retirement lifestyle blog – Page 10 – Terri LaBonte- Reinventing Myself in Retirement

Coming Attraction!

Monday, August 22, was my mother’s birthday. She would have been 91 years old. In celebration of her birthday, I thought this week would be a good time to announce I have a new book coming out on October 22. The book, Puppies, Guppies, and Letting Go, is all about my mother. It is the story of how she built her own life in a world where she was just a little ahead of her time. It is the story of her view of family and motherhood. It is the story of her end-of-life journey. It is the story of what it was like for me to accompany her on that journey… and it is the story of what it is like to live in a world she no longer inhabits.

Puppies, Guppies, and Letting Go is joyous and wacky. It is funny and inspiring. It is sad and thought-provoking. I know anyone who knew my mother will enjoy it. However, I hope its appeal will be more universal. My mother was the kind of person that everyone enjoyed knowing and everyone loved. If you did not know her in real life, I think you will love getting to love her through Puppies, Guppies, and Letting Go.

The book will be available on Amazon.com in both paperback and kindle editions on October 22. I am publishing this book, as I have the past two books, under Terri’s “real name,” Dorry Curran. I will be hosting a launch party on that day. If you are local and would like to come, I’d be happy to have you. Please just let me know. I will also be broadcasting part of the event on Zoom. If you are not local but would still like to be part of the fun, please send me an email and I’ll send you an evite to the party.

Wouldn’t you love to attend the launch party, either virtually or IRL? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. If you would like to attend, please email me at terriretirement@gmail.com so I can send you the information.

Happy Partying!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Sand, Sea, And Sadness

Something gut crushing happened yesterday. Ernie, my 61-year-old brother, died.

Ernie had happiness in life, but he also struggled. Illness wore him away, deploying one medical challenge after another. After the latest battle, his kidneys stopped working. His body became increasingly bloated. His energy level whispered away, little by little. His heart beat a slow requiem as his blood pressure steadily decreased. He could not get comfortable. He could not communicate. He teetered in and out of consciousness. His body was attacking him. When we at last released him from life support, pain, and fear, he smiled and found his own way out of this world.

My brother and I had a complicated relationship. We loved each other to the core of our hearts, but we also did not understand each other very well. My perceptions of him (I cannot yet say “memories”) are jagged and awkward. They are pieces of various jigsaw puzzles tangled in the same box together. They are ill-fitting and dissonant. It is hard to make sense of them.

Family dynamics are often fraught. I once read that, in healthy families, the alliances within the family should be generational. In other words, the parents should bond together as one team and the siblings should bond together as another team. This does not mean “us” against “them,” necessarily. At its best, family provides the opportunity for the teams to work together to nurture a mutually happy life. The point is that different relationships and different affinities are inevitably going to form. The balance of power is best preserved when those connections are generational.

Such was not the case in my family. To me, it always seemed that my parents and I were on one end of the spectrum, with my brother at the other. We were staid and safe. He was wild and reckless. We thought to the future and colored within the lines. He lived hard in the moment and didn’t even realize there were lines. He saw life differently from the three of us. He made choices the rest of us did not understand. I have always felt wistful and regretful about this state of affairs. I felt sad for my brother who was sort of on his own in the family. I felt guilty for not being able to find a way to bring him into the “happy family” fold. I do not know if it ever occurred to me that he might have been happy in the life he was living. He burst his way into life, leaving behind a safety net that consisted of my parents and myself. He had the freedom to live life on the wild side knowing that his protective (although somewhat judgmental) cocoon would be there when the wildness became unmanageable.

As time went on and my parents passed, my role became almost that of a caretaker. I became almost a surrogate parent for my brother. As we settled into these roles, acceptance of who each other was grew but understanding never quite did. I continuously wobbled between annoyance, anger, and hopefulness about his fate.

When I heard that Ernie died, my boyfriend asked me what I needed- what I wanted to do. I told him that I wanted to go to the beach. I wanted to feel sand on my feet. I wanted to taste salt in the air. I wanted to see tiny fish swifter past my ankles in the tide. I wanted to hear the waves slapping the beach. I wanted to smell the gritty brine.

The beach has a kind of magic for me. Being near the ocean has always felt like a hug to my senses. There is something about the whine of the waves and the hypnotic properties of the sea that covers me like a magic protective shield. I have been to many of the most popular beaches in the United States… Waikiki, Huntington, Daytona… and have not felt crowded at any of them. Yes, there might have been other people around but there was always sufficient personal space for everyone.

