work and bottle-washing to singalongs and peek-a-boo. I’ve published stories, essays, and poems. I’ve completed two novel manuscripts. And yes, I still waste more time online than I like — but I’ve drastically reduced my inane pastimes. In fact, the infrequency of my mindless scrolling sessions is what makes each one so painful.
I have changed my life as a less-young man — it’s just that the changes are the result of gradual growth, of slower-moving processes. My life might be an unwieldy, heavy ship, laden with habits, thoughts, and experiences, but even a tiny shift of the steering wheel will have an effect. Enough of them can even produce a revolution.
Thoreau suggests a renewed commitment to higher laws — to which I say, “Yes, I must change my life!” Forget the cynicism that such a change can no longer be done. I just need realistic expectations about what changing my life means for someone my age.
I won’t be a different person tomorrow. But maybe Thoreau is one more subtle hand upon that same old steering wheel — and maybe I’ll be someone different in ten years because of him.