Imagine that, in life, one paints oneself (or one’s life, rather) upon a canvas. One paints legs of adolescense. A torso of family and career. Arms of offspring, accomplishments. A head formed at leisure in retirement, crowned with the jewels of grand-children, repose, of wisdom, the respect accorded to the elderly. And then? On into the sky.
While painterly (and not without a certain poetry), the a metaphor of painting one’s life upon a blank canvas is trite and, if you’ll pardon the adjective, Panglossian.
Truer to life, I think, would be a metaphor of drawing one’s life upon the page of a coloring book.
Like the open invitation of a canvas, the coloring book presents a broad sheet to be filled. But, unlike a canvas, the page is not entirely blank. It waits to be colored by a human hand, but comes pre-stamped with the dark ink of some mechanically reproduced shape. That is, the page is your own to fill, but the general outline of how you ought fill your page is already given.
I find life to be similarly bounded. The shape of what one is to become is given–by the black ink of familial expectations, by social norms, by the opportunities of your social class, by values given to you by your parents and your faith, and finally by your personality and disposition. (This shape, more often than not, is simply an enlarged pattern of our parents’ own lives.)
But, we each choose the extent to which we color and remain within the lines. A toddler’s drawings exceed the lines of a coloring book not principally for the lack of fine motor skills (though this, too), but rather because a toddler has not yet learned the expectation of staying within the lines. As we grow older, we’re taught–and we learn–to drawn within the lines.
But not all. Some draw beyond the lines–seeing beyond, perhaps, a form more to their liking. And these, who form their own shapes, become our celebrated heroes. Perhaps because their shape is extraordinary, they draw the eye and inspire our wonder, our respect. Images of rags to riches, images of artists, images of innovators, inventors, rebels, industrialists, revolutionaries. These ride roughshod over the preordained. Between these images, no two are alike. There’s no pattern for breaking the pattern. Some are drawn with fits and starts. Others are drawn with strong lines and a steady hand. All challenge (an exult) the shapes of our pre-prescribed drawings.
Breaking the bounds isn’t always easy, or necessarily desirable. When you go beyond the lines, there’s no guarantee of a beautiful outcome. There’s no guarantee of fashioning one’s self into something which accords with personal satisfaction, or inspires the admiration of others. Counter-point to artists and industrialists, there are junkies, felons, louts, dissolute–perhaps in equal number. For these, adherence to bounds would mean redemption.
I don’t write this to suggest that one should live life outside its prescribed bounds–or within. I write, rather, simply to reflect that life is bounded–and that we each make decisions which push us outside those bounds, or help us flourish within them.
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My impression of life in Sweden is this: vis-á-vis life in America, life is Sweden is more fair, more civil, but also more constrained. Constrained not in that its land is filled and its people live in close quarters (though this, too), but rather that life–what is could be, what it should be–itself has narrower bounds.
Which brings me back to Sweden. Here, the lines exist, just as anywhere. Only, compared to America, they’re drawn with thicker line. Certainly, one can still go beyond them–but perhaps not so readily as in America. The assortment of forms is less varied.
I delight in America, and being American. America, where you can be anything you want. America, where you can do anything you wish (provided you have sufficient ambition). America, where you can do anything, and–if you’re so inclined–you can do everything. There’s no experience “off limits” or beyond the reach of an aspiring American. And, we’re encouraged to think these thoughts, to dream big dreams. Among Americans, I think most fill the form expected of them. Others exceed these bounds and fall off into dissolution. And still others exceed these bounds and achieve much. Such is life in America. It’s a proud, perilous, and limitless way of life.
