Leap!: What Will We Do with the Rest of Our Lives?

by Sara Davidson Narrated by Renée Raudman

Overview

Thirty years ago, Sara Davidson wrote the phenomenal bestseller Loose Change, the definitive book about the boomer generation's coming-of-age. Now this witty social observer has again turned her discerning eye to her contemporaries, with Leap! a no-holds-barred, illuminating, and hopeful look at the choices and challenges we face and the roads open to us.



For many years Davidson earned a living as a successful journalist and screenwriter, but in her fifties she saw her life come apart: She could no longer find work, she endured a break-up with her partner, and her children left for college. For the first time ever, she had nothing to do. She felt adrift, but she found that she was not alone.



In Leap! Davidson sets out on a passionate quest to learn how to do the coming years well. Drawing on her own experience and that of others, she explores such questions as



¿ How does a high-powered person learn to walk down the ladder gracefully?



¿ How can women continue to be sensual and not touch-deprived?



¿ How do we arrange to grow old with our friends?



¿ What will be the fire at the center of our lives?



¿ Why are we still here?



Davidson interviews people from across the country and from all walks of life, including such icons as Carly Simon, Tom Hayden, Tracy Kidder, Jane Fonda, Ram Dass, and Iman, as well as teachers, writers, psychologists, businesspeople, and spiritual leaders. The candid portraits are both inspiring and cautionary.



True to character, boomers will approach these years differently from previous generations, and there will be no single path. Some will feel free for the first time to take risks; others will embark upon a spiritual search; some will want to give back, to make the world a better place; others will want to play or make creativity a priority. But they will not fade quietly into the sunset.



With Leap! Sara Davidson holds up a mirror for readers, allowing them to see not only themselves and those around them but their potential future. With Davidson as a guide, the possibilities are boundless.

Editorial Reviews

When, at 60, certain ominous factors converged in Sara Davidson's life (her longtime lover left without warning, her children moved away, and her writing career was hopelessly stalled), she felt as if her identity had been stripped away. With her "best years" behind her, she wondered what could possibly lie ahead. As she began to talk to other people her age, she discovered she was not alone in grappling with this difficult question. Written with the same engaging mix of anecdote and social science that enlivened Davidson's 1977 classic Loose Change, this wonderful anthology collects the experiences of real people -- famous and ordinary -- struggling to make the dark, difficult, and sometimes painful transition to the rest of their lives.

Carolyn See

[Davidson's] approach is refreshing. She neither denies the problems nor professes to have the answers; she just lays out some of the issues. Because she's a journalist who seems to have maintained contact with celebrities and semi-celebrities over the years, she interviews many of them to see how they're doing. She queries plenty of friends and a few innocent passersby. She nails down some of our more embarrassing fantasies about what we wish we could have, plans that are highly unlikely to pan out. And she's not afraid to ask, in a roundabout fashion, whether our lives have had any real spiritual meaning, and whether we can access that meaning.
— The Washington Post

Publishers Weekly

The subtitle's question is posed to baby boomers; the author's answers offer an array of arresting possibilities. Davidson, whose book Loose Change tracked three '60s Berkeley radicals, interviews well-known men and women as well as ordinary citizens and deals with such subjects as sex in the age of Cialis, finding work that expresses your purpose in life, finding a community to grow old with and finding a spiritual path. Davidson weaves in her own story, contrasting her decision to remain a writer with Marcia Seligson's midlife choice to give up a writing career to found a musical theater. Some of the "leaps" represent spiritual transformation, such as how Sally Kempton left the ashram where she had been a disciple of Swami Muktananda for 27 years and adopted a new life of teaching and writing. Davidson compares the late marriage of Gloria Steinem at age 66 with Jane Fonda's ability to finally live without a man after her divorce from Ted Turner. Many of Davidson's subjects are from her own social circles, so her book won't apply to everyone. But her engaging and provocative anecdotes will inspire hope and creative thinking about the future in many readers. (Feb. 20) Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.

