Terri – Page 9 – Terri LaBonte- Reinventing Myself in Retirement

Colts

They say that, in the spring, a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. Well, this slightly not young woman’s fancy may also turn to love, but it also turns to something else. Baby Sandhill cranes.

I live in central Florida where Sandhill cranes are practically the official mascot of our region. Ball teams have cheerleaders that dress in feathers and make deep yodeling trumpet noises to encourage their players. Actual real-live Sandhill cranes are quite content to hang out anywhere reasonably close to water. They seem to have no hesitation about people or other interlopers. Since I live in Lake County, it comes as no surprise that we have quite the Sandhill crane population. In my community, we have lots of feathered Sandhill neighbors. In fact, you have probably seen bumper stickers that admonish “Share the Road With Motorcycles” or “Share the Road With Bicycles.” Instead, we share the road with Sandhill cranes. They are remarkably assertive creatures. They are perfectly peaceful and non-combative, but do not surrender their space easily. If they are standing in the road, they will likely keep standing there, even when approached by a two-ton vehicle. Once you have lived in central Florida for even a short time, you learn to just wait your turn. Those cranes will eventually move out of the way, but it will be in their own sweet time.

The Sandhill crane traffic issues may sound like a hassle, but, in reality, those of us who live with them don’t mind too much. These birds truly are beautiful, peaceful, and graceful. They glide across the sky with wings that span in excess of six feet. Their calls, something between a yodel and a dirge, are distinctively heart-warming. Sandhill cranes, like many birds, mate for life. I get worried when I see one on its own. There is something anthropomorphic about them. I have never been a huge bird person, but I find Sandhill cranes so relatable. Maybe I am more of a birdbrain that I ever thought.

Sandhill crane couples usually have 1-3 babies each year in the spring. Both parents care for the children. Kids stay with their parents for about nine or ten months. In fact, it is a bit traumatic for me to watch the crane families in December. This is about the time that the juveniles are being “encouraged” to leave the nest so that there is space in the family for a new set of hatchlings. The “encouragement” can look a little harsh. Still, there is that circle of life thing and I am hoping that all that “encouragement” will motivate our juvenile cranes to find happiness on their own.

Starting towards the end of February every year, I start scanning the roads, greenbelts, and ponds in my community for signs of the newest Sandhill crane generation. It is a day for celebrating when I see my first Sandhill crane babies of the season. I am not the only person anticipating this annual event. There is a regular traffic sign a couple of miles away from my house that says “Caution: Baby Sandhill crane crossing.” So weird, but so nice.

The other day, the annual miraculous moment happened. I saw the Sandhill crane babies for the first time of the season. We were driving out of our development to visit some friends when we passed a small feathery family of four loping cautiously across the green space along our community exit. I squealed involuntarily and barely refrained from slamming on the brakes. Max would have been alarmed by my reaction, except that he also saw the babies… and knew what to expect of me. I cried out in reverence, “Oh look, BABIES!” My heart jumped around inside my chest for the rest of the day, celebrating this momentous occasion.

I recently learned that Sandhill crane babies are not called “chicks” or “cranelings” or any other birdlike monikers. They are called “colts.” Now, I have always thought of “colts” as baby horses. It would seem to me that there is nothing further from a horse than a Sandhill crane. Despite being called a “crane,” I’m not thinking that the Sandhills can do any heavy construction work. Cinderella never had Sandhill cranes pull her pumpkin carriage, even with a generous helping of enchantment. You can’t ride them. I don’t think there is a Sandhill crane racing off-track betting location anywhere nearby. Then, I realized the nexus. Baby Sandhill cranes basically look like ducklings stapled to the top of two spindly pencils, where the erasers would normally be. Their legs must be about five times the length of their bodies. When novelists write about leggy young girls who seem to not completely know what to do with their limbs, they often use the term “coltish.” I always thought those novelists were making the comparison to baby horses. Maybe, all this time, those novelists really meant baby Sandhill cranes!

What animals herald the onset of Spring where you live? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a flighty day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

The Results Are In!

After fourteen days of bunny-hunting, the score concluded with:

Bunnies 7

Terri 7

So, the bunnies did not beat me. However, this is cold comfort when you think that all it means is that I was able to play ten inanimate, brainless rabbits to a tie. Max points out that the bunnies might have had a little help. Still, the bunny running is over for the season, and I feel like they left me in the dust! I’d better hop to it next year!

