Carousel

“Order is indeed the dream of man, but chaos, which is only another word for dumb, blind, witless chance, is still the law of nature.”

– Wallace Stegner

            How often do I try to control my environment? My future? Every day, I suppose. Yes, every single day, from the moment I first open my eyes within the safety of my bed. A moment of dumb, comfortable confusion: what day is it today? what is expected of me? what are my obligations?  I remember the answers to these questions and remain stubbornly wrapped up for a moment longer in my tangled sheets and bed cover – a rebellion that lasts all of 45 seconds. Sighing, I throw off the bed cover and my feet hit the floor. From that moment forward, until I collapse in bed some seventeen hours later, I try in earnest to make order of every single minute. Indeed, every single second!

            I make the bed, empty the dishwasher, straighten the sofa cushions (semblance of order). I log into the remote server, check my email, consult my to-do list (semblance of prioritization). Nine or ten hours later, I log off of the server, check the contents of the fridge and pantry, assemble my mental checklist of the items I need to purchase at the corner grocery, the calls I need to return to the children’s tutor (semblance of mothering). Then I lace up my tennis shoes, put on sunblock and head out for a hike (semblance of caring for my physical health). During the hike, I call the tutor, check in with a friend, listen to an Italian podcast (semblance of maintaining a personal life).

            I’m a good worker. A good mother. A good daughter, friend and sister. Respectful of my body, careful with my living space. Yet, despite these efforts, disorder often ensues. My newest hire implodes. Even after hours of homework cajoling, my son is still close to failing. And despite the sunblock, a basal cell blossoms on my back thigh, another one on my forehead.

            This is not a cry of self-pity. On the contrary, even though this pattern of “two steps forward, one step back” can be infuriating, it is also a bit amusing. I can try and pin the tail on the donkey all day long, yet the next morning I’ll be back to chasing it all over again. Some days it feels like I’m living in the Bill Murray movie “Groundhog’s Day.” Other mornings it feels like I just bought another ticket to ride the same old merry-go-round: same old antique mirrors framed in vanity bulbs; same Carnival-themed music; same painted horses, swans and ostriches. The people standing on the pavement waving as I go round and round might change from time to time, but it’s always the same ride, same experience, same input. A whirl of goings-ons out there beyond the reach of my carousel saddle. I try and swipe at the Universe as I circle past, but my attempts at pulling a star from the canvas of life is meagre at best. I manage to smear the paint a bit as my fingers trail through, but I can never quite grasp the paint itself, or pluck the lily pad from the image and store it, for safe keeping, in my pocket.

The comedian Brian Regan has a joke about ants that perfectly encapsulates this experience. He describes a boy knocking over an anthill, and marvels at the fact that the ants – industrious creatures that they are – immediately start to rebuild. Without a doubt in their minds or even a moment’s hesitation! You’d think that, even if most of the ants returned instantly to rebuilding, at least one of them would stand off to the side and say, “Aw, man! Look at this! I ain’t doin’ that again. The boy’s standing right there. He’s just gonna knock it over again!” But they don’t – none of them do. They just rebuild.

Humans are exactly the same. We rebuild towns that have been smashed to smithereens – consider Warsaw, Dresden, Hiroshima and Beirut (interesting side note: “the Allied powers dropped 2,400 tons of high explosives and 1,500 tons of incendiary bombs on Dresden, bringing the temperature up to 3,000 degrees Fahrenheit”). We rebuild entire cities after they collapse in earthquakes, landslides, tornadoes or floods. Right in the same spot! Without even wondering….hmmm, do you think this is a good idea? Is there any logic to pulling out my hammer again and laying a foundation in an area that has already proven to be especially fragile? Consider San Francisco, Venice, Phuket & Tokyo. In Tokyo, on September 1st, 1923, “a 7.9 magnitude earthquake brought on a 40-foot tsunami that, in turn, sparked fires around the city. The flames burned through the wooden houses of the capital city and killed more than 100,000 people in their path.” Today, Tokyo sparkles - perhaps temporarily so.

Humans are just like the ants with their anthills, only it’s not a boy with his leg poised above us moments before bringing his foot down, it’s the cosmos instead. Or fighter pilots with bombers. Not sure which is worse (actually, I am sure. I would take the cosmos over warring men – any day of the week, any minute of the hour).

But the point is that we are all the same – from the tiniest ant to the tallest of men. We rebuild because we have to. We rebuild because we are hopeful (and perhaps short-sighted, at least when it comes to building our mansions on a precipice). We rebuild because we don’t know what else to do. Rebuilding gives us a sense of purpose, a sense of control, a sense of standing at the helm and steering our own ship even in spite of the fact that the helm and the controls are often times just an illusion.

So, I purchase my 16,790th ticket for the carousel (46 years old x 365 days). I climb into the sheets, I climb out of the sheets. I pour the same coffee into the same beloved mug, log on to the same server, part the curtains each morning to greet the same sun and close them again at night when I bid adieu to the same moon. Again and again and again. We all live in a version of Murray’s “Groundhog’s Day.” Some days we advance the chess pieces, some days we watch them topple. Some days we have someone in the saddle with us, other days we go it alone. We grab at the Universe as she spins pass and try to clutch a star, but the Universe eludes us and we’ve succeeded only in having smeared the paint a little. We all live in a rendition of Van Gogh’s painting “The Starry Night.” Some of us are huddled in little French villages, some of us attempt to pierce the sky in a Dubai high rise.  But above us all, the dome of the Heavens swirls past like smeared paint, in a Milky Way haze. And, beneath that wavy beauty, we are industrious, tireless, determined, perseverant.

At it again. Here we go, at it again.

Poon, Linda; “The Cities That Have Risen From Ruins.” Bloomberg.com