Pushing a Rock Up a Hill

My uncle visited me about eight weeks ago, and we had an interesting conversation that I'm remembering today.

My uncle and my father are precisely the same age, and they have a number of similiarities. They're both Italian. They're health conscious, intelligent, and hard workers. Honorable men. Yet, their differences are more remarkable to me. My mother's side of the family, growing up, was more nurturing and traditional than my father's, so my uncle's foundation of supportive indulgence completely contrasts my father's beginning of deprivation and instability. In their adulthoods, the differences are positively stark. The insecurities of my father's upbringing emerge in his high emotionalism and emphasis on tradition. My uncle, on the other hand, assumes life will hand him lemonade, not lemons, and proceeds accordingly. Whether divorce (two), a fairly estranged child (one), interstate moves (four +), and job changes (too many to count), he is moving this very weekend from Texas to Pennsylvania. He's selling his house and, at the age of 64, beginning anew. Again.

I remember discussing with him the aplomb with which he faces changes like moves and jobs, as opposed to the paucity of change of my father. My dad worked for the same company for 36 years, and his retirement era job in the six years since is administering where he had his second job for many years. He's lived in the same house for 37 years. Except for college, he's lived his entire life within a two mile radius. Obviously, he's confronted challenges; he's sustained a 40+ year marriage to my mother, raised two fairly well-adjusted children, and earned a graduate degree and periodic promotions. But, most of the time, he has dwelled in the comfortable familiarity of the known, choosing his "next" from within the bosom of his family in the cradle of his hometown. Seeking out change is anathema to him, as it's been for most of the rest of my immediate family. Not unless there was a good reason, an abundance of support in the form of his family, and a reasonable return on the investment of effort did he even attempt a change.

But, my uncle is a horse of another color. And I mentioned to him this obvious difference between him and my dad, whom he's known for most of his life. My father ruminates. He (over)thinks. He wonders and worries. My uncle does not. Does my uncle see that? How does he explain it?

I remember we were driving when we discussed it, and I looked at him from my perch in the driver's seat. He glanced back at me, then looked out the windshield. "I took a philosophy class in college," he told me. "I don't remember much about the whole class, but this one conversation we had there changed my life."

I could hear laughing in my head, when I imagined my father's reaction to that initial statement. My father seems almost to resent my uncle as the pampered son of misguided parents who didn't even attempt to veil their preference for sons over my mother and her sister. "Philosophy class?" I could hear my father sneer. "He's in love with the sound of his own voice, isn't he?"

I ignored my father, and I asked what my uncle meant.

"There was this Greek myth we were talking about," he began. "The one with the guy who had to push the rock up the hill. The guy pushed and pushed, and when he'd get to the top, he'd lose control of the rock, and it'd tumble back down to the bottom, where he'd have to start over again."

"The myth of Sisyphus," I said promptly, the English teacher in me emerging.

"Yeah, right," my uncle agreed, though he was placating me; the name didn't matter. "My professor asked the class what we imagined the guy was thinking when he watched the rock roll back down."

My inner-father's daughter emerged next, and I said, "He was probably thinking, 'Dammit, I have to start all over again' and getting pissed," I guessed. I knew that's what my father would have said. I knew that's what my father would have been thinking in Sisyphus' place. He speaks often enough about his disenchantment with life's arduousness.

My uncle smiled a very little smile. "Everybody said that. But my professor said, 'What if he's just glad he has a break from pushing the rock, even if only for a little while?'"

I glanced at him again. "But he's just going to have to start pushing it again. He's got to dread that."

My uncle nodded, Dumbledore-like. "So why wouldn't he feel grateful that in that moment, he has a break? That he can notice something else, even if only for a little while? Why does he have to pollute that small break for happiness with thoughts of the difficulties ahead of him?"

This is a wise idea. Very wise. Sisyphys has a small window where he doesn't push the rock, so why waste it thinking about pushing the rock? Worrying about it? Dreading it? Why not grab that small respite and enjoy it until the pushing begins again? How much of life can a person complicate when, in essence, everything is quite calm in the moment. We live for moments other than the one in which we are living.

My uncle explained that since that class, he made a focused effort not to wonder about pushing a rock in the moments in which he is not, in fact, pushing a rock. He lets everything be fine when it's fine. He plans ahead and does his part, make no mistake, but in his view, why worry about living in Pennsylvania until he is, in fact, living there? Why not enjoy the beautiful day in Texas with his niece, and let the rest of life happen as it is wont to do?

I have found a perfect way to apply this borrowed wisdom in my own life. I get scared to date. Ahead of a date, I worry incessently. Sometimes, I even dread. Why do I dwell on pushing that metaphorical rock up a hill when I'm not even doing it in the moment? Why do I let my fear milk all the pleasure out of my window of respite? Never mind that a date is never so scary once I'm there. It's the idea that scares me, the idea that I allow to punctuate every intervening moment.

As I am remembering forgiveness, I am going to try and remember the Rock of Sisyphys. I am going to try to keep each moment for its purpose, not to let the anticipation or dread of what's to come cast a shadow on my present.