Still Employable- Although Maybe Just Barely

A couple of years after I retired, I published a blog post called Employable (Employable – Terri LaBonte- Reinventing Myself in Retirement.)  I discussed what it felt like for someone to offer me a job at that point in my life. I sorted through a great quantity of feelings related to the offer, but my bottom-line response was that I didn’t want a job- even though it was nice to be asked. I had not considered starting a new career in retirement before the job offer. I certainly have not considered it since then.

Recently, a situation arose at church that involved a major re-juggling of administrative staff. Our parish administrator of nearly a decade planned to retire in mid-September. I initially agreed to help in the office one day a week to reduce the strain on our parish ecosystem while we transitioned to a new office organization. There were a few of us who were teaming up to cover basic processes for a couple of months. As the situation unfolded, however, increased complications bombarded the well-intentioned plan, demanding a more permanent and cohesive solution.

The church’s administrator (secretary/financial systems manager) semi-retired a few months ago. In her semi-retired status, she was concentrating solely on the financial systems. The parish hired a part-time secretary a couple of months before the church administrator was due to change to her part-time schedule. Unfortunately, as soon as the administrator officially started coming into the office only two days a week, the newly hired part-time secretary resigned.

Our parish administrator agreed to return to a full-time schedule while we found a new person to take on the entire full-time parish administrator job. We did find someone, but she had some pre-existing commitments that would limit her availability during part of the transition time. Our retiring administrator devised a plan to transfer skills in both the secretarial and financial administrator arenas between June and September. This succession plan also involved training me so that there would be at least one other person with a pulse who knew the mysteries of the church’s financial software.

I love plans at least as much as the next person. There are those who would argue that I take planning to an absurd degree. However, I also have my own little motto- “Terri proposes, and God disposes.”  Such was the case with this transition plan. Despite our best efforts, there were a series of disastrous events that caused the plan to crumble beneath its own weight :

  • The retiring administrator fell and smashed her elbow into a million pieces, requiring extensive surgery.
  • As soon as the retiring administrator recovered from her surgery, her husband was hospitalized with COVID.
  • One of the stalworth volunteers who had been helping to keep the train on track went on a boating trip and got stranded in the middle of some body of water somewhere due to mechanical problems.
  • The rector was on vacation.
  • The photocopier possessed (or is possessed by) some sort of evil, vindictive genius. It stopped working for nearly an entire week- probably in protest against the excessive number of revisions of the Sunday service bulletin documents that we copied the week before because we kept finding errors. It turns out that cutting and pasting changes into five or six separate documents is not as easy as you would think.
  • I learned that my eyes are spoiled by the 27” computer monitor we have at home. The 23” monitors in the church office are just not cutting it for me, especially as I sit behind the new hire and try to coach her through different processes.
  • The retiring parish administrator, overwhelmed by trying to keep the parish office operational, train new workers, and care for her husband, suddenly declared she was moving her “retirement full stop” date up by a month. Instead of disentangling herself from us in mid-September, she decided to leave in mid-August.
  • Certain key passwords retired along with our outgoing administrator. One especially important system required that I get a new password through snail mail. I am glad our government is concerned about protecting privacy, but this particular system has the clunkiest password parameters I have ever encountered.   .

During this period of limbo, I tried to use what I learned in the approximately 7 hours of training the original administrator was able to give me on the financial workings of the parish before destroying her elbow. It made me nervous when people kept saying, “Terri knows the financial stuff.”  Terri knew the foam, not the root beer. My claim to fame was that I was putting money in the bank and paying bills. Beyond that, I was uncomfortably aware of the limited depth of my knowledge. People kept telling me, “At least you are getting something done- anything you are able to do is better than nothing.”  I am not so sure that is true. After 30+ years working in a financial-related field, I am all too aware that a person can easily know just enough to be dangerous.

As time has passed and I have had the opportunity to complete the routine financial operations several times I feel much more hopeful. The retiring parish administrator was able to come back to work for a few weeks after her surgery rehab, so I was able to reality check some of the things I did in her absence. Despite my misgivings, I had not done anything lethal to my church’s financial system. The original administrator was able to resolve the hanging chads of work I had left over from the prior couple of weeks. I managed to expand the number of hours I was in the office while she was still working so I could sop up every last bit of knowledge from her brain cells. Learning from her tutelage increased my feelings of accomplishment and confidence.

When the retiring parish administrator was in the office, I did not get involved with the Sunday service documents. This was probably a huge relief to everyone involved, I know it was a huge relief to me. I was even able to take a day off and go to the beach with a friend. I called from a beach cabana to see how things were going and if they needed me to come in and help the next day. In my book, if I am calling from a beach cabana, things are good. They told me all was well and there was no need for me to come in the next day.

I think I needed to “act my wage.” My wage is 10 times more than most volunteers. However, 10 times 0 is still 0. That would imply that I should be investing $0 in worrying about or taking responsibility for any of this. Still… it is hard for me not to give my all. Predictably, it is also hard for me to give my all and not reserve anything for myself. When a friend texted me on Friday night to report that the bulletin did not reflect the correct person giving the sermon, I wish I had been able to react with more understanding, urgency, and courtesy than I did. Sadly, I may have “acted my wage”  during that encounter.

Now that our former parish administrator is officially retired, the new hire and I have been on our own. I am continuing to train the new hire in the financial administration duties. This has often been of dubious benefit since I was only about a half step ahead of her in knowledge. I found myself confusing her because I still had so many missteps. I took a week or so to just do the work so that I could more clearly direct her. It is truly a case of the “partially sighted leading the blind.” That axiom takes on a whole new meaning when the “partially sighted” person is trying to read tiny print on a tiny screen from much further away than her eyes can accommodate. We spent half an hour of mucking about yesterday because the field I thought said “date” actually said  “deposit.” 

Despite the struggles of the past few months, we are making great strides, and I am proud of our little administrative team. While I do not believe we have yet produced a perfect set of Sunday service documents, they are getting better each week. The new administrator is picking up the financial tasks with agility. A volunteer who has helped in the past with the secretarial part of the job has kindly offered to take over some of the work for a few days so that our new administrator can concentrate on solidifying her knowledge of the financial aspects of the job. We are all working well together. We treat each other patiently and kindly. We ask for grace as we learn, from each other and from our “customers”- the God and parishioners we serve. People are more important than perfect procedures. We pray a lot.

