Lachrymose

In the clearing stands a boxer

And a fighter by his trade

And he carries the reminders

Of every glove that laid him down

Or cut him till he cried out

In his anger and his shame

"I am leaving, I am leaving"

But the fighter still remains

-Simon and Garfunkel, The Boxer

Everything has changed

Absolutely nothing's changed.

-Pearl Jam, Corduroy

Just dropped off P at the airport in Tallahassee, so she can fly back to New York while I stay here to try the first of my four cases over the next five weeks. Thusfar none have been continued, none settled. I'm 60 and have zero control over my schedule. I'm two weeks behind on my LLM classes, and will shift into catchup mode between this trial and the next in the first week of October. This is no way to live. I know I'll likely be back with P on Friday afternoon, but we'll never get back the afternoon of 15 September 2024.

Why do we do this? We've saved our money for the most part, but owning four properties, none of which generates a nickel in income despite our best efforts, requires that we both work and make enormous sacrifices so we can continue to own the wooden boat and the airplane and the antique truck and . . . I could go on.

So today was a red letter moment on our calendar. We decided we're done. We'll sell off what we can sell off, including a bunch of real estate, and use the proceeds to get rid of most of our debt. Or maybe we'll let it sit there at 3% and invest the sales proceeds at twice that. Get rid of half our club memberships. Get rid of most of our motor vehicles.

It feels weird to do this. We've been in expansion and acquisition mode throughout our marriage, but everyone has their Trajan moment, that high water mark where the empire has reached its outer limit and we're not trying to grow anymore. The Romans floated along for another 300 years or so after that. Surely we can accept that we're in another season of life, and graciously enjoy the bounty of decades of extremely hard work, by both of us.

Where do we end up living at the end of this pivot? A very good friend of mine tried what I have tried, working remotely from his mountain house for the last several years; he and his wife just bought a place over on the beach. "The gravitational pull was just too strong," he explained.

As long as I work here I think it's obvious how the story ends. Not to mention that P and I have friends here we've known literally for decades, while we've been to exactly two dinners in four years at someone's house in New York. That's not a dig on any of them--they've been great to us, and western New York houses the nicest folks I've ever met. But they're not us, and we're not them, and you can't replicate thirty-plus years of living and all that entails.

At the same time, we won't be here much either. Peg's ready to pick her work days, and lord knows she's earned that after literally thirty-two years since she took her anesthesia boards. I can work from anywhere with an internet connection, as long as I'm not being haled into court. So we'll likely wander a bit, while we're still well enough for the wandering. Maybe we'll spend a month in Boston bothering the kids while Peg works a short-term assignment and I do exactly what I do in Corning or at the farm, billing most of a day while she's in the OR. Maybe we'll introduce the cats to France or the Azores or my beloved Ireland, letting P cook and nap and be happy while I bill just enough to cover the adventure. To have such options is an incredible luxury; why don't we lay some of our burdens down and avail ourselves of an amazing opportunity?

Like I said, today was a moment of complete Jesuit clarity, for both of us. Why don't we live that life? Isn't it about that time?

It'll require a little courage, of course. I find myself remembering Terrence Mann's (James Earl Jones's) line as he is about to disappear into the cornfield on the ultimate hero's journey:

"Ray. Listen to me, Ray. Listen to me. There is something out there, Ray, and if I have the courage to go through with this, what a story it'll make."

What a story indeed.

Today I found myself choking up as I drove away from the airport and P, while I headed back home to PC. On Spotify Burt Bacharach reminded us that what the world needs now is love, sweet love. A decade ago, whenever I'd leave Sarasota and those precious days I spent with Jim at the Hob Nob or on St. Armand's Circle, I'd listen to that song as I'd drive up I-75 to the panhandle and sob, just sob. I knew something was ending, but that's how life works. I knew that was a day I'd never get back. Today felt like that.

But it goes on, regardless. I just hope I have the courage to see it through.

• image: Cortes Burning His Ships