What I Learned From a Lobster

It turns out we are more like lobsters in spirit than in sunburn.

I found out in a video on Facebook. The caption, "Responding to Stress," got my attention. Or was it the close-up of an old, white-bearded, Nostradamus-looking man in a yarmulke — a rabbi? A wise Jewish fellow nonetheless. 

In brief but infinite wisdom, Maybe-Rabbi Guy explained the radical adaptability of lobsters: A lobster, as it expands in size, will shed its old shell and grow a bigger one, time and again. In those highly vulnerable, naked times, what does the lobster do? It finds a quiet, dark spot to hang out until its new shell is ready to be revealed. 

The lobster is to the sea what the writer is to the Earth. As the lobster feels the discomfort of its own existence—as its shell becomes too small for its guts — it withdraws,

only to emerge anew, having created a work of art.

What if I lose my art? 

That question has stayed hot to the touch. What will become of me if my life loses its pattern of having no pattern? Who will I be? My nontraditional existence—single, capricious, mildly irresponsible — was what had provided food for thought, thoughts for words, words for fulfillment. During all the years when my friends and former classmates were getting married and having children, I was growing guts that would outgrow my shell. 

What else is there?

Last December, as I rocked and nursed my big-eyed baby boy while watching The Today Show, I felt vindicated by Adele. It took a minute to get there. My first inclination was to marvel at her impossibly unblemished buttermilk-tinged-with-newborn-pink skin. At 39, I had started seeing and feeling myself aging. The woman in my mirror had tired eyes. She could no longer run six miles effortlessly. She had a butt bigger than ever and breasts that were somehow shrinking, even as they filled with milk for a newborn. She was emotionally drained. On my TV screen, Adele was the ageless angel I'd never be again. Thankfully, the interview tore me away from my 40-something mom lamentations as Adele spoke about losing her art. After exiting a difficult phase of her life and entering a contented one, she wondered what would become of her ability to write. Me too.

I feared the onset of Settled Life for years. Wouldn't I be bored? Boring? What would I write about?

Then I met my fear. My days are now routine: I take care of kids. Fret over what to make for dinner. Wonder how the laundry multiplies when I'm not looking. Give the dog his glucosamine. Scurry to fit in a 20-minute miracle workout. 

I haven't run out of inspiration for writing. The difference is that I have much less time to write. So wait my muses do, hung up on the walls of my mind. Mental sticky notes galore. While my minutes are limited, my heart is thankfully oblivious and continues to pump inspiration into my veins every day. 

Writing feels like home. As I write, I know chaos still has a place and a purpose in my life, and in the life of anyone who yearns to grow, create, thrive. Chaos, like the lobster's ill-fitting shell, pushes us to become vulnerable, to take time to heal, and to re-emerge revitalized.

As lobsters age, their predators become fewer. In fact, the main predator for an adult lobster is an adult human. That lesson teaches itself.