You may ask why I tangled myself up in all this. Is it my inability to say no that has expanded that “helping out one day a week” to 20-28 hours a week? I don’t think so. I believe that we have the right long-term solution for the future administration of our parish. The process of transitioning to a new office staff has been wracked with many unanticipated complications.  With God’s help, we can resolve the complications and move forward. Because of that, I am willing to invest in the solution.

However, even if I am employable… I still don’t want a new job.

Did you take a new job in retirement?  How has that been for you?  Please share your perspective by leaving a comment.  In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a productive day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

“Writing Blogs” Is Not The Same Thing As “Writing A Blog”

I expect that you are thinking that it has been uncharacteristically quiet in TerriLand recently. It is rare for me to go so long without new content. Truth be told, I am not sure that this really counts as “new content” either. It is more of a letter of apology or excuse… depending on how charitable you feel.

I try to make my blog posts relatable and genuinely honest. My goal is that the posts authentically demonstrate my real self and my thought processes. I believe my blog posts do reflect the state of my brain, which could be a very scary thought. Most of the time, the effort I put into examining what is on my mind and writing about it tends to resolve the general disorder and messiness of my interior world. Without this process, it would be much scarier to live inside my own head than it already is. By the time you read the blog post, I have pulled out that awful junk drawer inside my brain, carefully examined its contents, decided what to keep and what to throw away, and organized the remaining items. In my blog posts, I am able to show you the newly neat results of this effort to tidy my mind. Of course, just like with a junk drawer, my mind does not stay tidy for long, but my blog posts often reflect that one brief, shining moment in time when my brain does not look like the den of some demented squirrel.

Recently, though, I have not been able to declutter and organize my brain. There are so many ideas and analyses running amok in my gray matter and none of them will sit still long enough for examination. It is not writer’s block. I have no less than 5 blog posts in various stages of development. Problematically, “various stages” include “embryonic,” “infantile,” and “prepubescent.” None of these potential blog pieces are anywhere close to “adult.” It turns out that teasing around many blog posts doesn’t necessarily result in completing one publishable piece for the entertainment and edification of my readers- all three of them. Rather, the confusion in my brain that writing usually helps to order and inform is simply more cluttered with these bits and pieces of drivel. These wannabe blog posts are just more brain junk that needs to be moved out of the way when I am searching for something in there.

So while today’s post may not rise to the level of “content” and is certainly not my best work, there is an honesty about it. Today’s blog does authentically demonstrate my real self and my thought processes. It is just that recent life has fed my real life and thought processes lollipops for breakfast and then scrambled the whole mess up in a blender on “pulverize.”

Send help. Pray for me.

Have a clear-minded day!

Terri/Dorry 🙂

What do you do when you know you need to slow dawn and calm down in order to gain perspective? Please share your ideas by leaving comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Recovered Memories

As I mentioned in my last post, I recently traveled to New York to visit my cousin Ray, his wife Fran, and his two young adult sons, Ben, and Ethan. I got to meet and spend time with Ethan’s girlfriend Deanna as a special bonus attraction. It was a wonderful time. We spent a lot of time enjoying fun activities together, talking, laughing, eating, and bonding. All that was amazing. I could not have asked for a better experience. My family were so generous with their time, love, and energy. What was even more amazing than this marathon of joviality, though, were the feelings that the experience evoked in me.

My family was so generous. It was not just a financial thing. They lavished time, energy, and love on me. I felt so protected and taken care of. I don’t know if they all really enjoyed being with me as much as they appeared to, but, if not, they pretended really well. I suppose it is possible that, once I left, they said to each other, “Thank God that is over,” but I don’t think so. It felt like a new chapter in each other’s lives for all of us. For me, the time felt saturated with preciousness. It is hard to even explain the bond. It was a bond that, in some ways, should not even exist because of distance in geography, time, and the busyness of life. I have always remained in contact with them, and we have shared some heavy and happy moments, but I have not always put in the intentional effort to earn the bond that I was happy to discover still exists.

In addition to creating memories during my time with them, I recovered some interesting memories. I remembered things I didn’t even know I knew.

I spent the first five years of my life in Deer Park, on Long Island. My parents did exactly what they were supposed to do when they had a baby. Within six weeks of my birth, they moved from an apartment in the Bronx to a house in the suburbs. We lived there until I was five years old, at which time we unexpectedly moved to California in conjunction with my father’s job transfer. You would not think I would remember much about my life in New York, but experiences and feelings came flooding back.

One evening, Ray drove me to Deer Park, the town where I spent those five years. I remembered street names; Carlls Path, Jefferson- they sounded familiar. I had some recollection of my address in Deer Park and the addresses of some family members. I did not get them exactly right, but I was not far off, and I absolutely remembered the houses when I saw them, sixty years of time and renovation later. As we drove down the streets, I knew what side of the street to look to find the houses for which we were searching. I remembered some specific events. For instance, I remembered some sort of celebration when my whole extended family was in our house. It might have been a birthday party. I remember laughter and a certain amount of chaos because of the number of over-sugared children. I remember jumping on the sofa and I remember my aunt giving me a silver dollar. It was the most bizarre feeling.

Even more, I remembered what it felt like to live in those houses. I could feel laughter, fun, community, connection, family, and stability. I think I somehow lost a lot of that mood memory over the years. After we moved to California, my nuclear family was a closed ecosystem. My mother, father, brother, and I were largely self-contained. We did not entertain. I don’t really remember my family having a social network. This was before the days of cell phones. In fact, long-distance calls on land lines were expensive and we only called New York a couple of times a year. There was no texting or Facebook. There were photos, but they were not of great quality and there was no way to share them except by sending prints in the mail. I do, of course, remember fun, happy times with lots of laughter in my family in California, but they were small and intimate. I think I may have lost any skill or comfort I had with social interaction that I learned early on in the context of a large extended family.

Just being with Ray and his family also highlighted that. Their house, yard, and garden felt familiar deep inside me, even though I had never been there. It felt like a life I used to have as a small child. With the six of us together, there was a different kind of energy- an incredibly positive energy- and I let it sweep me up into its vortex. Instead of avoiding it, as I would typically try to do, I wrapped myself in it and participated.

