The Theoretical Future

How I learned to stop worrying and love the uncertainty

A friend of mine described the material vs. the theoretical future to me as we sat on the waterfront by a lake in Northern California watching the herons land and settle along the calm water edges. In many cultures, herons represent self-reliance, patience, and the power of stillness—qualities that seem very spot-on for the place I find myself in as I settle into my solo life in Fiddletown.

As we sit there, my mind wanders to thoughts of how magical it is that I have moved to this tiny town called Fiddletown. It makes me feel like I am some kind of elf alighting onto the land, discovering all of its creatures—flora and fauna—and making friends with trees and plants and rocks while the birds, deer, and foxes pay me and Shadow regular visits. Alone and never lonely.

I’m snapped back to this moment where we are sitting by this lake. We’re pausing on our drive to a retreat. There was a need to connect and settle together before we are both swirled up into the momentum of the expansive weekend—a moment to gather for a beat.

“The material future is like all those things we have to do,” he says. “Make the dental appointment or go to our jobs. This retreat we’re headed to is material. We bought our tickets, we’re driving there, and it’ll start this evening. The theoretical future is something we can’t really know. We can have ideas of what we would like to happen or what we worry about happening, but it’s not set to happen in the way an appointment or a job or even a retreat is.”

I find myself in the theoretical future a lot. It’s not that I expect things will work out exactly as I want them to or even with the timing I believe is ideal. It’s that I’m a dreamer, and sometimes my dreams materialize. I also know that we are never sure of our future. I think we all learned that lesson in 2020—you never know when a pandemic is going to hit. And, by the way, that 401K or the social security you’re expecting actually falls in the theoretical future bucket if we’re realistic about it. I’m not saying don’t plan for your future. I am saying don’t depend on it to the detriment of experiencing and enjoying the life you have right in front of you in this moment, as a heron flies off silently right before your eyes.

So how do I not become a nihilist as I ponder these things: the future is never certain, I have no control regarding what the government chooses to do with the money I believe I have earned over time for my future, this hamster wheel I call my job is a neverending cycle of predictability towards nothing.

Nearly ten years ago, I stepped away from the hamster wheel job in marketing and communications that felt like it belonged to someone else who would actually enjoy it. I filled that space with random gig work: Portland Walking Tours, Murder Mystery Dinner Theater—whatever would bring in some money to support myself. That leap led to me writing my one-woman show, selling my house, buying a travel van, and touring ‘Sexology: The Musical!’ from Portland, OR to Portland, ME in 2019.

Then the pandemic hit. A tour I had set up starting in March of 2020 canceled, and I watched all of the dominoes I had carefully and strategically arranged for that year fall one after the other. My material tour dates and locations were actually theoretical, and I didn’t know it!

Like everyone, a pivot was necessary. My gig work moved online. I performed my show that way for a couple of Fringe Festivals that decided to embrace this brave new world—but theatre never really shows up in the right way when it’s filmed. The magic that happens between the performer and the audience just isn’t there.

It’s true, I had assistance from partners along the way who charged me low or no rent for living in their spaces. When my step-dad died, my mom provided me with some financial support. I realize that’s not everyone’s situation—but I didn’t know it was mine or that it would be how it would shake out until I took that leap.

Which leads me to the move to Fiddletown—another huge leap into the theoretical future—and when my mom suggested it as an option, every cell in my body said “Yes, this is the right thing even if it makes no sense at all in this moment.” I left several communities I had been with for decades in the Portland area—communities that I was a big part of starting and developing. I changed the dynamics of my romantic and sexual partnerships. I moved to a town of 187 people to learn to live alone and take that next step towards Essential Mel, the most authentic version of me.

On my journey, I’ve discovered that it’s ALL theoretical—and that is incredibly liberating! All we have is this moment…and this one…and this one. How beautiful and freeing is that? I get to choose the magic that I experience in this world. This is not to say that suffering doesn’t happen or that all my days are sunshine, rainbows and unicorns with no responsibility. I have to take care of the land, clean the space to make a beautiful place for people to land here. I have to eat and exercise and control my asthma and get out in the world and do all of the basics that make me a functioning adult member in this society. I have to be there for my kiddo when he reaches out for support. I have to hold space and take time for friends and family and my community when they are struggling—and also when they are celebrating and creating and experiencing their unique lives.

AND I create all of this. I make the magic I want to see. I show up intentionally. And I find peace in the uncertainty because that’s where the possibility lives.

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