My favorite memories of the beach involve being alone with my thoughts and the ocean. When I was a little girl, my family used to camp at a state beach about an hour from our house. I liked it best when we went to the beach during the winter. In the early evenings, I would walk down the wooden staircase from the cliff where we camped to the beach below. I counted the steps. Depending on which campsite we occupied, I recall that there were 128 stairs. I have a clear picture in my head of myself wearing burgundy jeans and a grey turtleneck sweater.

When I reached the shore, I’d climb up a ladder to a lifeguard station that was abandoned for the season. In my lifeguard station sanctuary, it was quiet. Often, I’d not see another person the whole time I was there. I’d scrunch myself down to the edge of the platform with a book. I would think and read and watch the sun go down until it was too dark to see. I was literally above it all- not only above the beach but also above all the sadness, anxiety, disappointment, and self-denigration I kept bottled up within me.

These memories of the beach convinced me that I would find some sort of magic properties that would help me cope with my brother’s death. When we arrived at the parking lot for the beach, I jumped out of the car hopefully. As I trudged my way down to the water, my mood unraveled. Lethargy, exhaustion, and disappointment weighed on me. Even the portable chair over my right shoulder and a small beach bag over my left seemed too heavy a burden to carry. The brief walk from the car to the shore seemed almost beyond my capabilities. I panted as I walked. My ankles rolled over the cobbled, pitted pavement, causing sharp perpendicular pains to zip through the meniscus beneath my right knee. The sun glared so fiercely that I checked to make sure I was still wearing my sunglasses. But I soldiered on towards the magic I knew awaited me at the beach.

When I set up my chair and gazed at the horizon, I felt… nothing. I walked down to the water, but the waves did not feel refreshing. They felt cold and sharp. The skittering sand shifted with the tide, creating trenches that captured my feet. I knew those trenches would be oh so easy for me to trip into the next time a wave broke against my body. I tried to move my legs, but the undertow trapped them in the cement sand. As I stood there, all I felt was a rigid band of tightness surrounding my abdomen right below my ribs. There was no magic.

I finally freed my feet from the sand. I decided that moving might shift the band of tightness away from any of my crucial internal organs. I walked down the beach, thinking about nothing and everything. I kept waiting for the magic. It did not come.

I stopped and stared out into the sea, trying to feel something. The magic might not appear, but maybe I could at least find a place within me that would illuminate this strange nothingness. As I looked around, I noticed a group of 20 or 30 children playing on the beach. They reminded me of something.

One summer, when I was about nine or ten, Ernie and I attended Red Rider Day Camp for two months. The camp spent several days a week at the beach, creating a scene remarkably similar to what I was witnessing here in the present. I realized that summer was perhaps the only time in my life when I felt like my brother and I were teammates.

I was a shy child. I inclined towards observation rather than participation. I would often stand on the outskirts of childhood and watch. Other children did not understand my strangeness and disconnection. This strangeness and disconnection led to isolation. I was perfectly happy with a reasonable level of disconnection. However, it seemed the rest of the world- child and adult alike- were not quite so tolerant of my definition of “a reasonable level of disconnection.” Counselors pushed me to engage. I tried to comply. Children taunted me. I was brave. I pretended not to care. I did my best to enjoy the summer days at camp, but I would have rather been at home alone with a book.

My brother, on the other hand, was an extroverted child. He was funny and loud and friendly. He was most happy when flamboyantly connected with everyone in the same zip code. Even as an eight-year-old, he was an imposing character- both physically and socially. He relished day camp. The counselors could not direct or contain his energy. His personality often burst out unexpectedly when the pitch of his own performance became too high. His roughhousing and arguing and “boys will be boys” tricks sometimes devolved into potentially dangerous activities. He never meant harm when he roughhoused and joked, but not meaning harm does not prohibit harm from occurring.