How do you comfort yourself when you feel like a dumb bunny? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Hope you had a HOPPY Easter!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Dumb Bunny

I am blessed to have a partner in life who indulges my inner child. At least, he indulges the inner child who is charming and fun. I am not sure he is quite as enchanted with the whiny one who missed her nap.

This year, as in past Easter seasons, Max hides one of my family of small bunnies in our living or dining rooms. I would clarify that they are fake bunnies, but I don’t want to hurt their feelings. This activity, a spin-off of our Elf on the Shelf revelry, is not exactly a Lenten devotional. However, given the intensity of this Lent for me, the bunnies do provide a certain comic relief. There are three sizes of bunnies- Archibald and Arabella are the parental bunnies and are each about the size of a small mandarin orange. Winken/Blinken (these two are literally joined at the hip), Nod, and Tumble are slightly smaller. They are still in diapers, however. Eenie, Meenie, Miney, and Mo are the tiniest of tiny. These little pink babies are each about the size of a sugar cube.

Those rabbits get up to no good. They are very sneaky little lagomorphs. They hide places that I cannot easily mine. One day, after several pointed hints, I found Nod sleeping on one of the Plantation shutter slats. This would not have been so remarkable except I had LOOKED THERE multiple times. The thing is, Nod is white, except for his sweet little purple diaper. The Plantation shutters are also white. The way he was sitting on the shutter, the diaper was not visible. A small white rabbit sitting on a white shutter slat has found a darn good hiding place!

My record in past years for finding bunnies and, for that matter, for finding the Elf on the Shelf, has been pretty good. Max has become a talented bunny hider, gaining expertise and nuance every year. This Easter season, the bunnies are winning. Either the bunnies are getting smarter, or my bunny-hunting skills are in serious decline. When I read articles about aging, they never mention that the bunny-hunting skills are the first to go.

You’ve heard the phrase “dumb bunny?” I think, in my scenario, I am the dumb bunny, not the rabbits!

What Easter traditions do you keep? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com. Happy Easter!

Terri/Dorry 😊

A Lenten Miracle

We’ve all heard of “Christmas miracles.” Without them, the Hallmark television channel would be bereft of programming. Lenten miracles are a little more obscure. Yet, I am experiencing one.

In 2020, I proclaimed that Lenten season to be the “lentiest Lent that ever did lent.” Lent is about sacrificing to get closer to God. In my tradition, Lent has three components of sacrifice- fasting, almsgiving, and prayer. With the onset of the COVID pandemic, we all had ample opportunity to sacrifice. We gave up so many gifts we previously took for granted- hugs, visiting family and friends in person, going to the library, frequenting our favorite hot spots, accomplishing our work tasks conveniently and comfortably, breathing without sucking on face mask fabric, and many other of life’s little pleasures. Shortages of goods on grocery store shelves meant we were all pretty much fasting from something. As people tend to do when they see an obvious need, charitable giving increased. In desperate times, most people rallied to help others. And, as for prayer- well, we had ample opportunity and ample motivation.

This Lent, though, I feel like God has taken things to a whole new level. The difference is that the COVID-19 pandemic was a worldwide cataclysm that led to worldwide transformation. This year, the infection is individual and intimate. My personal cataclysm has been very hard to bear. Years of old pain and shame came to storm the castle of my very soul, wielding knives and pitchforks and serious intentions to destroy. Every molecule of my energy has gone into fighting off the attack. The battle has waxed and waned through the past weeks, but never ends.

When one is engaged in battle, one needs weapons. I have an effective arsenal, thanks to my life coach, Todd Payne. I told him my story at a pace that was challenging but tolerable (by tolerable, I mean a pace that was significantly beyond comfort level but did not inspire thoughts of jumping from a bridge.) He gave me tools to process and to cope. I use those tools as we agreed. I started asking for what I needed to manage my emotional energy during this time of warfare. I completed the writing assignments he gave me. I made sure to dance for 20-30 minutes a day. I began supplementing my daily meditation practice with short, anxiety relieving guided meditations when I began to feel the pitchforks getting dangerously close to piercing my soul. We prayed in a number of our sessions.

We agreed on another strategy. There were Sundays when I pronounced myself “unfit for human consumption” and did not go to church. I realized, though, that I always felt better when I did attend the service- both from a spiritual and a social sense. My God was at the service and so was my family of friends. I resolved that, during Lent, I would attend Sunday service AND the weekly healing service on Thursdays. I think I felt that I needed healing before I knew I needed healing. I decided to attend the Thursday service as a Lenten devotional because I thought it would be comforting in a difficult time and would remind me that God is always near me. I was not thinking so much about healing.

