Framing Life
We tend to think of our lives as narratives. Stories with beginnings, middles, and ends. Structured by significant nodes – moments marking personal evolution – and neatly annotated by epiphanies.
These narratives are always written after they have been lived. Meaning made by looking back; a historical decipherment of triumphs and defeats, challenges met or succumbed to, opportunities seized or lost. The narratives simplify the chaos and ascribe some measure of identity to our ‘self’. Without them, we seem to be lost. We cannot make sense of ourselves, of others, of everything around us that we interact with.
Everyone is a living book, being written and spoken ceaselessly. Together, we epitomize a colossal library. Humanity’s scripture, the collapsed state of a much more inscrutable existence. The lucid interpretation abided by but not quite believed. Authorships are shared – we take the pen when we are ready or able, but we are not necessarily the ones writing our own tale.
With those tendencies in mind, let us take a look at two brief stories. The lives of P and D. From the moment they graduated high school to now, with a particular focus on their labor.
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P has had a rough go from the start. His first year in university did not go so well. He was placed on academic probation for not carrying a C+ after his first term. He eventually dropped out, foregoing a lucrative profession, to try his hand at the Arts. After 4 years and 14 disciplines, he found himself finishing his undergraduate studies but back at square one. He had wanted to pursue journalism but abandoned this at the last minute due to a lack of conviction.
P was mired in his passions. Each had their gravity, pulling him in different directions. And like gravity, their pull was weak. He was largely unemployed, going from small gig to gig, earning a pittance as he remained at home with his family. After a year of this, he attempted graduate studies in yet another, unrelated discipline. He found a placement abroad, but his grades were not good enough to get his education subsidized. This meant taking out a large loan from the bank.
As you can guess, this did not work out either. He got yet another useless piece of paper in a discipline no one quite understood. Although he tried to stay in his new country of residence, the nation (and employers within) were having none of it. They sent him packing.
P then went back to work in the gig economy for the next 5 years. Most of the gigs were alright, but he had to keep moving every 1-2 years, renting in shared spaces and basements, before eventually going back to live with his parents as a giant global pandemic struck. Permanence – in career, home, and relationships – was an unattainable dream. Even when he was offered a permanent job, it did not go well. After yet again moving away from family and friends, and losing some of the latter in the process, he was stuck in the middle of nowhere without any satisfaction.
P stuck it out and seemed to find a professional niche that fit him well. But fulfillment through labor is only one aspect of a content life. A complete narrative. Now, in his early thirties, P reflects on his diminishing circle. Surrounded by many he shares little with and unwilling to put in the energy to foster new relationships. He is alone – not lonely, but alone. Looking back and ahead, unable to see anything but uncertainty.
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D’s outcomes have been more promising. He was accepted into a prestigious program that was only open to 60 students in the country. He also faced academic struggles but was able to choose which avenues to pursue. Nearly all of them bore fruit. Beyond this, he got himself involved in several university clubs, building friendships for life. He crossed continents on his edifying journey – studying in Africa and Europe – returning to North America inspired to forge his own path.
D did not have to wait too long between jobs. He was always employed and building his experience, getting to work in extremely diverse settings. Teaching youth Math and English, doing research in halls of power, assisting in disaster responses and recovery, walking alongside authors at literary festivals, organizing big events and presenting at them, even driving for days to carry himself and supplies across some of the most incredible landscapes on the planet. In an office on a computer one day to the most remote parts of his country the next, D’s day-to-day was truly unpredictable.
By his late twenties, D had paid off all his debts and was financially secure. Saving plenty for retirement while making room in his calendar for global jaunts. He cultivated many personal hobbies and managed to maintain solid friendships across borders and time zones.
D reflected often on whether his chosen path was one that made him happy. The answer was mostly ‘yes’; he was assured in his principles, convictions, and self. Enough to understand how other trails would have disrupted the serenity he had fashioned for himself. Many questioned him regularly as if he was a pariah; but he saw that as their deficiency, not his. In his view, not everyone needed a lifelong partner or progeny to reach self-actualization.
Now, in his early thirties, D carries more enthusiasm for life than he ever has before. Looking back, he contemplates the beginnings of many branches that extend to the present. Looking forward, he sees a large range of opportunities. As the tree grows, he wonders which branches he will walk along next.
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P and D’s stories share one connective thread. Transience. Nothing remained for too long and each had to navigate constant, fundamental change. In philosophies, expression, and environment – in being.
P was rather annoyed by it all. D, on the other hand, felt empowered by it.
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The narratives above are, of course, the same. One picture, aesthetically altered but substantively monochrome. An exercise to demonstrate that choice matters. Our memories are not rolodexes that can be flipped through with perfectly clear imprints, rather a collection of reference points that are assembled when recalled, different in fabrication each time. These reflections function at the behest of our biases; our moods, energy, and cognitive ability will determine which person or moment we conjure.
The act of recollecting will always tell us more about what is than what was.
Framing life with narrative architecture is reflexive but useful. The exercise also smooths out the complexity of our uneven trajectories and narrows the collective ties to an individual perspective, thus rendering itself inadequate. But we are storytellers and the character of ‘self’ is an inviting muse. Better, then, to keep practicing telling the story, to keep finding new ways to frame our ephemeral lifeprint, recognizable or not.
To keep the affirmative front of mind, but to never let go of the dialectical.
Further notes on the ‘narrative’ of life in this article and its comment section: I am not a story.