This introversion of mine was one aspect of our divergent personalities that my brother “got” about me. I remember him patiently involving me in the day camp activities. I remember him drawing me gently into his crowd of joviality. I remember him protecting me from “over connection” when I needed to disengage a bit. When other children said cruel, thoughtless things, he was my fierce defender. We did face the world of the Red Rider Day Camp together. Together, we were more than the sum of our parts. We not only protected each other, but we also impacted other children. My natural quietness and nurturing drew me to children who were also struggling. Ernie’s extroversion, assertiveness, and confidence shielded us all from bullying. My fellow outcasts and I brought purpose to my brother’s energy, which kept him out of trouble. If Ernie was guiding me into the social fabric of day camp, he was much less likely to be capturing another child in an innocent headlock.

The camp selected my brother and me as the “campers of the month” at the end of our day camping term. They explained they selected us because of the kindness we displayed to each other and to the other children. That was pretty great.

As soon as this memory formed in my mind, I tasted the salt in the air. I smelled the cocoanut scent of sunblock mixed with the brininess of the sea. I heard the whirling, whining sound of the surf. I felt the ever-moving water slip between my toes. I saw the tiny fish playing tag in the shallow water. I giggled when I saw tiny birds perambulating down the shore with the pompous strides of Olympic speed walkers.

The rigid band around my abdomen shifted up my torso. Somewhere in the journey, it reconfigured itself into a sob. Somehow, the tangled jigsaw pieces in my mind sorted themselves out and formed a beautiful memory of the best of my brother.

The beach is magic, after all.

How have you and your siblings worked together in the past? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Hope today is a day at the beach for you!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Three Sheets (And One Lavender Cocktail) To The Wind

I have reported back on a number of facets of my beach getaway with my friend Kathy. I’ve told you about the mystery animal stalking me outside our vrbo rental. I’ve told you about my triumph in finding a perfect crumb bun. There is one more adventure from that trip that I wanted to share.

On the last night of our trip, we went to a restaurant situated right on the beach. I did not realize it when we got there, but some of the “outside seating” was actually picnic tables in the actual sand. Kathy and I had a table on the patio with a lovely view of the ocean. I could smell the salt and feel the sea breeze on my face. It promised to be a terrific way to spend our Last Supper on Amelia Island.

Let me explain a little background information here. Typically, I eat dinner pretty early. I am old. I eat dinner around 5:00pm usually. Because of my diabetes, I am careful to ingest sustenance at regular intervals throughout the day. My feeding schedule tends to put a crimp in my style when I am out of my regular routine. For some reason, I was at sixes and sevens on this trip. We ate big breakfasts in restaurants, which meant breakfast was later and lunch not as demanding. Still, I could not make it all the way from breakfast to dinner without some form of food converting to glucose in my bloodstream. Because we spent much of the middle of the day at the beach, eating lunch was not terribly convenient. I am pretty adept at juggling my blood sugar, but these beach days were challenges. Nice challenges, certainly. Challenges that were certainly worth the trouble. Challenges, nonetheless. What that meant is that we ate dinner much later than I usually eat.

On this last night, we set out for the dinner after 7 o’clock. When we got to the restaurant, it was packed. I guess most people do not eat dinner at 5:00 o’clock. Either that or the restaurant was also packed at 5:00. We waited for about half an hour for a table because we did want to sit on the patio in the sea air. The hostess seated us, and the fun really began.

I cannot say that the staff was slow. In fact, our server was incredible. She zipped like chain lightning over the patio. The woman never stopped moving. The simple exertion of opening a menu caused me to wilt in the late evening heat and humidity. Our server must have had her ration of Wheaties. She plowed from one table to another, bearing drinks and large platters of food. She maintained her composure, friendliness, and good humor. When I noticed there were patrons at tables out on the sand, I was amazed to see this same server traversing the beach to take care of them. When I first noticed her gait, I thought there was something wrong, but I soon understood that there was a trick to walking rapidly through the sand. That trick involved taking awkward giant steps in a side-to-side motion. Our petite little server galumphed through the sand like she belonged up a beanstalk.

Our server speedily brought my iced tea and my friend’s cocktail. The cocktail was gorgeous. It was a beautiful shade of lavender. It looked like something that pixies would drink.

Despite the speed and efficiency of our server, getting our food took a long time. I think the restaurant was just too busy to be contained. As we sat waiting for our meals, we enjoyed the view. We chatted over the dull whistle of the waves. At one point, we heard a loud crash.

“What was that?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” replied Kathy.

“Was it your drink? Where is your drink?” I surveyed the table for the hefty glass filled with lavender liquid.