Now, we are Episcopalians. The term “healing service” tends to denote a more Pentecostal, charismatic vibe. Our healing service at my traditional, little Episcopal church looks a lot less dramatic. It is basically a sparsely attended informal gathering in the chapel that looks a lot like a “regular” Sunday worship liturgy. The only difference is that we do put an additional focus on praying for those who are suffering. Our pastor anoints us with oil and prays for healing in our lives. Just because the event does not APPEAR as dramatic as the more loud and overt healing services you see in the movies does not mean that what happens beneath the surface IS not dramatic, though. I have sat through several of these services now, with tears oozing out of my eyes. Those tears have been coming on a wave of pain and shame and healing and truth and acceptance. The tsunami of emotion is such a tangled mix of positive, negative, and confusion. It is hard to articulate. However, the biggest takeaway from the tears might be this- GOD DOES NOT WANT ME TO FEEL LIKE THIS!

As I worked through my sessions with Todd, it became more and more clear that events that occurred 40 years ago largely created the mess in my mind and the trainwreck in my heart. Those events created an infection within me that has caused me to live with such a distorted sense of myself. I tend not to even try to explain how I feel to other people because it is pretty incomprehensible. From the outside, I look functional and successful. Inside, life is much different. In reliving that time of my life 40 years ago, my pain became more focused, and the shame hailed down on my soul. I was engaged in mental, emotional, and spiritual warfare as I slogged my way through Lent this year.

Now, most people do see Lent largely as a time of sacrifice. In my Christian tradition, that focus on prayer, fasting, and almsgiving are seen as signs of repentance during this pre-Easter season. If we look closer, I think we could see Lent as not simply a time for penance and sacrifice, but as a time for transformation. We should be crafting Lenten observances that help transform us into the people God wants us to be. I do not know if I intentionally did that this year, but both Todd and I believe that God thought it was more than time for my transformation.

One Sunday, late in Lent, something happened. I call it a miracle. Everything in the service and the Sunday school lesson that preceded it spoke to me in a very direct, very intimate way. The anthem the choir sang was Shepherd Me, O God, a hymn beseeching God to shepherd us beyond all our fears. I had 40 years of fear and shame whittling away at my soul. The epistle reading was from Ephesians, chapter 5. In that reading, St. Paul admonished that we should take no part in the unfruitful works of the darkness but expose them to become visible so that they will cease to cause darkness. I had just spent the past month or so working with Todd, revealing evil things that were hidden in the dark of my psyche. The Gospel was about Jesus healing the blind man by smearing his eyes with mud and sending him to the pool of Siloam to wash. God was opening my eyes to the truth of what happened. He was healing me of pain and shame. Our pastor’s sermon also mentioned that Jesus intentionally involved the blind man in his own healing. Jesus sent him to the pool of Siloam to rinse his eyes so that the healing would be manifest. I have participated. I have been on a long, painful, dredging up of feelings that I should have named and felt 40 years ago. In the dark, they have grown and multiplied and become even worse than they would have been if I had processed them at the appropriate time. Now, not only do I mourn the actual events of the time, but I also mourn the more joyful, more abundant, more grounded life that I could have been having during these 40 years of brokenness.

This Lent, as I prepare for Easter, I am rinsing my eyes in my personal God-created pool of Siloam. I am accepting that I am transformed. I do not understand why God waited 40 years to transform me. I don’t really care. I guess miracles don’t happen until one is ready for them to happen. I will not question God’s judgment about that.

You could argue that what I’ve experienced is not a supernatural event. You could argue that this transformation is simply the result of hard work with an excellent therapist. I do not doubt that God used my hard work and my life coach’s skill as tools to deliver the miracle. I know there is more to it, though. And, if you lived inside my soul, you would know it, too.

Easter has come early for me this year. Happy Resurrection!

I’m back! Did you miss me?

Terri/Dorry 🙂

Yellow Light

Emotional energy is a finite commodity. Lately, there has been a lot going on in my life and I am feeling pretty drained.

It has not all been bad stuff. I spent a wonderful weekend participating in an Invite, Welcome, Connect workshop at my church presented by Mary Foster Parmer. Her workshop was a very welcome follow up to an initiative in which I was a key player last year. You can see information about Mary and her ministry at her website (Invite Welcome Connect), so I will not try to describe the entire concept and process here. Basically, the whole point of this ministry is to light a controlled burn fire under congregations that want to grow in size and vibrancy. It was joyful to see my parish family engage enthusiastically and commit to growth. I would say it was magical, but I know it was more miraculous than magical. The Holy Spirit certainly sparked that fire-lighting process!

