Always Looking at the Other Bookshelf

I remember coming back to work after being away. It could have been a vacation, a long weekend or Christmas holidays, it really didn't matter. There was always that first morning back.

The alarm felt particularly offensive. My clothes somehow seemed less comfortable than I remembered them being. There were emails waiting, things that had happened while I was gone, and inevitably someone would say, "Welcome back! Did you have a relaxing time?"

And I'd think; Apparently not, because I already need another vacation. But then something funny would happen. I'd get my coffee. Sit down. Start catching up. I'd see the familiar faces, hear the familiar conversations and slowly find my way back into the rhythm of my day. And there was something comforting about it.

For more than 30 years, work was a big part of my life. I worked in the legal field with Bay Street lawyers, supported executives, managed projects, solved problems and kept track of a ridiculous number of moving pieces. I was good at busy. Actually, I think busy and I were in a fairly committed relationship. And as much as I looked forward to vacations, I also remember the strange comfort of returning to my desk afterward. Everything was where it belonged. Including me. Of course, while I was sitting at that desk, there were plenty of days I wished I were somewhere else. Sitting beside a lake. Walking along a beach. At home with absolutely nowhere I had to be. I think most of us have done that. We look across at another version of our life and imagine how much easier it must be over there. If we're working, we want time off. If we're overwhelmed, we want an empty calendar. If we're running from one responsibility to another, we dream about having nowhere we have to be.

Then life has a funny way of giving us something we once thought we wanted, only not necessarily in the way we imagined it. After my accident, I stopped working. Suddenly there was no office to return to. No first morning back after vacation. No desk waiting for me. No familiar rhythm to slip back into. And I learned something I don't think I could have understood while I was still working. Having nowhere you have to be doesn't automatically feel like freedom. Sometimes it feels like loss.

I had spent years thinking how wonderful it would be to have more time at home. More time with my family. More time to do the things that always seemed to get pushed to the bottom of the list. But when that time arrived because my life had changed rather than because I had chosen it, it felt very different. I missed parts of my old life I hadn't realized were important to me. I missed being needed in that particular way. I missed accomplishing something and knowing I'd done it well. I missed conversations in hallways and the little routines you barely notice until they're gone. I even missed some of the things I used to complain about. Not all of them. Let's not get carried away. But enough of them to make me realize how often we don't recognize the good parts of a season until we're standing in the next one.

These days, my life has a completely different rhythm. Home is where most of my days happen now. There are family responsibilities, appointments, things that need organizing, people I care about who need me. There are good days when I can get things done and days when my body reminds me that I don't get to set the pace anymore.

I've also found different ways to feel useful. I wrote a book. I built resources. I volunteer when I can. I write. I advocate. None of it looks like the career I once had. And maybe that's the part I've been slowly learning.

We spend so much of life looking at the next bookshelf. The career shelf. The vacation shelf. The retirement shelf. The when things settle down shelf. The when I have more time shelf. We stand in front of one while staring longingly at another, convinced that's where the really good books are. But then we get there. And somehow, we're looking back.

I don't think the answer is to pretend every chapter is wonderful. Some aren't. Some are exhausting. Some are unfair. Some aren't chapters we would ever have chosen for ourselves. But even inside those chapters, there can be things worth noticing. A quiet cup of tea. A conversation that wouldn't have happened before. A grandchild climbing into your lap. A neighbour waiting for you to go for a walk. A few words finally coming together on a page. A day when your body cooperates. A moment when you realize that although your life doesn't look anything like the one you expected, it is still very much a life.

Maybe that's what I wish I had understood all those years ago when I was sitting at my desk dreaming about being somewhere else. And maybe it's what I'm still trying to understand now. There will probably always be another shelf that looks interesting from where we're standing.

I'm just getting better at remembering to read the one I'm on.