What's The Point?
by Kayt Kennedy
Ah, the seductive power of the American dream: owning your own home, driving a new car, having 2.5 children, a supportive mate, a successful career, a 401K & thriving investments—all our ducks in a row, as the saying goes. It’s predictable. It’s safe. It’s secure. But at what cost?
I am the daughter of parents who survived the Great Depression, which colored their lives and catalyzed the creation and embodiment of beliefs about money and financial uncertainty. Their lives became about security—not physical security or emotional security, but financial security. The health of our family life was measured in dollars and cents, not hugs and happiness. My frugal, blue-collared parents died owning homes in Michigan and in Florida, property in Texas, mineral rights in Oklahoma, a brand-new car—all free and clear. They paid cash for everything, owed no one a cent, and at the time of their deaths left an estate of over a quarter of a million dollars. Not bad for a truck driver and a factory worker with three children. They had successfully kept the wolf from their door and had survived to bask in the light of their golden years.
About two years after retirement, my mother—who walked three miles a day, taught exercise classes five mornings a week, and watched her cholesterol intake—was diagnosed with cancer after having never been sick a day in her life. She believed that cancer was not something that just happened to her; she believed that she created it.
“Why do you think you created it?” I asked her one afternoon as we pondered the mysteries of life and death.
“Because my life is boring,” she said without having to pause to consider her response.
“But you have a great life,” I protested.
“It’s boring,” she insisted.
“Then do something to make it not boring,” I suggested.
“It’s too late,” she said. “I have cancer.”
“What do you wish you had done that you didn’t do?” I asked.
“Take a trip up the East Coast, for one.” she replied.
“You still could,” I said, wincing inside at the ease with which such a desire could be fulfilled—but wasn’t.
“Your dad doesn’t want to go,” she countered.
“You could go without him. You could go on one of those chartered bus trips.”
“It’s too late,” she said. “I have cancer.”
I remember many of the other wishes and fantasies and dreams ignored by my parents over the years—those that would have brought fun to their lives, joy to their hearts, light to their eyes had they dared to pursue them.
I wanted to scream at her, “It’s not too late! Just do something! Anything! Talk about boring! Cancer is boring. Cancer isn’t creative. It’s just a way out.” And I knew it was for her. A way out of her very predictable, comfortable, careful, boring life. A year later my father followed her.
She and my dad had worked so hard to get those ducks lined up, sacrificing and saving and compromising. But ducks line up only to get from Point A to Point B in a safe and orderly fashion. Ducks are meant to quack and waddle and swim and play. There’s no magic in just standing in a row.
So my parents died owing no one, leaving money that they could just as well have spent on themselves doing things that they never allowed themselves to do because “it costs too much” or “there are too many nuts on the highway” or “I don’t know if I’d like it there” or “it might rain (or snow or get dark)” or “we should save for the future.” Excuses for their own self denial. They realized the American Dream—leaving their dreams of the heart untouched—and got to the safety of the grave without a mark on them. What a coup!
We can look at our own lives and notice how many times we have used our children or our mates or our bosses or our physical condition or our finances as excuses for not doing what was in our hearts to do. We’ve spent time cleaning the house or mowing the yard when we wanted to be sailing or hiking. We’ve worked at unchallenging, de-energizing jobs for the sake of a paycheck instead of listening to our inner voice, following our bliss. We’ve compromised our aliveness for bigger, better, more. We’ve sacrificed the adventure of living for safety, security, predictability. We’ve forsaken our dreams of a better world for the sake of acceptance and conformity. And what is our reward? To get to the grave unscathed. Regrets? Plenty! But bruises, marks, scars from taking a risk, creating an adventure, living out our heart’s desires: none, nada, zip.
In Harry Palmer’s Living Deliberately, he recounts some of the insights and realizations of the first Avatars after they had experienced his newly introduced, life-changing processes:
“The idea that there is some hard reality that we have to adapt ourselves to and be realistic about is just another form of fear.”
“Regret is a break in higher-self trust. You stop trusting that your higher self is creating the experience that it needs for its own evolvement.”
Fear and regret. Trust and bliss. We get to choose. We get to live out our choices. And we can always make another choice.
In the words of Harry Palmer, “Don’t let what you’re being get in the way of what you might become...You want to be responsible for creating yourself, not just for getting to a point where you can live with yourself. You’re creators. You’re not adjusters...You deserve to experience your creation of you in all its wonder.”
Let’s reach for life with both hands, arms wide. Let’s show off our scars, revel in our bumps and bruises. “I got this one on a white-water raft trip.” “I got this one when I gave up being a lawyer and opened a bookstore.” “I got this one when I left the suburbs and moved my family to our mountain homestead.” “I got this one when I changed my mind about what’s possible.” Let’s feel what the wonder of being alive really feels like. As Harry reminds us, we deserve it!
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