The event excited and uplifted me, but the weekend was very, very people-y. My sweet little introverted self could barely keep her head above the surf. I ingested a certain amount of emotional saltwater from the effort. I love the people of my parish and I loved the event. It was just that the level of continual engagement took about all the fuel I had in my tank. I am pleased to report that I did not spend any more time than biologically necessary hiding in the bathroom. Yay, me! Let’s celebrate my successes. All in all, I am very proud of how I handled myself. I have hope for the church and I have hope for myself. At least, that is how I feel now after three days of rejuvenating solitude.

The thing is, I have also been dealing with some personal emotional issues that are older than dirt. For whatever reason, they have decided to crop up now. “Crop up” is not the right phrase. That sounds like growth and rejuvenation. In reality, these problems and pains are entrenched in the soil of my soul and it has taken some considerable fracking to break them loose. One might ask why I poked at them in the first place, especially since poking at them has not done me any good in the past. As I said, they are very old issues and I have had most of my life to poke at them. Somehow, now, though, I feel some compulsion to try to resolve them. Don’t ask me about them because I do not feel like sharing, but please do pray for me and send me good wishes.

The other thing I want to ask you for is your patience. My emotional yellow light is blinking. I’m not stopped in my tracks, but I am proceeding with intentional caution. It may be a few weeks before you hear from me again. In the meantime, I am sure I will be hurting, healing, and growing. This will ultimately be a very joyful thing, but it is likely going to take me some time to get there.

In the meantime, I will still be functional in real life because that is who I am. I will be embracing the resources that I know will accept, love, and nurture me even when they do not know or understand my issues.. my coach, my family of friends, my church, and my God. I think I have an excellent treatment plan!

Do you ever have a time when you wish you could find a way to be happier and healthier in body, mind, soul, and spirit? How have you managed those times? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com. I’d also like to invite any of you who have ever been curious about Christianity or the church to reach out to me on email about the opportunities for you to explore without pressure. I’d be happy to talk with you. Even if you do not live close to us, we have online services and other events that might help you get started on your journey.

St. James Episcopal Church

204 N. Lee Street

Leesburg, FL 34748

352-787-1981

www.stjames-leesburg.org

Have a blessed day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Making Me Happy

Happiness can be an illusive prey. I think we all have times in our lives when we wonder if we will ever be happy again. Thankfully, we usually do become happy again. Sometimes, it takes a little more effort than usual to stabilize the muddy emotional ground and find our happy footing once more. I find that it is important to be proactive when I am down in the dumps and stuck in the mud.

Something that makes me happy is making other people happy. This can be a dangerous remedy for melancholia because it puts my emotional fate in the hands of somebody else. I try to remember that I can only be truly happy when I am the one making me happy. At times, I try to jump start the process by reaching out to others. This “selfish altruism” of mine has its detriments. I often feel like I have a tattoo on my forehead that proclaims “Ask Me” to the entire world. I always figured it did not cost anything to smile warmly at passersby and it is thrilling when they smile back. Sometimes, it does cost something. A colleague of mine used to say I could not leave our office to go to the bathroom without adopting some poor lost soul with a problem that needed fixing. And I, of course, would have to be the one to fix it. All in all, though, I’d say that it is almost always happy-making for me to see happiness exuding from others because of something I said or did.

Sometimes, I like to stop at Hardee’s (that’s Carl’s Jr to you folks west of the Mississippi) for a biscuit in the morning if I am out and about for some reason. There is something comforting about a hot, crispy, slightly salty biscuit. At my local Hardee’s, though, there is a challenge. One lady typically takes my order at the drive-thru speaker. She is warm and friendly and cheerful. She calls me “baby.” She is rather like a biscuit herself. The lady who actually hands me the “bag o’ biscuit” when I pull around to the window is more like a stale saltine cracker.

She has never done anything mean or rude exactly, but she always looks and sounds so miserable. I have no idea what her life is like. I am certainly not judging. I am sure she has problems that would make my troubles seem petty. Still, it makes me sad that she seems so sad. I really want to help her feel better. Not that I know for sure that she is sad, but it is hard to imagine that she is NOT gloomy. Her voice is monotone and gruff. Her shoulders sag as if she is carrying a very heavy yoke. I have never seen her close to anything like smiling. Thin lips and squinty eyes always sink towards the ground. She doesn’t even seem to see me. I know she is a real human and not a robot because I can feel pain radiating off her.

