A chance meeting in a Bideford art gallery, with lunch to follow, and an intense exchange of texts over the weekend with someone whom I hope will become a new friend, has left me very thoughtful. Where do I stand? Where am I going? What things should I now make it my business to learn? What is lacking in my life, in my accomplishments, and in my ambition, that I should now identify and address?
There was once a time when I drifted, when I felt powerless to change. That long phase began when very young, and ended only a dozen years ago. I'd accepted my role; I'd let others settle matters for me; I'd taken the easy way. I told myself that I was successful, had a good life, certainly a comfortable life, and was well-loved and respected. And I probably was. Then a moment of insight, one of those rare occasions when you understand something very important, altered it all and set in motion a chain of events, a Big Bang, that still echoes in these posts and in the pictures I take.
I have already sensed that turning seventy is going to bring about a reappraisal. It feels like a new era, an era to look forward to. The past sixty-nine years, those years of unwilling appeasement and compliance, too often disfigured by compromise, concession and compulsion, can be put to bed. Not to be forgotten. But to be firmly archived. I can, if I so wish, make a fresh start on the next thirty years or so. I intend to live those coming years, and not merely count them as they pass by. For death is nearer, but still distant: I take very good care of myself, and I don't expect to wear out. Unless I fall victim to some devastating illness or accident, my future will be filled with a great many tomorrows, each one needing a plan and a purpose.
That's really it, in one word: purpose. I need to do more than just take lengthy caravan holidays and shoot 30,000 photos each year. There's nothing wrong with enjoying travel, and bringing a record of it back. And in between, having good times with friends at home. All fuelled by an ample income. And it will of course continue. But I live entirely for myself; I have no responsibilities; I can do what I please, with nobody to stop me; and it strikes me now that while my mode of living is agreeable, and sociable, and civilised, and probably harmless, it's also morally neuter. I'm on a plateau of self-indulgence. My photos reveal a version of La Dolce Vita. I'm not knocking it - I am unashamed about enjoying it - but I can't defend it. Nor do I think it leads anywhere.
And if asked to say what I could ever offer to society, or to any particular person, I'd be at a loss. What could I claim? That I have a pleasant personality? That I'm well-organised and tidy? That I like art and history and cultural things generally? That I remember some of my school Latin? That I've lived a long time and must have become wise? I don't think any of these cut any ice.
Surely it matters more to know when someone needs a hug, or a listening ear, or some help with a daunting task. Perhaps the answer for me - to remedy this feeling that my interesting and congenial life is nevertheless purposeless - is simply to reach out and be there whenever the need arises.
I'll have to get better at recognising those situations. I'll start right now.