“No, I don’t think it was my drink. I didn’t touch it. It was right over…” Kathy looked confused as she motioned to an empty spot on the table. The only trace left of her drink was a ring on the table.

As we looked at each in bemusement, a lady at the next table told Kathy she might want to move her purse. The “ocean breeze” had actually blown her glass off the table, depositing most of the drink on the chair next to Kathy before it crashed to the floor. There were pieces of glass everywhere. The ladies at the next table summoned the frenetic little server.

It took both Kathy and me several minutes to absorb what had happened. The fact that the wind could be strong enough to send a nearly full glass of drink flying just did not compute. To be honest, the whole incident still feels surreal, even in retrospect.

I blame it on the lack of nourishment.

What weird and strange vacation adventures can you share with us? Please leave a comment to share your perspective. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Happy flying!

Terri/Dorry 🙂

Write On!

This week, I started taking an online writing course. Some of you may be saying, “well, it’s about time!” I’m excited about this opportunity, but I am also nervous. I took a few creative writing courses in high school and college, but I don’t think I ever put my heart and soul into them. I think my fear of rejection and being criticized got in the way of me benefiting from the courses in the past. I protected myself. I wrote what I thought others would like. I did not share the work that I truly carved from my soul. I treated the classes as an obstacle course where I had to avoid booby traps instead of a fancy store from which I could buy as many treasures as I was willing to carry. This time, I vow to make a concerted effort to be courageous. I vow to be thirsty for what the class can teach me. I vow to see feedback as a gift, not a punishment.

As one of the first assignments for the class, the instructor asked us to write about why we write. I don’t think I ever considered that before. I always just did. They say that “writers write.” It does not matter if you are making a living at being a writer or if you are even publishing your work. The crucial factor when proclaiming yourself a writer is that you do the work and produce evidence that you have done so.

When I thought about the instructor’s question, though, I realized there was a more definitive reason that I write. There was a more tangible, focused explanation for why I began this worldview as perceived through my own written word.

Writing was always a wonderful experience for me, even as a child. I loved the order and patience the writing process imposed on my thoughts and feelings. I was a “smart kid” in school, but I also had no confidence or faith in my own perspective. I had a tough time telling people what I thought and felt. I was always afraid that someone else would interrupt to dispute my communication and I would not be able to defend my perspective. Perhaps even more scary, I would not get the chance to say everything I wanted to say. When I communicated what I wanted to convey in writing, I could carefully craft and lovingly curate my perspective. I could also galvanize my message in fact, tone, and intensity. There is little that is more satisfying to anyone than finding her voice- even when that “voice” makes no sound other than fingers pecking at a keyboard.

The idea of being a writer always lurked in the wild part of my mind, but I never seriously considered that I might be able to make a living by writing. I was able to feed my writing habit on the job by drafting correspondence, writing employee evaluations, and composing other technical documents. However, that tiny wild hair dream of being a real writer never came to fruition. It stayed confined in the wild pasture side of my mind. It was a free-range dream, but there were still some fences at the boundaries of my brain. Life and making a living got in the way and I never released the dream until I retired from my “real job.”

Retirement is the perfect time for my own little “encore” performance- to do the things I always wanted to do in my life but never had time to do. I wanted to “retire to” something much more than I wanted to “retire from” something. It turns out that the heart of my “to something” has been writing. I began by starting this blog almost seven years ago. I had no idea that I would continue for so long. I’ve published two books and have a third one coming out in a few months. I thought that, once I published the first book, I would bask in the languid afterglow of completing my writing bucket list. I did, but only very briefly. It turns out that it isn’t so easy to turn off the writing machine in my head once I’ve turned it on.

So, I continue. I may not produce a new post every single week, but I do pretty well with creating new content. The blog has birthed the books. I’ve also tried my hand at a novel (and found said hand to be sadly lacking) and I have just finished the first draft of a novella- my first work of fiction to get beyond the most embryonic stage. It is fun exploring. It is fun finding new ways to use that keyboard voice I embraced over 50 years ago. I am not sure why I am gorging myself at this literary smorgasbord or where this experimenting will take me, but, for now… I am content to just write on!

What are you doing in retirement as your “encore?” Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Use your voice today!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Living In Satan’s Sinus Cavity

I believe I have shown remarkable restraint. It is nearly the end of July and I have not posted my annual summer weather whine. Since I live in a place where summer begins in May and does not conclude until November, I think I deserve some credit for avoiding a meltdown before now.