Recently, I have been on a mission. I have been challenging myself to imbue a little warmth and happiness in this lady’s workday. When I hand her the money and take my biscuit bag, I push charm out of my being with every cell in my body. I smile. I intentionally let my eyes sparkle. I speak clearly and gently. I move my head slightly to try to make eye contact. I make sure that I am facing her direction when conducting our transaction, rather than blindly grabbing from my side.

None of this seemed to make much of a difference. I enjoy my short tete a tete with the order-taking lady inside the drive-thru speaker. We exchange chipper. As I turn the corner to pull up to the window, my mood turns hopeful. I think, “today is the day she is going to smile.” It didn’t seem like it was ever going to happen.

The other day, FINALLY, we had a breakthrough. As I drove up to the window, I felt the resignation building. I tried to tap into my biscuit lady in the speaker to shield myself from disappointment. As I waited for my turn to pay, I pulled out money. I had exact change, which I took as a good omen. That day, as I took my biscuit bag from the sad lady, I slowed my movements. If one can be graceful in receiving a bag of take-out, then I was. I put the bag on the seat next to me deliberately. Then, I turned my head back to the takeout window and flashed the special smile I keep for people who look like they need it. I waited a beat or two and… I saw it! Not a smile, certainly, but the very beginning of a twinkle in her eye. Her body seemed to relax a little and she met my gaze.

It made my day.

What do you do to make yourself happy? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a smiley day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Old Florida/Old Terri

The first time I visited Florida was about 40 years ago. I had an aunt and uncle who wintered in an obscure town in central Florida, about 50 miles from where I currently live. We visited the big-ticket attractions like Disney, Kennedy Space Center, and Daytona Beach. In those days, Disney World was only two parks- Magic Kingdom and Epcot. Universal Studios did not even exist in Orlando yet. Much has changed in tourism in central Florida theme parks over the past 40 years. However, on that first visit, we also went to less glitzy destinations. We visited Cypress Gardens, which is now Legoland. We went to Blue Springs to see the manatees. We took a glass bottom boat ride at Silver Springs. We took a boat ride through a wild section of Florida wetland. We visited many local native Florida venues. I certainly had the opportunity to appreciate the wild, primitive, naturalistic tangle of environment that is Florida.

Many people would look at the central Florida where I live today and marvel at how it has changed in the last 40 years. The citrus industry that gave birth to most of the area’s inhabitation is long gone. Glitzy theme parks multiply like rabbits around Orlando. The Villages, a monolithic luxury retirement community centered about 20 miles north of me expands ever southward. The number of banks, hospitals, and Walmarts per square inch is alarming. One might say that the old Florida I saw 40 years ago is a thing of the past.

On the other hand, maybe not that much has changed after all.

When my brother visited us before my mother’s stroke, his main comment was that “Florida looks like it needs a haircut.” I thought it was an incredibly poetic… and apt… way of describing the geography. You do not have to go far off the beaten track to find a little of the messy, raggedy, feral old Florida.

Awhile back, I took a boat ride through the Lake Dora canal system. It is amazing that, in no time, you can reach sections of natural waterways that pass areas you would swear no one has touched in centuries. On the same ride, you pass through multiple mobile home parks that have probably been there for at least 40 or 50 years. Many of the mobile homes there appear also to have been there for 40 or 50 years. We noticed a small island in the canal next to one of these parks. The island was populated by hundreds of gnome statues and accoutrements for their gnomey existence.

Just a short hop down Highway 48 from my house, you will find a yellow building with a sign almost as large as the entire front of the edifice. The sign announces that the building houses Southern Wildlife Taxidermy. I swear I can hear banjo music playing every time I pass by the location. When you shoot something… or run it over with a car… in Florida, you apparently have two choices. Eat it or stuff it. I have to say that I lived over 55 years of my life without seeing a single taxidermy shop. Now I have one as a backyard neighbor. I guess I know exactly where to take my pet possum for preservation when it croaks. Not that I have a pet possum, but you never know. I’ve lived in Florida for over eight years now.

The other day, I went to Silver Springs with a friend of mine. I had a vague memory of the glass bottom boat trip from 40 years ago. It was only about 35 miles away so I figured why not take a little day trip and see what had changed since my last visit.

What had changed? Absolutely nothing. It was delightful, but nothing had changed. The old school sign at the entryway was exactly the same as it was 40 years ago. The water was still stunningly clear. The boat ride and narration were still campy. I still did not see the monkeys that supposedly inhabit an island in the springs. The statues installed in one of the deep areas for an episode of Sea Hunt in 1959 were still there.