There was another experience I had, too. Ray reminds me so much of my father. Watching Ray with his young adult sons during my time with them, I heard things that I thought could have come from my father’s mouth. There was a lot of teasing and joking and some frustration. The thing is, I also heard patience, guidance, and true parenting. He was definitely cultivating his children. I think, when I look back at my memories of my father, I think I may not have absorbed the patience, pride, guidance, and true parenting. I think some of that was likely there, even though what resonates in the front of my memory of my father is more the joking, teasing, and frustration. Even if the patience, guidance, and true parenting were not there, I could see in Ray what my father wanted to be. I think Ray is simply better at implementation than my father was. I think seeing this dynamic in action helped me understand and appreciate my father. It helped me to rejoice in my father’s loving motivation instead of focusing on sometimes hurtful experiences.

I have one more observation about the trip down memory lane I took during my trip. The house I lived in for five years was up for sale. It was listed for $723,000. I know my parents spent less than $20,000 on that new construction home in 1959. That means the house has increased in value by nearly $11,000 per year. The house has certainly appreciated more than I have.

What memories do you have of your life as a child? Are you sometimes surprised by the things you remember, even after decades have passed? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a memorable day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Unplugged

I just returned from a trip to visit my cousin  and his family in New York. I have many warm, loving thoughts and impressions about my time there, which I will share in upcoming weeks. It is a serendipity that I should bring home such beautiful memories, considering the way my trip began.

I drove myself to Orlando and left my car with the valet at the airport. I successfully wrangled my luggage, even attaching the bag tag correctly on my very first try. I waited in only one incorrect line. Once I released my suitcase into the care of the good people at JetBlue, I plodded my way through security and found my gate.

That is when disaster stuck. I fished around in my purse to get my cell phone to call Max and let him know I was safely at the airport. There was no cell phone in my purse. I tried my tote bag. There was no cell phone in my tote bag. It seemed likely that I had left my phone in the car. The awful truth dawned on me. I was unplugged.

At least, I was mostly unplugged. By some miraculous twist of fate, I had brought my laptop with me. However, I had no means of making calls or sending texts. I also had no access to phone numbers. I also could not take photos. Perhaps most galling was the fact that my phone houses my pedometer app, which records and acknowledges all the steps I walk in a day. If I am not carrying my phone, it is like all the exercise I do is nonexistent.

In fact, without a cell phone, it was like I was nonexistent. It was like I had unwittingly entered the witness relocation program.

I considered my options- one of which was to return home in defeat. It was too late to go back to the valet and search my car for the phone. I tried my laptop, thinking I could try email and Facebook to communicate with the world outside my brain, but I could not get Wi-Fi connection in the airport.

My most immediate dilemma was how to reach my cousin and his wife. They were picking me up at the airport and I was supposed to text them when I arrived so they would know I was at the terminal. Not only could I not text, but I also had no access to the proper phone numbers even if I could text.

I asked if there were any pay phones around in the airport, but these relics of antiquity have gone the way of Ozymandias. Next, I looked for one of those airport electronics mini stores. No luck. I went into a general merchandise store and asked if it was possible to buy a cheapie cell phone. The clerk sized me up and down before responding disdainfully that asking to buy a cell phone in an airport is highly sketchy. I guess I might as well have been wearing a sign saying, “I’m a terrorist.”

I decided I was going to need to get some help from some stranger with a phone. I was also hungry. Looking at the options, I decided the best place to rely on the kindness of strangers was at Chick-fil-a. I ordered breakfast and started to explain my dilemma. I had chosen wisely because it was the Chick-fil-a’s lady’s pleasure to loan me her phone. She was even fine with me carrying it off with me away from the counter. I called Max and got all the numbers I had written down for him for my cousin’s phones. I then tried calling all of the said numbers but had to leave messages. I also texted to explain what happened. I needed to ask them not to wait for my text to collect me but to come looking for me. I also needed them to know that it was only my phone and not I that was missing.

I got on the plane not knowing if my call for help reached my cousin. Once the plane was in the air, I was able to connect to the in-flight Wi-Fi, so I emailed, posted about my plight on Facebook, and pleaded with my cousin’s wife on Messenger to somehow find me in JFK airport.

I thought, if my cousin did not get my numerous non-phone-related messages, he would call the house phone and Max would advise of the problem. If worst came to worst, I could be like Tom Hanks in that movie, The Terminal, where his character ends up living at JFK for months. These musings were all pretty level-headed of me, given the circumstances, but I was pretty sure I was ultimately going to need to borrow someone else’s cell phone when I got to New York.

When the plane landed, I thought about my next steps. I decided I could either ask the lady sitting next to me if I could borrow her phone or I could wait until I got my suitcase and then ask some random stranger in New York City for this favor. I got up twice during the flight to let the lady next to me visit the restroom. I figured we were besties now. Or, if not besties, she owed me.

She was very gracious and helpful as we tried calling and texting all the possible phone numbers. We finally reached my cousin’s wife on the third try. They had seen my Messenger communication. My cousin was circling the airport (and might have to continue doing so for the hour it took me to get my suitcase) and his wife had conveniently planted herself right outside the carousel on which my suitcase eventually appeared.

Our first stop after the airport was at Best Buy to purchase a pay-as-you-go stupid phone. No access to the internet and, of course, no access to  contacts. Basically, though, it allowed me to call my cousin, his wife, Max, and- most importantly- 911.

Once I found my family and had an emergency phone, I was much less anxious. I did mind being able to take good pictures. I did mind not being able to Google any little thing that crossed my mind. I did mind missing all the critical communications I was sure were languishing on my real cell phone, wherever it might be. Still, the absence of my smart phone did cause me to focus on the  moment and be more present with my family. There was a certain liberation inherent in having severely limited ability to communicate with people who were not right in front of me. Being without pocket internet access quelled my tendency to problem-solve 24/7. I was able to release much of the worry and responsibility I shoulder for all problems- mine and everyone else’s.

During my trip, I managed to convince myself that the phone was going to be in the cupholder in my car. I could almost see it there. Often, if I have the phone in my pocket when I get in the car, it is uncomfortable, so I pull it out and put it in the cupholder. I have left it there at times in the past. By telling myself this little fairy tale, I avoided obsessing about the cost and tribulation I would need to incur if I could not locate the phone when I returned home.

The fairy tale dimmed a little in my mind when I got closer to reality, but I was still fairly sure the phone was going to be in the car. Just to be safe, I asked at the airport Information Desk about a “lost and found” desk before going to the valet stand. Unfortunately, the “lost and found” desk was closed but the nice lady explained how to file a claim online. I listened, but I was still counting on a eureka moment when I opened my car door.