Library Journal

Best known as the author of Loose Change, the quintessential book on coming of age in the turbulent 1960s, journalist Davidson takes her beloved baby-boomer readership on a long, strange trip through middle age and beyond. Like Gail Sheehy in Passages: Predictable Crises of Adult Life, Davidson skillfully examines the various stages of life, emphasizing the period that Erik H. Erikson, in his landmark Childhood and Society, designated "generative." In this stage, many people shift their energies from acquisitiveness and ambition to cultivating nurturing perspectives, focusing on contributing to the well-being of future generations as well as to self-fulfillment. Interviewing friends, colleagues, and cultural luminaries such as singer Carly Simon, actress/activist Jane Fonda, and spiritual teacher Ram Dass, Davidson scrutinizes ways in which personal values evolve with age. Along the way, she chronicles her own fascinating journey from mainstream media success to insecurity and back to security, this time on her own terms. Highly recommended for both public and academic libraries.-Lynne F. Maxwell, Villanova Univ. Sch. of Law Lib., PA Copyright 2007 Reed Business Information.

Product Details

BN ID:	2940170895472
Publisher:	Tantor Audio
Publication date:	04/13/2007
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

Chapter 1

The Long and Winding Road

When I walk through the stage door of the Roseland Ballroom in New York, I hear an unmistakable riff—the long electric piano solo that spirals up and down until it can’t go higher or become more intense and then it resolves as Jim Morrison comes in to sing: “The time to hesitate is through . . .”

“Light My Fire” by the Doors was the number one song in America in 1967. But onstage at Roseland almost forty years later are Ray Manzarek, the original keyboard player, Robby Krieger, the original guitarist, and between them, replacing Jim Morrison, is Ian Astbury, a singer in his thirties who looks so much like Morrison that the image of the three suggests The Picture of Dorian Gray. Ray and Robby are in their sixties, with silver hair and deeply lined faces, but Jim doesn’t seem to have aged—he looks frozen at twenty-seven, the age he was when he died.

The Doors of the Twenty-first Century, as they call themselves tonight, are doing a sound check for a concert celebrating fifty years of rock ’n’ roll. Ray stands at the electric piano, wearing a black Issey Miyake shirt with pleats over gray pants. His hair is slicked back, and he’s rail thin from lifting weights, swimming, and yoga. “I feel juicy,” Ray says into the microphone, testing the level. “I feel juicy now. I got filth running through my blood, Robby. It’s gonna be a dirrrrr-ty night.” It’s also going to be a loud night, and I make a note to come back later with earplugs and my glasses.

The Doors created and released albums for only four years, 1967 to 1971, but they’ve been embraced by succeeding generations, and my son has the lyrics to a Doors song on his blog. After Jim’s death, Ray kept making music on his own and wrote two books, none of which connected with a mass audience, but that was all right. He hadn’t played a Doors song in thirty years when in 2002 the Harley-Davidson company asked the Doors if they would re-form the group to perform at an L.A. concert celebrating Harley’s hundredth anniversary. “Robby and I said, ‘Let’s do it!’ ” Ray recalls, but John Densmore, the third living Door, said his ears were too badly damaged to play drums. Their manager brought in another drummer and, to sing, Ian Astbury of the Cult.

Playing for thousands of inflamed Harley-Davidson riders at the California Speedway was “so much fun,” Ray says, that they went on the road as the Doors of the Twenty-first Century, until a lawsuit forced them to drop the Doors name and perform as Riders on the Storm.

Backstage at Roseland, I ask Ray how he deals with the fact that his most well-loved work was done more than thirty years ago. He waves his hand, dismissive. I tell him I have the same issue on a smaller scale. “My first book was a bestseller—it was number two in the country and made into a miniseries. I’ve written five books since then and hundreds of articles and screenplays, but none has had that impact. I used to feel upset because people would meet me and say—”

“I know what they tell you,” Ray says. “You were big once upon a time, and you don’t have it anymore. Well, thank you very much, really nice of you to point that out. Have you ever had a success? No, you haven’t. I see, you . . . LOSER!” He shrugs. “What can we do with this society? We’re vicious that way.”

“How do you handle it?”

“You don’t. You get pissed off and say, Fuck you. Fuck you! You got the nerve to say that stuff to my fucking face, you fucker?”

He imitates the guy confronting him: “ ‘Well, Ray, you know, a lot of people have said you’re just doing it for the money.’

“Like who? Is he there with you? Put him on the phone, let me talk to that asshole.

“ ‘No, no, no, there’s nobody here. I’m just saying . . .’ ”

Ray sighs and tells me, “You have to put up with shit like that.”

I say, “I spent a lot of time feeling that I wasn’t fulfilling my early promise, whatever that was. Now I’ve come around to the fact that I wrote a book that’s still in print after thirty years. That makes me feel . . . humble.”