It is interesting to note that I was born in 1959. The statues have probably withstood the test of time better than my body has. Come to think of it, old Florida has weathered the changes of the last 40 years better than I have since the first time I visited!

Have you ever revisited a place many years after seeing it for the first time? What did you notice? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a primitive day!

Terri/Dorry 🙂

Disney In My DNA

Those of you who have been following along with my story know my obsession with Disney. There is a long family mythology that links me with Tinker Bell on many levels. I grew up three miles from Disneyland, watching the fireworks from my backyard in the summer. When Max and I decided to move out of California post-retirement, living within easy traveling distance to a Disney park was high on my list of priorities. I have a wardrobe that is the envy of four-year-old girls everywhere.

I may have hit a new high. Or a new low, depending on how you look at things.

This month, my chapter is hosting the general meeting of my church’s ECW (Episcopal Church Women) organization. The general ECW is made up of four small discussion groups or “chapters.” The whole general membership meets monthly, and each chapter also meets separately each month. The chapters take turns providing food and decorations for the larger general meetings. My chapter is handling the February festivities.

We met on Monday to decorate the parish hall in our be-blossomed Valentine’s Day theme. Now, there was a time when decorating meant laying out pink or red paper placemats and scattering a few cut out hearts on the tables. Those days are gone. Somewhere along the line, somebody upped the game. It was not me who upped it. It is fun to have everyone contributing creative ideas and working together to implement them, as long as it doesn’t become a competition and feelings don’t get hurt. Monday was actually great. Everyone seemed to be having fun decorating. We have several crafty women in our group and there were a lot of random fru-fruy supplies to play with in creating centerpieces and such. One of our talented artistic ladies designed some lovely heart shaped artificial flower topiaries for the tables. We found we needed one more. Somehow, the least artistic person in the room (me) got the job of crafting the final topiary.

I have been trying to embrace trying things outside my comfort zone, so I decided to play along. How badly could it possibly go? Attacking a Styrofoam heart with a glue gun and a truckload of fake flowers didn’t seem too hard. Even if it did go badly, what’s the real harm? After all, it is not like the fate of the nation was at stake.

Things started off reasonably well. I felt encouraged as I gunned glued blooms in place. However, as things progressed, I realized that a truckload of flowers was not going to be quite sufficient to completely cover the blasted heart. I started gluing anything sparkly to the Styrofoam to cover white spots. My topiary began to look like a Brownie troop project. Also, the glue gun started to get a bit awkward and tetchy. Manipulating the hot dripping glue was more difficult when trying to attach the glittery ribbon and hearts that when just reinforcing the fake flowers I punched into the Styrofoam. I ended up burning my fingers repeatedly, all the time struggling not to utter an expletive that would not have been appropriate for a church gathering.

I did not realize that I had actually blistered my skin until after I had peeled all the excess dried glue off my hands. Then, I saw it. I had branded myself with a perfect little hidden Mickey on the pad of my finger. I may or may not bleed pixie dust, but I certainly burn Disney.

What we do for love….

What is the silliest craft-related story? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me to terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a hearty day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

My Mickey-shaped brand, right on the tip of my middle finger… maybe that particular finger is an appropriate message to the glue gun?

Growing Pains

I think I am going through a growth spurt. I went to the doctor last week and I gained two pounds over the holidays. It appears that my girth, if nothing else, has gone through a growth spurt. I’d like to think it is much more than that.

Over the past couple of months, I’ve been working on being more intentional about how I spend my time. I wanted to disentangle myself from being overcommitted. I wanted to decrease the amount of energy I spent of activities and relationships that I do not enjoy. Going forward, I wanted to focus on improving myself instead of busy-ness and “contributing.” I really wanted to trust myself and my own intrinsic worth instead of relying on the opinion of others or the quantity of my contribution to form my own opinion of myself. It proved to be harder than I anticipated.

I took a two-month participation vacation from an organization that was starting to consume me. I was starting to not like myself and the way I felt when working on tasks related to this organization. It was not that anyone did anything wrong or that I did not enjoy the organization. It was simply some my own tendencies that I had to tame. I tried to rein myself in and protect my feelings while continuing to participate in the organization’s activities. I found the unhealthy part of me was just too ingrained and I needed to disconnect myself completely for a couple of months.

I finally voiced my reluctance to continue with another activity that had been causing me angst over the past couple of years. I honestly did not have sufficient time to invest in the activity at the required level. Also, there were some interpersonal challenges and confusion as to roles, which sapped my energy.