You can imagine my heartbreak when I opened the door and did not see my cell phone. I looked between the seats, in the backseat, even in the glove compartment. No cell phone. I could feel the despondency I had been pushing away all week come rushing back like the water when that little Dutch kid took his finger out of the dike. For the first time in this whole debacle, I felt heavy with defeat. I was mourning.

When I arrived home, I melted into Max’s arms and let him absorb some of my disappointment. I tried to be philosophical. In the grand scheme of things, people deal with a lot worse problems every day. My cell phone was old, beat-up, and probably in need of replacement anyway. I could recreate most of my contacts from other sources. However, I was looking at a depressingly long list of tasks that would be necessary to patch together some semblance of my administrative life. No matter how much I tried to give myself a pep talk, there was no denying that recreating my digital existence was going to be a pain in the patoot. And the photos. All the photos I had on that phone would be gone forever.

I took a sleeping pill and went to bed, hoping that things would seem more surmountable in the morning.

The next day, I pulled a bottle of tea out of the backseat of my car. When I moved that bottle, I thought I caught a glimpse of something vaguely phone-shaped pushed far under the driver’s seat. I could not be sure. A dead, black-screened cell phone on a black carpet under a black leather seat is pretty effectively camouflaged. I took my trusty high-powered flashlight and found that, sure enough, my cell phone was pushed far under the seat. Using the control to move the seat back and forward, plus some interesting gymnastic moves, I was able to grab the phone. It spent the whole day in time-out with its troublesome butt in the charger.

The smart phone is once again surgically attached to me. I have my photos and my contacts. I can Google and search IMBD to my heart’s delight. My music library is available whenever I feel a dance break coming on. Walking steps has meaning once more. Yes, I did reap some benefits from going six unplugged days in terms of living in the moment and being more engaged with the people physically with me. However, I learned that being unplugged is a lot more complicated than it would seem.  .  People always say, “what did we do in the days before smart phones?”  Suffered. That’s what we did.

Have you ever tried to unplug from technology? How did it go? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a plugged in day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

ALPHA In A Good Way

My church, St. James Episcopal Church at 204 N. Lee St. in Leesburg, FL, 34748, is offering a free ALPHA course starting on August 6th. An ALPHA course is an opportunity to grapple with the bigger questions of life and faith in a fun, nonthreatening, nonjudgmental environment. ALPHA was originally designed for people who would not necessarily identify as churchgoers, but we find that it is equally valuable to ANYONE who wants to feel closer to God and His Church. ALPHA is an 11-week course, meeting from 6:00-8:00pm on Tuesday evenings in the parish hall. It also includes one Saturday retreat day. Each session includes a shared meal, a video about some aspect of Christian belief, and small group discussions. Our guests find open conversations, during which they are encouraged to share as much or as little as they wish about their perspectives, questions, doubts, and experiences.

I have been helping to coordinate the ALPHA program for several years. When I started with the program, I had no idea what I was getting into, to  be honest. God has stretched me and supported me and shown me a small glimpse of His power. He has used this opportunity to help me learn to trust His plan over my own. This is a lesson that I am sure I will have to keep learning for the rest of my life, but my work with ALPHA has been the most significant factor in this aspect of my spiritual development. I have experienced many other growth spurts related to my work with ALPHA, also.

I’ve also witnessed other people grow in faith and joy during the program. We call our participants “guests” rather than “students” because we are truly all students. One of our guests told me that, even though she had been a faithful, obedient, God-worshipping Christian for as long as she could remember, ALPHA was the first time she ever understood that God loved her. I saw young men, climbing their way out of dark, disastrous living situations, find a foothold with God and a community that is helping them step into the light. I watched people who had let God go because of what people have done in God’s name slowly and cautiously come back home to Him. I’ve met sturdy, faith-filled elderly people whose souls house a treasure of spiritual love and steadfastness. These people, some of whom mourned because they believed they were no longer useful, have been absolute rock stars in sharing faith. In the process, they have been able to grow even closer to God and His people, as well.

Sometimes, we look at religious conversions and spiritual experiences as a lightening strike.  One perfect moment when the electricity and passion of faith hits someone with a certain overwhelming, momentous power. Sometimes it is like that. In my observations of nearly 65 years of spiritual searching, I find religious  conversions and spiritual experiences are more often soft and gentle. They creep over us and cozy us, like a warm blanket on a cold night after a tough day. There are “aha!” moments in ALPHA, but there are so many more “aaaaah” moments. I love “aaaaah” moments. I am privileged to be present when people have them… or even when they simply open themselves up to them.

Our ALPHA courses get fantastic feedback. Our guests enjoy the fellowship and focus of faith formation. In a noisy, busy, secular culture that runs on the energy of  secular values, it is sometimes a relief to step away for a dedicated time to intentionally focus on the Kingdom values. I call ALPHA a “search party”- a “party” because we are all hanging out together and having fun and “search” because we are all seeking something. 

When we start a course, we never know where the guests will be on their spiritual development paths. We never know what people will need. We never know how to do it. We never know how to slant a course- towards the unchurched or towards those who have strong faith. The most important thing we don’t know is that we never know what is going to happen. I always say that my job is simply to turn on the lights and open the door. The rest is up to the Holy Spirit. She has not let me down yet. Something wonderful ALWAYS happens. I tell people, “Come and see.” (John 1:46)

In our last ALPHA course, we did have one interesting bit of constructive criticism. One guest questioned the name of the class. He came to the course with a societal  understanding of the word “Alpha.”   He understood it as meaning dominant, perhaps bullying, and toxic… like the terms “alpha dog” or “alpha male.”  This, of course, is not the Kingdom understanding of “ALPHA.”  ALPHA does not mean best or dominating in our lexicon. ALPHA means “the first.”  The ALPHA course is a first step for many people in developing their relationship with God. Even if it is not the first step a person ever took towards a relationship with God, an ALPHA course can usher in a new season of “firsts” of spiritual development for a guest…. And for ALPHA team members.

If you are anywhere in the Leesburg area, please do consider joining us for ALPHA. It is a lot of fun, in addition to being an opportunity to explore the big issues of life and faith. Please contact me at terriretirement@gmail.com if you would like more information. I also have a brochure that includes snippets of perspectives from some of our past guests.

Have a blessed day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Where Exactly Is “The Sticks”?