“Exactly,” Ray says. “Here’s the point. Did you do one thing? Yes, you did. You got any friends from high school who did one thing? You got any friends from college . . . Do I have any friends from UCLA film school who did . . . one . . . thing? No.”

“You did more than one thing.”

“Whatever.”

“You don’t have those demons?”

“Oh sure, absolutely. I’m more competitive than you are, and you’re obviously very competitive. We’re competitive animals. That’s the nature of being human, and that’s what drives us to accomplish great things. You live your life to the fullest, but at some point, things are snatched away from you. Death is going to happen.”

I ask if he still takes psychedelics. “No. That’s for your twenties and thirties. Once you open the doors of perception, they stay open.”

“Not for some,” I say. “The doors clanked shut when they became workaholics and tried to be superparents.”

“If they’ve forgotten the message, well, now that the kids have grown and retirement is approaching, let’s reinvent the gods. That’s what Jim Morrison said. ‘Let’s reinvent the gods—all the myths of the ages.’ The problem for Jim was that he had no idea how far he could go, how high he could get, before he was eased out.

“Psychedelics do a strange thing,” Ray says. “You accept that death is going to happen. Your friend is gone, you’ve danced for a while— you danced feverishly and madly around a bonfire and had that ecstatic joy and now the dance is over and all you can say is: So be it. Another kind of dance begins.”

•••

I had this conversation with Ray Manzarek toward the end of a three- year period when everything I touched turned brown and died. Everywhere I’d go people would ask, “What are you doing now?”

“Different things . . .”

If I’d told the truth, I would have said: I’m doing nothing. For the first time since college, I have no work. After twenty-four years and several award nominations, I can’t get hired to write for television. In Hollywood jargon, I can’t get arrested. I can’t sell articles to magazines or books to publishers and I don’t know how I’ll earn money. The phone doesn’t ring, and I have to crank myself up to go out and hustle and why, dear God, do I have to hustle at this age? It’s humiliating.

During this same period, my lover of seven years, a cowboy artist I’d expected to spend the rest of my days with, rides off with no discussion. My children, who’ve occupied my first thoughts on waking and my last before falling asleep, are going off to college. As long as they lived with me, I got up at seven and made pancakes, drove them to school, soccer, Little League, ballet, music lessons, helped them write their papers and do research on Egyptian history and carve pumpkins for Halloween. No more. My kids, my lover, and my livelihood are being yanked from me at once and there’s nothing I can do. When I tell this to a friend, Peter Simon, the photographer, he says, “Oh, honey, you’ve got money problems and no sex. That’s not good.”

Not good at all. I can’t sleep, either. I fall asleep but wake at two, my feet jackknifing. Why hasn’t my agent called me back? I read or watch a movie, hoping my eyelids will close, but they don’t. Three a.m. I have stomach pains—it’s the cowboy, I can’t seem to untangle him from my body and I miss him so intensely I want to call and tell him he can name his terms, just come back. It wouldn’t work.

My doctor suggests I see a hypnotherapist, Guy Birdwhistle. His name is so ridiculously cheerful that I make an appointment. In his waiting room, I sit on a couch beside the trickling portable waterfall that’s de rigueur for New Age healers. When Birdwhistle opens the door, I’m shocked: He has the face of a teenager, wears a crisp blue shirt and tie, and speaks with a British accent.

“How old are you, may I ask?”

“Twenty-nine,” he says, showing me to a chair. “How can I help you?”

Good question. I don’t think he’s lived long enough. I ask how he became a hypnotist. He says he was working at Fred Segal, the trendy clothing store, “and I was having terrible anxiety attacks. I went to a hypnotherapist and got relief, and thought, I want to learn to do this.”

What the hell. I can’t sleep, I tell him, my identity is being stripped away, and a spiritual teacher I’ve worked with, Nina Zimbelman, tells me that my life as I know it is over.

“What’s wrong with that?” He smiles.

I start to cry. “I’m afraid I’ll die, I’ll disintegrate.”

“What’s really happening is, your life is beginning. It’s that simple. When you embrace doing nothing, all sorts of things can happen. If you struggle, you’ll be yanked kicking and screaming, so you might as well give in. You’re on vacation.”