I stopped trying to be the driver of all the many relationships I accumulated since COVID. In my attempt to help people feel connected and valued, I began reaching out to far more people than my sweet little introverted self could handle. I continued in my quest for connection long after most of the world abandoned the “virtual world” and started interacting in real life again. I was typically the one who was reaching out to my relationships. That fed a need in me, but it also critically drained my emotional battery. I began allowing time for other people- people with whom I had genuine relationships- to reach out to me.

I expected that my self-imposed hiatus from the wild world would be pleasant, relaxing, and satisfying. That did not turn out to be the case… at least, not initially. In fact, after just a couple of weeks, I felt isolated and lonely and discouraged. I felt kind of hopeless. Maybe I was not such good company for myself after all. I struggled through the holidays a bit. My brother, my last tie to my family of origin, died this year. I had given up, at least temporarily, my involvement with some of my affiliations. Many of the people with whom I have the closest, more authentic connections were off doing family stuff. Nothing felt right.

I think my feelings were the delirium tremors of the soul. I was detoxing from this need for validation of my worth- either from activities or from other people. Unfortunately, I did not recognize this right away. I embroiled myself in another major activity by which I was measuring my worthiness. It was something I did want to do for some excellent, valid reasons. However, I allowed myself to stop focusing on these great reasons. Instead, I got caught up with the idea of proving myself and being valuable in other people’s eyes. I did not react well.

Just in the past few days, I’ve realized that I have been holding on to some resentment and hurt left over from before my hiatus. I stopped the activities, but I did not stop the unhealthy thought patterns. Thanks to a frank conversation with a friend, I realized my problem. In that conversation, I allowed myself to feel all the negative emotions I was pushing to the back of my brain, in an attempt to convince myself that they didn’t matter and that I should just get over them. They did matter and I couldn’t get over them until I dived into them. My poor friend was completely unprepared for my reaction and I am sorry she had to see it, but I am so grateful to her for being the pilot light that ignited the bonfire. Now that I have burned at least some of that negative emotion, I might be better equipped to trust in myself and in my intrinsic worth. I am entitled to be me. What’s more- the world is better because I am me.

People always say that there is no growth in comfort and no comfort in growth. I say that I see nothing wrong with comfort. People also say that whatever doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. I say that I don’t see why I have to be so frickin’ strong. God often has to drag me kicking and screaming into the next phase of my development.

Still, it is pretty cool when I do see the growth that comes after the pain.

What have you learned after experiencing some “growing pains?” Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a painless day!

Terri/Dorry 🙂

Old

I recently saw a meme on Facebook showing a bunch of shocked-looking women, with the caption “When people are talking about caring for the elderly and you realize YOU are the elderly.” I posted a small picture of a lady vigorously shaking her head in the negative.

The idea that I have become elderly is incongruous to me. I was usually the youngest person at the table in my career days. I am used to be thought of as the young’un. While never being what you would call pretty, I believe I have always looked younger than my actual age. I am certainly young at heart. I think I am so young at heart that I make some people uncomfortable. After all, wearing a Tinker Bell wardrobe worthy of a four-year-old girl and sleeping with one of dozens of stuffed animals (in a rotation so as not to hurt any of their feelings) is a bit weird for a 63-year-old woman. Sometimes, I think the way I talk and express myself in my more whimsical visits with my inner child makes people wonder if I am serious or developmentally delayed. All in all, I do not feel old.

I have had this conversation with many friends in the years since my retirement. None of us feel elderly. We feel the same way we have always felt. We enjoy the same things we have always enjoyed. Our sense of style and taste is the same as it always was. We plan and schedule as we did during our younger career days.

It is always disconcerting, as we live our non-elderly visions of ourselves, when something happens to contradict that non-elderly vision. I’ll pack my days with activities and am nonplussed when I realize that I am totally exhausted after a week or so without “do nothing” time. When I was working, I would typically work ten hours a day, commute three hours a day, manage my life, and fit in personal relationships. Sleep was the first casualty of that pace, but I am proud of the rich life I was able to create. I almost never had ”do nothing” time. I wouldn’t even have wanted “do nothing” time.

