Recently, though, I had the brilliant idea to order the discs from Netflix, and this cold, dark, rainy day was the perfect time to watch. The series opens with Mildred losing both her husband and his money in the Great Depression (his housing development has gone broke and he has taken up with another woman). She bounces back, starting her own business and making lots of money, buying a mansion, wearing furs, being chauffeured everywhere. But with regard to one daughter, she makes spectacularly stupid decisions, and between that and what happens to her other daughter, she spends much of the series miserable (I don’t want to give too much away. You really should see it… Kate Winslet is an excellent actress!)
As I said, I watched this drama on a cheap couch in a small house. But I was warm and comfortable, with a good breakfast behind me and a good lunch to come. I was holding hands with my husband of almost 16 years. Earlier we had attended a school awards breakfast, where my daughter – my very much alive, beautiful, talented, sweet daughter, easily conceived, born with all her parts working, who has grown beautifully these ten years – was presented with a citizenship award. It was well deserved. (Even at my first parent-teacher conference, five years ago, her kindergarten teacher described her as “a good citizen”.)
I say all this not to boast, because frankly I am amazed at my good fortune. I have often said that I had nothing to do with how wonderful our daughter has turned out. (In fact, at that kindergarten conference, I told her teacher that she might be too good of a citizen. I wanted her to be more of a rebel!) She was born her own person, and she could easily have been a less pleasant one. Our house, with its wood frame, old wiring, and periodic rodent infestations, could have been destroyed by fire at any time. My husband could have been one of those jerks who appear perfect only to later reveal the rot at the core, but he’s not. I used to tell him he was perfect, but he would protest, so I would tell him, “You’re as perfect as I can handle.” And he is, all the way through.
“Perfect” is one of those words, though, like “enough”, that cannot be truly defined. Was it the Navajo who used to put deliberate “imperfections” in their weavings and pottery so the gods would not think the people were challenging their divinity? And yet, what human endeavor is “perfect”, even without deliberate blots? My life would be “perfect” if only we had more money, more time, more sleep, more, more, more…something. But watching Mildred Pierce, exhausted from my pathological insomnia and sore from cutting trees for another of our unending house projects, sitting with a heating pad pressed against my neck, I really felt that my life is perfect, now, just as it is. In fact, I know very few people who wouldn’t prefer this unglamorous contentment to Mildred Pierce’s lovely, lonely life.
I would like to stop there – reveling in what I have called at times “radical contentment” – but I can’t. I have the nagging feeling that my contentment is merely the flip side of sour grapes. After all, most of us in the shrinking middle class and growing lower class relish these clichéd stories of the unhappy rich. They make us feel better about the crumbs we live on. But how can that ugly feeling coexist with the undeniable fact that I do feel like I have “enough”? What is enough, again? Can you remind me?
I love the appropriateness of the Escher "Ascending and Descending" illustration!
ReplyDeleteExactly. Which means we'll never have it. Which means it doesn't mean what the dictionary says it means because most of us are just fine, so isn't that enough?
ReplyDelete