Okay, I’ll take the rest of the day off. Instead of driving home to fret and make calls to people who won’t return them, I stop at Manderette, a Chinese restaurant on Melrose that serves exquisite food and where I usually can’t get a table. But at three p.m., nobody’s in Manderette except a fortyish man and woman playing cards. They’re on vacation, too, I assume.

I’m actually eager to go to bed. I play the hypnotherapy tape that Birdwhistle made for me, drift asleep but bolt awake at four with fear in my chest. What am I supposed to do for the next thirty years? I’ve raised my kids, written bestsellers, had deep love. . . . Why am I still here?

•••

Why are we still here? When I look around, I see that others are going through similar transitions and that as a group we’re being stripped of our relevance, our primacy. We’re turning fifty at the rate of one every seven seconds, and the advance guard, the icons who set the tone—Bob Dylan, the Beatles, Joni Mitchell, Angela Davis, Tom Hayden and the Chicago Seven—are well into their sixties or would be if they were alive. We did not plan for this; we did not know that at fifty-five we might have thirty more years of vigorous health, lust, and a desire to contribute and create.

Let me define what I mean by “we,” because the boomer generation— usually described as people born between 1946 and 1964—is not one culture or even one generation. It includes people turning sixty and considering retirement and others who’ve just hit forty and are having babies. Of those born during those years, 52 percent voted red in the last presidential election and 47 percent voted blue. When I speak of this group, I’m speaking about a cohort of various ages who were infected by the ideals of the sixties, who believed we should make love, not war, had a passion for improving the world and a transformational agenda. This cohort, whom I’ve been writing about for three decades, are mostly middle class and can get emotional when they hear “Sgt.

Pepper”—they remember where they were and how they felt when they first heard it—or see a film clip of Bobby Kennedy saying: “Some men see things as they are and ask, ‘Why?’ I dream things that never were and ask, ‘Why not?’ ”

We come together periodically for what I think of as geezer rock concerts, such as the one at Madison Square Garden in 2003 for a Simon and Garfunkel reunion. The audience rose when Paul and Art came onstage and sang “Old Friends.” Paul had written the song when he was twenty-eight, imagining what it would be like to be with Art when they’re seventy, sitting on a park bench, not talking, “lost in their overcoats.”

On this icy night in December, Paul and Art are sixty-three and don’t look anything like those silent old men. Paul is sexy and commanding as he plays electric guitar, and Art still has an Afro, that annoying ethereal smile and angelic voice. Before long, twenty thousand people are singing and dancing and time is elastic: We’re seventeen, with long hair and beads, singing “Feelin’ Groovy,” and we’re thirty, wearing a power suit and singing “Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover,” and we’re fifty or sixty and a chill passes through us. Suddenly seventy seems just a breath away.

There’s a new life stage—after fifty and before eighty—and we’re the ones whose mission it will be to figure out what to do with it. When my life began to unravel, I set out to interview friends and strangers who led me to others who are making their way, experimenting and asking: What’s the next part of life about? How do we make the leap?

Most of us are addicted to work and have spent more hours at our jobs than any other activity, except for those who’ve been full-time parents, which is another kind of job. But what happens if we don’t work so much or at all? People tend to fall into three groups: The first are being squeezed out of jobs and feel like Willy Loman, clawing to stay in the game; the second are quitting work or starting new ventures because they don’t want to repeat what they’ve done the last thirty years; and the third group are riding square in the saddle and want to keep going. Mort Zuckerman, in his sixties, publisher of the New York Daily News, told me, “Nobody I know wants to stop working at this age because nobody feels it’s old and guess what, it isn’t.”

If we’re creative, what happens if our work no longer sells for as much or at all? Will we keep doing it anyway? Probably, but how will we make our funds last until we reach one hundred, a real possibility? How much money is enough, how much achievement is enough, or have we found that recognition is like a drug and you can never get enough? What if we still strive for excellence and distinction? Tirzah Firestone, a rabbi, says, “When you’re being lowered into the ground, recognition will mean nothing. Nothing!” What will matter? Isn’t this the question to ask? What will matter when the dealin’s done?

I’m determined to learn what it will take to do the next stage of life well. How do we move ahead with grace and purpose, take risks, laugh and love without condition, be provocative, and gain some serenity and understanding of what our time—and our cohort’s—has meant?

What I’ve found is that there will be no single answer or solution, as everyone will go at this differently. Many models will arise, just as there were many lifestyles in the sixties: political activism, hippie communes, getting back to the land, as well as traditional jobs and families.

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