Today, I’ll get a pedicure at a local nail salon and find that there are sharp, needle-like pains in my feet that I never noticed in my younger days. A friend of mine lumbered cheerfully into his car to embark on a lengthy road trip, as he has for years. A couple of days later, he realized he needed to turn around and come home because the pesky pain in his back was throwing a temper tantrum about the number of hours seated behind the steering wheel. Other friends who have been treating various physical ailments for years are finding that the medications that used to manage their conditions so that they continued to live life as they wished without impediment no longer do the trick. They are having to curtail their activities or do them in different ways to accommodate their medical conditions. One friend of mine swears that he was just fine, with no issues or age-related problems until age 75. Then, the changes started storming down on him like the flood was coming.

As to me, I can’t imagine what 75+ will be like because I have been feeling the decline since about age 60. It is a humbling process. Not only are the actual age-related changes demoralizing in themselves, but the fact that they seem to come out of nowhere makes the whole situation worse. Every time I have an experience that shows me that I am crumbling, I feel quite affronted.

Let me tell you about the last time Nature put me in my place.

Each year since we’ve moved to Florida, Max and I have treated ourselves to a little mini vacation at Disney World at the holiday season. The big highlight of the trip has always been the beautiful, stirring, breathtaking Candlelight Processional at EPCOT. We used to spend two nights at a luxury resort on property within walking distance to EPCOT. That way, we could stay and see the Candlelight Processional one night and the Magic Kingdom Christmas nighttime celebration without me having to worry about driving the exhausting 40 miles home in the dark after a long day. Please, nobody point out to me that this mindset in itself is pretty convincing evidence of my elderliness. At some level, I know that. My brain is just trying to play hide and seek with that fun fact.

During our 2021 trip, we realized that we could no longer justify the absolutely exorbitant cost of this little extravagance. We even talked about cutting out the trip altogether. After living in central Florida for seven years, I thought maybe I could manage to find my way home in the dark without crashing. The sticking point was our evening at Magic Kingdom. I wanted to go to Mickey’s Very Merry Christmas Party. While I was pretty confident that I could make it home safely leaving EPCOT after the first Candlelight Processional show, I was less enthusiastic about driving home at midnight from the Magic Kingdom party. Finally, we decided to split the difference. We would stay one night and would try staying at a different, less costly on property resort.

Day one was wonderful. The “moderate” resort was okay. We could definitely see many reasons why it did not measure up to the hotels in our previous stays, but we could also definitely see why the sacrifices were worth it for the value. We went to Magic Kingdom and had a wonderful day and night. The party was super fun. The place reeked Christmas. We partied until nearly eleven before hopping a bus back to the resort. We were tired, but it was a good, happy kind of tired. Unfortunately, as tired as we were, neither of us slept more than a few hours. It was not the fault of the resort. Nothing was wrong. It is just that we typically do not sleep well away from home, especially if we are sharing the same sleeping area. We probably would not have slept well in the more expensive room either.

I was still okay. I was looking forward to my highlight of the pre-Christmas season- the Candlelight Processional. Normally, we have reservations for a dinner package, which guarantees us a seat at the show and relieves us on standing in the huge line hoping for stand-by seats. This year, we were not able to get a dinner package reservation, so I decided not to stress about the matter. I decided that we would just go about our day and hope for the best. We would arrive at the show location 40 minutes or so before the first show and see if we could get a seat. If not, we could stand outside the amphitheater and enjoy. I have grown so much. I was sure my life coach would be proud of me.

As the day progressed, Max and I wandered all over the park. We had a great time. We ate a pretty big breakfast before we got to EPCOT, so were not very hungry for lunch. What I was hungry for, though, was gingerbread ice cream in the French pavilion. That was my lunch. About two hours before the first Candlelight Processional of the evening, my body protested the lack of protein and we decided to grab a quick service dinner at the food court in the front portion of the park, then wander back to the amphitheater for the show. We hiked our way to the food court and ate dinner.

This is when “old” hit me. As we sat at our table at the food court, I realized my body was tired, my muscles ached, and I was sleepy. I began calculating how much more mileage I would have to put in and how many more minutes I would have to remain upright to haul my body back to the amphitheater and watch the show (possibly while remaining standing.) The math didn’t math. We had already logged nearly eight miles. Seeing the show would require at least another mile and a half further than just leaving the park from where we were. What a dilemma! I had to choose between my absolute my favorite thing at Disney World and punishing my body… apparently beyond its limits because I ultimately chose to go home without seeing the Candlelight Processional. It was the right decision because we were both pretty tired and I still had to drive home without running us off the Florida Turnpike. Still, I did some regrets about my decision. I also had a lot of shame about the decision, too. I called myself some unkind names.

The unkindest name of all? Old.

What experiences have you had that made you realize you were not as young as you used to be? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a sparkling new day!

Terri/Dorry 😊