Denouement

In which the heroine's crazy ass life finally makes sense...or does it?

denouement /dā-ˈnü-ˌmä/ - noun - the final part of the play, movie or narrative in which the strands of the plot are drawn together and matters are explained or resolved.

I’ve been immersed in the delicate process of crafting the memoir section of my book.

It’s a curious experience, distilling the significant moments of one’s life into a narrative, as if trying to force the shapeless into form. The act of writing reveals patterns where none seemed apparent before.

Take, for instance, my impulsive move to Hong Kong at the age of 22, with neither a job nor a plan. At that age, it could be seen as youthful audacity, an act of defiance against the mundane.

However, I then proceeded to do the same thing four more times…

Moved to Indonesia - no job or idea how I was going to support myself…

Seattle - same.

Portugal - same.

Lake Oswego - same.

By the time I made the last of these moves at 54, the question was no longer, “Who does that?” but rather, “Why does she continue to do that?” What deeper impulse drives such recklessness? What flaw in the heroine’s character causes her to aspire to instability as if it were a virtue?

Once, could be called a youthful adventure. Twice, perhaps, a lapse in judgment. But five times? That’s practically aspirational. Yet I never saw it that way. To me, it was never about choosing financial uncertainty. It was about being ok with vulnerability, in a way I could never quite explain.

Yet still, here I sit, wondering how I’m going to reinvent myself again; looking at Indeed listings and real estate porn again and thinking this is starting to get old as ironically am I.

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There is a phrase—"putting myself in a position to be harmed"—from the lexicon of the many 12-step programs I have frequented over the years. I began in Al-Anon, but after reading the Big Book (not something one does in this program), I rushed to my sponsor with a newfound conviction: “I think I’m an alcoholic,” I declared, with surprising enthusiasm.

She, with the gentle patience of someone who has heard it all before, smiled and said, “You’re not.”

“How do you know?” I demanded, convinced I had found a missing piece of my identity.

“Because no one has ever been excited to discover they might be an alcoholic,” she replied.

Chagrinned but undeterred, I continued my journey through various programs, from Workaholics Anonymous, where I was told I only worked so hard because I was underearning; to Underearners Anonymous, where when food became an issue, I found myself in Overeaters Anonymous. It was as if I were collecting identities, each one a new attempt to make sense of the chaos within.

But here’s the deeper truth: the “ism” was never the real problem. The isms are always a misguided attempt to find a solution. The problem is always the same: the fundamental human tendency to try to wrestle life into submission, to exert control where none exists, and then to assuage the emotional turmoil when it inevitable doesn’t. The true challenge has always been accepting life on its own terms, chaotic and untamed as it may be.

And so, as I reflect on these restless movements and impulsive decisions, staring at me on the page, what once seemed like a series of reckless choices now begins to resemble something else entirely.

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I used to hope that the culmination of life’s journey would reveal itself as a kind of resolution, where all the disparate threads of my story would weave themselves into a perfect, harmonious whole. Something beautiful - something I could be proud of - or at least that made sense. “Oh, that’s why she needed to do that, because…”

Photo by Syaoky Zakarya on Unsplash

But I’m beginning to understand that life isn’t about finding neat resolutions. The knots, the broken strands, the threads that never quite fit—they are not mistakes; they are the design.

“My story isn’t sweet and harmonious, like invented stories.   It tastes of folly
and bewilderment, of madness and dreams, like the lives of all people that
no longer want to lie to themselves.”   —Hermann Hesse

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From one perspective, the underside of the tapestry looks tangled, frayed, incomplete. But when you step back, when you see the whole picture, there is a beauty to the disorder, a kind of elegance in the way things fall apart and come together, not in spite of their imperfections, but because of them.

The denouement, perhaps, isn’t the place where everything finally makes sense. It’s the moment when you realize that it doesn’t need to. The beauty is in the weaving itself, in the mess, in the process of living and accepting the complexity, the ambiguity, the unanswered questions. And maybe that is where the real resolution lies—not in the ending, but in the understanding that life is its own chaotic masterpiece.