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Last week, in rehearsal for my play The Pavement Kingdom: a clinic escort play, our director, Rachel, played the music video for Alanis Morissette’s “Thank U.”
Buck-naked with mermaid hair, Alanis wanders through the city, singing a litany of gratitudes: “Thank you, India / Thank you, terror / Thank you, disillusionment / Thank you, frailty / Thank you, consequence / Thank you, thank you, silence.”
Thank you, disillusionment.
I remember the days when I was too optimistic—as in, call-me-Pollyanna optimistic. I had plenty of ideas about the nature of “the good life,” and I anticipated those good things. In my twenties, I could tell you exactly where I’d be at thirty-seven: still married, living in a historic home next to campus, tenured, writing academic books, and probably also mothering 2-4 children. Wild, right!? I was so clear about what I thought I wanted.
When I finally got close to that vision, my marriage still intact and a few good years put into the tenure track, I considered that I couldn’t handle such… settled-ness. Would I really live on the academic calendar for the rest of my life? Would I be happy in that small town? Did I feel like myself? What did “myself” feel like anyway?
One of the best parts about getting older is disillusionment. The old illusions were either untrue or just not good enough for reality. In my twenties, I believed I was envisioning the good life. I had no idea how wrong I was.
I can count on one hand the major life events that gifted me disillusionment: a young marriage, a young(ish) divorce, and a decade of life spent pursuing a career I ultimately abandoned. I wish I could say disillusionment came from small, unconventional revelations, but it didn’t. It kind of came from cliches.
Blame it on the recent Wolf Moon or the start of the new year, but I’m taking inventory of my disillusionments. Coincidentally, this inventory has only made me more optimistic. Your optimism becomes grounded when you know what’s not worth fussing over.