The town where I live could not be called a thriving metropolis by any standard. In fact, I tend to think of it as a “small town.”  I am not sure that is entirely accurate. Approximately 29,000 people live in MyTown, which spans forty-two square miles. We have multiple grocery stores, banks, chain restaurants, and many traffic lights. We have a Walmart, although the locals often refer to it as “the bad Walmart,” to distinguish it from the four or five other Walmarts within easy driving distance. We even have a “mall.” It is pretty lame, dilapidated, and unpopulated, but it is there. If the Belk department store ever leaves, I think it is fair to say, “there goes the neighborhood.”

While most citizens of the world would not say that MyTown is “small,” my perspective comes from living in Southern California. The relatively small town in which I resided in California housed over 86,000 people- in only about seventeen square miles. My California town was in the midst of an urban sprawl area from the northernmost tip of Los Angeles County to the San Diego County border. It was difficult to tell where one official town stopped and another started. In my current locale, there are certainly towns that abut each other. However, the significantly lower overall number of people rule out the idea of “urban sprawl.” When I lived in Southern California, there was an average of 5060 people living on every square mile. In MyTown, Florida- only 690 people live on each square mile. The feeling is quite different.

Many of the longtime residents in my area see the population growth much more clearly than I do. They grew up when there were more orange trees than people thriving in our 41.94 square miles. To them, MyTown now seems like a city. They see traffic and crime and modernity encroaching. I get it. We left Southern California for many of the same reasons. On the other hand, perspective is everything.

Green was pretty much just a color in a crayon box to me until I moved to Florida. Now, I look out of my window at a beautiful greenspace, complete with wildlife. The developers of the subdivision purposely left it as a conservation zone so I should be able to go my entire remaining life without seeing construction behind me. In the nearly 10 years I have lived here, I have seen sandhill cranes, woodpeckers, cardinals, other unidentifiable (at least by me) birds, squirrels, raccoons, rabbits, bobcats, a jaguarundi, alligators, a couple of different types of snakes, a blanket of baby frogs, and lizards as ubiquitous as paper towels… all on my own property.  As I drive around town, especially in the summer after the snowbirds have left for cooler climes, I see lakes and canals everywhere. I remember my mother used to want to go to the “little bakery in the woods.” This bakery is situated on a major highway. Its neighbors were largely subdivisions. However, all the structures in the area are still somehow part of the “woods.”

It is not just the flora and fauna that I find so “small town” enchanting. The pace is slower, and the people are largely kinder than in my California town. Most people seem to hunker down in their homes, with their families, and enjoy simpler, purer kinds of recreational pursuits. My experience of life is more “out of the house.” My adventures, while certainly not wild and crazy, are a source of amusement and amazement for my Florida friends. I love my little house and I love my downtime in it, but my growing up paradigm was that “life happens outside the house.” Home was pretty much a place for sleeping. I still tend to “out and about” way more than I stay home and “cozy in.” We spend a lot of time Disneyizing, which most people my age without children would find odd. Beyond the Disney parks, I seek out new and different and offbeat ways of enjoying leisure activities. I love my life and my Florida friends seem to love sharing my life from the coziness of their own homes. And I am finding the pleasure of a life lived largely at home, too. Especially when that home has air conditioning.

So, I often wonder whether I really live in a small town or not. Do I live in the sticks or am I just marking time until the pile of sticks is used to build enough subdivisions to qualify us for the kind of urban sprawl I left in California? I hope not. When we moved here, I wanted to live in a town small enough to be easier living but large enough to have services, shopping, and artificial amusements within reasonable commuting distance. I think we did a pretty good job of meeting that goal. I do not think I want too much unfettered growth.

I think it is only realistic to anticipate some level of growth over the years. I think it is a good thing when a community thrives in population and vibrancy, especially if the growth is well-managed. I saw something the other day that made me more secure that we have a ways to go before I have to worry too much about excessive growth. My friends and I went to a small independent restaurant for brunch after church a couple of weeks ago. I took the photo below to demonstrate that it looks like I currently live in a one-horse town… and, in the summer, even that one horse snowbirds north!

Have a great growing day!

Terri/Dorry 🙂

Do you prefer a small town or a larger city? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Good Health Can Be Icky

Once again, it is not even summer yet and I am already whining about the weather. Last year, we had a rather mild summer season and a refreshingly chilly winter. I was fairly sure that felicitous set of circumstances was not going to last. It has not.

This summer promises to be icky, sticky, ugly, and muggly. Meteorologists warn us that the season will be even hotter than it is most years. Living in central Florida will be more uncomfortable than living in Satan’s sinus cavities. The Farmers’ Almanac predicts a hurricane season that will huff and puff and blow our houses down. It all promises to be depressive and oppressive this year.

Typically, Florida boasts about 149 months a year of summer, give or take 3.7 months. When I first investigated Florida weather when planning a trip to Disney World, I read that “hurricane season” was considered from June through September. When I actually moved to Florida, I learned that I had been misinformed. Summer runs from May 1st through November 15th. Hurricane season is June 1st through October 31st. This may seem like an exaggeration, but this alarming duration is quite possible in Florida.

I get Seasonal Affective Disorder in the summer, the way some people get depressed in the winter when they do not see the sun for months at a time. For me, it is the sheer weight of the air fraught with humidity, the temperatures consistent with the idea that the world has a fever, the thunderstorms that suggest World War I is still raging, and the complete inability to plan or rely on trips out of the house because of rain. It is not uncommon to have to postpone fun trips to even indoor locations because the rain decreases driving visibility to about the distance from the tip of my nose to the point of my chin. Driving in Florida thunderstorms is a little like playing Blind Man’s Bluff going fifty miles an hour. Not the smartest idea.

The worst thing for me, though, is the sweat. I live with a perpetual layer of sticky all over my body from May to November. They say horses sweat, gentlemen perspire, and ladies glow. This lady does not glow. Glowing does not involve hair matted down with an overapplication of the natural hair gel known as perspiration. Glowing does not involve the inability to cross the room without stopping for a hydration break. Glowing does not involve multiple applications of deodorant a day. The last I heard, people who glow are not testy, cranky, and exhausted. Given the content of that last sentence, I am sure you agree that I am certainly not glowing. What I am is testy, cranky, and exhausted.

