Making Room for the Circus

For a long time, I believed there was a right way to live. Not morally right. Efficiently right. I thought that if I worked hard enough, if I planned carefully enough and paid attention to all the little details, life itself would cooperate with me. People would behave, opportunities would appear, I would stay healthy, my week would go exactly as I had planned. My days would have a predictable and pleasant rhythm. Life would be purposeful, productive, peaceful.

Of course I never said this out loud. It was just the background noise in my head. I don’t know where that story came from. Maybe it was growing up in a large working class family where everyone had to do their part. Maybe it was twelve years of Catholic school education where all that really seemed to matter was getting the right answer and a good grade in conduct. Maybe it was years of being an educator/school counselor where preparation often does make tomorrow go more smoothly. Or maybe it was just the quiet bargain I made with the universe: If I do everything right, life will treat me kindly.

That’s a tempting bargain.

It’s also one that the universe never signed.

Life has a way of ignoring our plans, right? Bank accounts wobble, marriages evolve, careers veer off course, bodies change. People we love become ill. Some die sooner than we expected. Friendships deepen or fade. A phone call changes everything. An ordinary Wednesday in October becomes one you’ll never forget.

And then there are the everyday disruptions: the internet quits, the flat tire appears, you can’t find your wallet, they unexpectedly close the library indefinitely (yes! really!). Life arrives on its own terms. For years I all but ignored that reality. I refused to accept that one can’t win in a fight with reality. I just kept thinking if only I were more organized. More disciplined. Better prepared. Now I wonder if I had it exactly backward.

What if these disruptions aren’t disruptions at all? What if they are the curriculum that I’m here to study? Because along with all the grief and uncertainty that is life, there are also good surprises, tender conversations, and unplanned bursts of laughter, kindness, and wonder. You look up after changing the tire and see a glorious morning sky. The five year old wraps her arms around your neck for no particular reason. The roses in the neighborhood call your name and an unplanned visit from a friend reminds you of how refreshing laughter can be.

I seem to be remodeling myself. Recently I removed a massive dark cabinet from our dining room. I thought I was making space for more light. Somewhere along the way I began wondering if I was remodeling something besides the house. The older I get, the less interested I am in that well oiled machine that powered my life. Machines are efficient. Predictable. Dependable. But machines don't pause beneath a flowering tree. They don't look into a newborn's eyes and glimpse eternity. They don't laugh until tears run down their faces. They don't change their minds halfway through the story.

When I was in high school, I read this line from e.e.cummings:

“Damn everything but the circus.”

As a teenager, I embraced the words because they sounded rebellious. I appreciate it now because it sounds wise. The circus is noisy. It is gloriously uncooperative. There are missed cues and impossible balancing acts, moments of breathtaking beauty followed immediately by comic disaster. Nothing stays perfectly under control for very long. In other words, it’s a lot like ordinary life.

I’m still an organized person. I still want a neat house. I still promise myself opportunities to sit quietly and read. I like checking things off a list and I want to know what the day’s agenda is. Order works for me. But now I don’t expect order to be the only option. Now I’m learning to make room for the circus. Some days I’m in the audience, watching wth amazed eyes. Some days I’m the one sweeping up the sawdust when the crowd goes home. Occasionally, if I’m lucky, I will find myself in the center ring, slightly terrified , laughter and tears mingling , wondering what on earth happens next.

That calm, predictable life that I once imagined seems like it could also be a little too calm, a little too quiet, a little too stale. I’ll take the circus. Not because it’s easier. Because it’s where the living happens.

I bought Corita Kent's book when I was in college and have carried it with me ever since. If you're curious about her work, here's a wonderful article that introduces both the artist and this remarkable book.