Best of Beth Ashley: Dreams sometimes need to be downsized

Editor’s note: The IJ is reprinting some of the late Beth Ashley’s columns. This is from 2007.

When you get older, you tend to get more realistic.

You scale down your to-do list.

I recently came to the conclusion that I was not going to learn Russian before I die. I finally knew in my bones I would not become a docent at the Asian Art Museum (just too much to learn!) and would not learn to fly a plane (driving on 101 is hard enough).

It’s sad in some ways, and a great relief in others, to have downsized my dreams.

As a younger person, I felt capable of learning anything, with the possible exception of astrophysics.

I saw my life extending long before me, and expected I’d have time to encompass it all.

Learning is just in my bones. Like most journalists, I was born with an insatiable curiosity about the world and everyone and everything in it.

I have read tons of books — lately, Michael Pollan’s mind-blowing “Omnivore’s Dilemma” and Khaled Hosseini’s new novel about Afghan women — and held a thousand conversations where I got to ask questions. I keep up with the world with myriad magazines, newspapers and TV shows starring know-it-all pundits.

I have learned enough, in a long lifetime, to begin connecting the dots of all I have learned and the places I’ve been. Everything, I now know, is interconnected.

The learning process never fails to enthrall. When I learn something, I am likely to grab friends by the lapels and unload my findings upon them: “Look at this — a new fact, a new way of looking at things.”

I doubt I will ever stop wanting to learn.

But I finally realize that there are huge areas I will never have time (or even competency) to explore.

Sad. I will have to leave black holes to Stephen Hawking. I abdicate the fine points of photography to Annie Leibovitz.

Oh, and I will never learn to paint. That’s something I was always sure I could do, but now I’m not so sure. It would take years to master, and I’ve found other ways to use those years, an ever-diminishing length of time.

I am fortunate in having a large family of very bright people. So if I’m a klutz when it comes to computers — duh — I am blessed with children who aren’t. Somewhere in the family tree is a person who knows most of what I need to know. A son or a niece or a grandchild can always fill me in.

Friends, too, have skillsets I don’t have. Carol is a wonderful cook, Bethie’s an artist, Gloria dances and Isabel writes world-class books. I am not them, but I exist among them, and doesn’t some of their talent rub off on me? I mean — they could teach me, couldn’t they, if I ever chose to learn?

Realist though I am, I’m still reluctant to admit I will never play a good game of tennis or be a terrific diver — but maybe I’ll admit it soon.

One person can’t do everything, I tell myself, though some people seem to refute that. Look at Leonardo da Vinci — a painter and inventor and God knows what else. Look at Condoleezza Rice, who ice-skated and played piano concerts before becoming secretary of state.

As I grow older, the years seem to close in. My faculties fail. I can’t sing very well anymore, and I move very slowly, so I probably won’t learn to ski.

Sigh, groan and gee whiz.

The universe holds mysteries I may never unravel, but it’s high time I put my sorrow to rest.

I’ll try to celebrate the few things I know something about, and stop mourning what I don’t.

I fervently hope nonetheless that the end is not near. I’d still like to learn how to make a good pie.