My sweet friend Kathleen has a different take on the muggy, sticky perspiration. I must agree that Kathleen does glow. It might be an evolutionary accommodation. She grew up in Florida. She tells me that sweating is good for me. The sweating process removes toxins from the body and is a key to good health. It is like exfoliating on the inside. I am willing to take her word for it. I do not need an annual demonstration. Especially when that demonstration apparently does not take my mood into consideration. Sweating might be terrific for my body, but it clearly does nothing good for my mental health. And for the record, I never heard anyone make a New Year’s resolution to sweat more.

Maybe my summer weather rant is out of my system. Considering we have about another 148 months of summer, I doubt it. Yes, I know I am being over-dramatic. I know I will not really burst into flames or drowned in my own secretions. I am going to try not to complain any more. Instead, I praise and thank God for air conditioning.

Heavy, all-consuming, suffocated, lethargic, exhausted sigh……

Please send popsicles!

What is the weather like where you are? Do you look forward to sunny skies and days by the beach or do you count the days until you will next feel a cool breeze?  Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a cool day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Unmaddening

I had an experience a couple of months ago that I’ve debated whether to share. It was extremely personal and emotional, which is one reason I contemplated not telling the world (or the tiny sliver of the world that actually reads my blog) about it. This is probably a fascinating disclosure to those of you who are regular readers, given that I frequently spill the tea about other personal and emotional experiences in my life.  You might be thinking, “what in heaven’s name does this woman NOT share?” Truthfully, there is a line. There are numerous episodes of my emotional life that I choose to keep private.

Still, the more compelling reason that I debated sharing my recent experience has less to do with the intimacy of it and more to do with my own sense of self. When I choose to share with you all, I do so because I think other people will relate to the experience. Also, I believe the experience reflects something authentic and genuine about who I am. The recent experience with which I have been wrestling speaks to a piece of me that I did not know was there. I find myself wondering if it really does reflect something that is authentic and genuine about who I am. If it does reflect a true piece of me, I am uncomfortable that it  exists… and that it has been part of me for over 40 years. I am certain that sharing this story will give pause to people who know me in real life. It is such a “not Terri” moment. Also, as far as relatability, I think this one might fall under the heading of “Terri is a psycho” rather than “I understand exactly what she means.”

Ultimately, I decided to share this… maybe for no better reason than I feel like it is stuck in the writing part of my spirit. I need to download it. Maybe because Iknow that this experience truly does reflect some part of me that I’ve denied and hidden for many years. If I feel it, it is part of who I am. Maybe I need to acknowledge the “psycho” and accept her in order to fully embrace the benefit of the experience.

So… here goes!

You may remember that a year or so ago, I worked through some old, painful memories and misunderstandings of myself. I took the fun house mirror that distorted the way I saw myself and broke it into a million pieces. At least, that is what I thought I did. This was the 2023 Lenten miracle-  A Lenten Miracle – Terri LaBonte- Reinventing Myself in Retirement  I felt liberated from 40 years of hurt.

It turned out that I did not break the mirror into a million pieces. I simply cracked it. This past Lent, I found some of the old feelings returning after nearly a year of freedom. It perplexed me. What I discovered is that I dealt with the source experiences quite effectively in 2023, but there were still so many regrets about the life I could have had during the 40+ years I allowed those experiences to define me. It is hard to resolve regret. One cannot travel back in time and start a chapter over again with an untainted, better-informed perspective. As I have aged, I have less opportunities to “try again” in the present. There are biological and practical limitations.

In speaking to my life coach about regrets, he suggested that regret usually has one of two origins- guilt or anger. He pointed out that the origin of my regret was probably not guilt. The episodes that distorted my understanding of myself and limited the possibilities I saw for myself were not of my design. He let that sink in for a moment. Finally, I finished the thought. “I’m angry,” I said… tentatively, at first. I let my mind and heart explore that statement to see if it felt genuine. I said it a couple more times, emotion and conviction growing each time. Suddenly, I was absolutely, viscerally, completely positive of something that I denied 40 years ago and had been denying ever since- I was angry. I felt shame about the anger because it felt less “good” and less “Christian” than I want to be, but I could no longer deny that it existed. It had breached the wall of my psyche with a vengeance. I was furious in 3D, high definition, technicolor, and surround sound!

Once I reached the realization that I was angry, I wondered what I was supposed to do with that anger lo these many years after the fact. I pondered this aloud with my life coach. The same idea occurred to each of us almost at the same time. “Maybe I need a rage room,” I half-joked. My life coach replied that he had been just about to suggest the same thing. Before I had a chance to dismiss the idea, he was googling “rage rooms in central Florida” on his computer in Portugal. Through this wonder of modern technology, he discovered a couple of options and encouraged me to look into them.

After our conversation, I visited and revisited the websites for the various rage rooms within driving distance. It took me a few days of dithering, but I finally decided to reserve my appointment with a baseball bat. The rage room I chose gave the option of a 10-minute session or a 20-minute session. I was not sure I had the physical stamina to smash things for 20 minutes straight, so I initially chose the 10-minute option. However, before completing the reservation, I decided that I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. I went full-on medieval and booked the 20-minute session about a week later.

In the days leading up to the appointment, I vacillated between nervousness and elation. I was excited, yet fearful, to release my inner beast. I considered whether to invite someone to go along with me. I thought it might feel supportive to have a companion. On the other hand, it might make me feel inhibited. I decided that this experience should be personal and all mine. Sharing it with anyone just did not feel right in my gut. I created a play list of hokey, cliché empowerment anthems to blast during my session.

Finally, my date with destruction came. I found my way to the little industrial park studio in Orlando and entered the facility. The attendant had me suit up in a hard hat, goggles, and safety shield. He led me to a small cement room fitted out with an old television set, a couple of old tires, about twenty pieces of glassware, and a set of old dishes. He showed me the  bin of weapons… excuse me, tools. I had all kinds of lovely iron and wooden implements of mayhem. The attendant paired my cell phone to a blasting Bluetooth speaker. The whole building could hear Gloria Gaynor insisting that she (and I) would survive. Finally, he took my picture for me and let me start smashing.

Something definitely came over me. I had been concerned that I would feel silly and would have trouble engaging. Not a problem. I immediately started smashing with abandon. I began by throwing glasses to the floor. I pounded everything- dishes, glasses, television, tires, even my feet. As I danced my way around the room, I want to say that I had heavy feet, but that sounds like I had to drag them around the space. It is more accurate to say that I had powerful feet. They rhythmically propelled me to the beat of the music with force, strength, and purpose. I tried just about every tool in the bin. I belted out song lyrics along with Billy Joel, Twisted Sister, Missing Persons, and, of course, Gloria. When I finished smashing everything, I attacked the broken pieces on the floor until I had pulverized them into dust. I need not have worried about being too physically weak to smash things for 20 minutes straight. The attendant had to come drag me out after 30 minutes.

When I finished, I was panting, sweaty, and shaking. I had no idea that I had so much power and destructive energy within me. I took a selfie after I discarded my safety gear. I didn’t even look like the same person. The expression on my face was somewhere between “seething rage” and “hungover.” I left the smash studio and got into my car, but I did not feel safe driving. There was a jubilation- a sense of victorious triumph- running through me. It was such an adrenaline surge that I could actually feel my body chemistry changing. At the same time, I had scared myself. It was terrifying and disorienting to realize the sheer enormity of this rage within me. It made me wonder what I was capable of and how I could control this potentially devastating emotion. As I waited for the physical reaction to wane, I began to cry. I felt so strong and so powerful, but also so spent. I texted pictures to my life coach. I think he only half-believed that I would go through with it, and I wanted to show him the evidence.

Finally, I felt calm enough to operate a vehicle. I drove home and told Max about the experience. Max does not necessarily understand the intensity and all-encompassing nature of my emotions, but he is always supportive. He rejoiced with me that the experience was so valuable. I think he might have checked my car just to make sure I had not brought back any implements of destruction with me. He might have slept with one eye open that night. The rage had absolutely nothing to do with him, but, given my reaction, he could not be faulted if he were a little bit wary.

I had a bit of a crash and burn the next day or two. I felt washed out and limp. My whole body ached. This was hardly surprising when I considered the demanding physical work it had done- both in destroying stuff for 30 minutes straight and feeling emotions that my brain denied for over 40 years straight. Once I stabilized, though, my satisfaction and elation about the experience returned.

I processed the rage room experience more fully when next I met with my life coach. He asked if  I got everything from it that I wanted. I unreservedly agreed that I had. He was excited for me that it had been so effective. Then he asked me if I thought it was an experience that I would want to repeat. I thought for a moment and then answered no. There is no reason for me to repeat it. I am unmaddened.

Me, at lunch before the rage room- a perfectly ordinary, mild-mannered retired woman
Suited up and ready to smash!
A hint of the destruction I wrought
In case you had any doubt about the fate of the television
The extremely disturbing and wildly embarrassing “after” experience

So, am I psycho? Have you ever been to a rage room, or would you like to visit one? How do you acknowledge and drain off anger? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a smashing day!

Terri/Dorry 🙂

Reflections In The Desert

I said in my last post that the trip to Las Vegas provided an opportunity for me to shed my default perceptions about myself and explore some new possibilities. Or, at least, I said something like that. The world around me in Las Vegas was so dramatically different from where I routinely live, my pre-programmed brain pathways went all wackadoodle. Because I was unable to rely on those pre-programmed thought processes, my brain had to figure out whole new ways of thinking about the world and about myself. The trip was another dramatic and somewhat disconcerting episode in the “I have turned into a completely different person” saga I have been living the last couple of years. I have become so extra. I was weird before, but now I’m even weirder- but I am largely unabashed about it now.

It all started on the plane ride. I was sitting between Max and a strange guy. When I say “strange,” I mean “unknown to me” as opposed to “odd” or “sketchy.” Even though he wasn’t odd or sketchy, I was still anxiety-ridden. My biggest fear is being trapped in the middle seat of an airplane with a chatty stranger sitting practically in my lap for four and a half hours. Usually, I employ whatever strategies I can concoct to ward off people like this, especially men. That was my initial reaction this time, too. I soon realized I was using way more energy to resist the attempts to engage that I would use if I just allowed the conversation to unfold and trust myself to cope with it. I changed tactics. I answered his questions and asked some questions of him… just like a normal human being. I realized that this man was purposely engaging with me to chat rather than avoiding contact with me because I am so repulsive and off-putting. Recognizing that truth made it much easier to go with the flow.

Later that evening, we went to a Neil Diamond tribute show. We had excellent seats, and it was a small venue. The performer seemed to be singing right to me. Normally, I would have felt uncomfortable and embarrassed. I would have tried to shrink into my seat. This time, though, I leaned into the moment. I smiled and let my body move in time to the music. I enjoyed the attention… or, at least, my perception of attention. Either way, I had a great time.

The next evening, we went to a Bee Gees tribute show. We had great seats, but this was a larger venue and I doubt the singers were identifying too many individual audience members. At one point early in the show, the performer playing Robin Gibb interacted with the crowd to learn how far people had traveled to see the show. The winners were a table of 6 or 7 Brazilians at the back of the theater. That point was going to become more important later in the show. Towards the end of the concert, the performer playing Maurice Gibb began exhorting people in the audience to come up to an area at the foot of the stage to dance. He ran over to that space, which he dubbed “Club Mo.” The band began playing “You Should Be Dancing.”

I initially experienced a brief rush of desire to go join Club Mo. It was a faint stabbing somewhere below and to the right of my stomach. It might have hit me on one side of my large intestine. My reaction to that impulse was fear and horror at my own audacity. At any rate, I immediately squelched the idea because it “isn’t something I do.”  The table of Brazilians immediately sauntered over to Club Mo. Really, they danced their way over, moving gracefully and rhythmically from the far corner of the room all the way to the front. Their movements resembled a combination of a conga line and a carefully choreographed ballet sequence. A few other people hesitantly got up to dance under the neon “Club Mo” sign at the front of the showroom.

My squelched desire to join the dance brigade unsquelched itself. I had an absolute compulsion to get up and enter the Bee Gees mosh pit. I wanted to join the dancer brigade but was worried that it would look weird. That scary stuff ran through my mind in about a nanosecond. On instinct and self-acceptance, I rose from my seat to join the Club Mo dancing. I’d say there were about thirty of us dancing at the front of the showroom. The Brazilians made me feel super welcome. Every time I turned away from their little group, one of them would tap me on the shoulder to rejoin their circle. Max was grinning and pumping his fist at me. There was no alcohol involved in this little episode, but the whole thing was such a rush. And so unlike me.

The next day, I noticed some pretty bracelets in a store. They had various versions of the same bracelet, with different words engraved on them. They highlighted different words- “thankful,” “courageous,” “faithful,” “strong,” etc. I was trying to pick between them. I felt drawn to “happiness,” but kept redirecting myself to one of the more virtuous ones. I had it narrowed down to “faithful” or “thankful,” but part of me still nagged to opt for “happiness.” I finally realized I genuinely wanted the “happiness” one, so I bought it.

On the plane ride home, I realized what a metaphor that bracelet dilemma was for my life. I’ve never felt I was simply entitled to happiness. The only way I thought I might be deserving of some glimpse of happiness was if I earned it by being good. Of course, being virtuous does not mean I am going to be happy. And I do not have to be virtuous to merit happiness. I do get a lot of satisfaction from trying to manifest the virtuous attributes engraved on those bracelets, but those virtuous attributes are not, on their own, some sort of happiness-attracting talisman. When I started thinking through all this, I started to cry… mostly because it felt so good to realize this is a “depths of my soul” kind of way , but also because I was sad for the me of the past who didn’t understand it.

So, you see… travel, even to one of the most artificial cities in the world, does expand the open mind and authentic spirit. The reflective life in Las Vegas may not look like what most people think of as a spiritual retreat in the desert… but that doesn’t mean it can’t be one!

What weird place have you discovered some profound truths about yourself? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a happiness day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

We all deserve happiness!

Sin City

Recently, I went on vacation to Las Vegas. Many people who know me are baffled at my repeated trips to Sin City for leisure activity. I agree it does seem incongruous on the face of it, especially for people who are not familiar with Las Vegas. There is plenty of extravagant, in-your-face sin opportunities. I would never walk the streets, especially after about 4:00pm, with children. There is too much confusing and bizarre behavior that would certainly lead to conversations I don’t think anybody really wants to have. For adults, though, it is relatively easy for me to ignore the weirdness. I do not even have to try that hard. In fact, I often walk right by tantalizing occasions of sin without even noticing them. Most of the sinsational opportunities don’t interest me. They tend to land on my frontal lobe as “icky.” They do not even sound fun. I might come uncomfortably close to greed and envy now and again, but the more corporal temptations just don’t float my boat.

So if I don’t go to Las Vegas for the sin, what is the attraction? Why do I go? I recently tried to explain this to a friend of mine.

The biggest draw for me is the eye candy. The level of color and sparkle and beautiful décor in the big Las Vegas hotels and casinos is fabulous. Also, many of the hotels have “loss leader” attractions to bring gamblers through their doors (as opposed to the hundred or so other doors that also lead to slot machines and table games.) For instance, Caesar’s Palace has an indoor shopping mall that makes you feel like you are roaming through ancient Rome under a starry Tuscan sky. The shops are all high end, “museum shopping” kind of places. I doubt many of the tourists strolling under said starry Tuscan sky are spending much in those shops. I doubt any of those stores actually make money, but it does not matter. They are there simply to bring people into the property, hoping that those people might drop a few bucks into a slot machine while they are there. There is a phenomenol carousel with flower-covered horses positioned in the Wynn Hotel, just at the entrance to the casino. At the Venetian Hotel, you can take an actual gondola ride through a wonderful, if slightly smaller scale, recreation of the Piazza San Marco.

My very favorite example of this eye candy is the Conservatory at the Bellagio Hotel. The hotel horticulturalists create a new amazing fairy land each season in a space about the size of an airplane hangar. The difference is that the conservatory is light, airy, and uplifting. A hangar is designed to contain a plane. The conservatory is designed to let your spirit soar on wings of fantasy. There are flowers, sculptures, water features that dance over the heads of visitors, and talking trees. Whimsy is the order of the day. I remember I was there one Christmas season and they had floral-covered reindeer about the size of minivans tethered invisibly to the ceiling. On this last trip, the theme had to do with teapots. People have apartments smaller than the elaborately decorated teapots erected in the conservatory. It is hard to explain the experience of walking around the conservatory if you have not seen it in person. Even in person, it is hard for me to form words when I am there. I mostly wander around in a bliss-induced out-of-body experience with my mouth hanging open.

Food is another reason for my trips to Las Vegas. Gluttony is a sin, of course, but I don’t think I descend into the “gluttony” level… especially in light of the 8-9 miles of walking I do each day when I am there. In a lot of ways, I probably eat better when I am in Las Vegas because I do focus on savoring what I am eating. I eat two or three meals a day, with maybe one snack in between. But what meals! I had crab cakes and shrimp cocktail the first night we were there. I had dinner at one of those “celebrity chef” restaurants. I had the world’s best chicken at Ruth Chris Steakhouse, watching the lights of the Strip come on while I ate my dinner. I had In-And-Out Burger, something I only get when I am in California or Nevada. I had part of a Ghiradelli hot fudge sundae for dessert.  Breakfasts, also, were yummy. We rarely go out for breakfast in non-vacation mode. Having fluffy, vanilla-tinged pancakes accompanied with perfectly cooked, crisp bacon is indulgent!

Another lure to Las Vegas is the shows. There are some shows that fit the “ick” category. Many years ago, we went to one of those by accident. The hotel where we were staying threw the tickets in for free when we booked a lodging package. When we saw the show, I was appalled. It was not that I was so prudish. I just couldn’t understand why it was supposed to be entertaining. All it really involved was people strutting around in clothing that would not even qualify as “skimpy.” Truthfully, it might not have even qualified as “clothing.”

The kind of shows I enjoy in Las Vegas are of a different ilk. My idea of fun is behaving like a slightly rebellious teenager. We’ve gone to see tribute shows of the Beatles, Bee Gees, and Neil Diamond. I’ve screamed and clapped and sang along with the rest of the wild crowd of senior citizens. I’ve also seen Donny and Marie, Rod Stewart, and Barry Manilow. In addition to hearing some fantastic music and seeing great choreography, it was wonderful to let the energy of the shows infuse me.  It makes me feel alive and young. I think Rod Stewart is my new role model. When I saw him, he was 77 years old and could still kick his leg over his head. I can barely get up off the kneeler at church without help.

Finally, they say that travel expands the mind and the spirit. While Las Vegas might not be known as a catalyst for personal growth, the opportunity to escape my normal world in such a dramatic way does provide a different path within my brain. It forces me to think differently and see things differently because the normal, default pathways in my brain are so confused and out of kilter. This trip provided a textbook example of this phenomenon. Stay tuned for my next post for the evidence!

What are the important factors you consider when deciding where to go on vacation? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a mind-altering day!

Terri/Dorry 🙂