Time’s up, though.

I reside in Florida, which is pretty much like saying I live in Satan’s sinus cavity during the summer months. It is hot, moist, sticky, and slimy virtually all the time. The air is heavy with humidity. It is so thick with unshed rain and mosquitos; breathing is hazardous to one’s health. Of course, not breathing is even more hazardous, so we soldier on with the aid of life support- air conditioning. I know some people who do not leave their artificially cooled compartments for months.

Thunder does not rumble; it crashes and pummels. Rain does not pool in my yard; it oceans. So far this summer, we have been pretty lucky in that we have not yet had multiple consecutive days of catastrophic rainstorms. Often, we will have thirty rainy days in a row… or more. One summer, I counted sixty-two consecutive rainy days. Even Noah and all those animals only had to cope with forty. People will say, “yes, it does rain every day, but it is only for half an hour in the early evening.” These people are purposely misleading you. To be fair, it does rain for only a brief time on some days. Most days, the rain is much more significant. Some days, I feel like I should not leave the house without a hairdryer… for my clothes and shoes. I will never forget the year I acquired smurf feet because I walked from the car to the grocery store in blue shoes.

Summer is also growing season, which sounds very nice and idyllic. However, growing season in my household simply means weed season. Any plant I try to grow intentionally tends to die in the summer, even if I have kept it alive for months, because the heat is so intense that the leaves incinerate spontaneously. The weeds, however, seem to have no such delicacy. Max and I pull weeds and trim the bushes early every Saturday morning. In the winter, this task means putting on a sweatshirt and leggings. It means about 10 to 15 minutes of easy work. There is little need to bend over or squat because almost all the weeds have succumbed to my weekly Round-up application. In the summer, it is already about a million degrees when we start work at 7:30. The force of the heat and humidity compresses my skeleton into my internal organs as soon as I walk out of the door. Even though I am faithfully applying the Round-up, the summer weeds propagate at such an alarming rate that our task takes easily twice as long than in the winter. I can barely stand outside for five minutes, much less bend to pick weeds, without dissolving into a puddle of gooey, humidity-seasoned sweat.

Satan’s sinus cavity feels infected in the summer. There is something like decay that fills the air. And, speaking of sinus cavities, mine does not do so well in the summer, either. Something about the air pressure or about the humidity or the weeds that grow with wild abandon triggers seasonal allergies I never knew I had until I moved to Florida. I have a near constant headache and raw respiratory system. I test myself for COVID way more than should be necessary, but I want to be sure I am not contributing to a worldwide pandemic. Every time I test, it turns out it is just my sinuses raging against the summer machine.

And, this year, I found a fresh new annoyance in the summer repertoire. Does anyone else get more achy during times of heat and humidity? I thought arthritis was supposed to get worse when it is cold. I am nearly 63 years old. My body is aware of this number. I have my fair share of tenderness and pain in my joints, ligaments, muscles, and menisci during the Days of Wine and Roses (November through April). This year, May welcomed in a whole new level of body aches. The discomfort has increased with the passing (way too slowly) days of summer. It feels like all of the bones around my joints are bound within a ring of calcified bone material that is gradually tightening. I do not want to overstate because I know many people suffer much more than I do from arthritis and other age-related health problems. I am, blessedly, pretty healthy. My point is simply that I did notice a significant uptick in my body’s resistance to age this summer.

When I researched this phenomenon online, I learned that there are studies that suggest that barometric pressure, humidity, and various other summer weather phenomenon do have a negative impact on arthritis. Other studies proclaim that there is no impact at all. These studies suggest that the summer, in and of itself, has no impact. The problem is that the uncomfortable conditions make the patient cranky, thereby reducing their tolerance to pain.

I will not argue with that. Cranky sounds about right.

So what’s the weather like where you are? What season do you find most difficult to endure and why? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have an unsticky day!

Terri/Dorry 🙂

Independence Day

Our country celebrated its independence this week. It is exciting and humbling to remember the people and events that created a new nation founded on freedom.

I am celebrating a bit of an Independence Day myself.

Most of you know by now that I have been seeing a life coach to help me with the anxiety and other issues that rob me of joy and keep me from being the person God created me to be.

I have reported that the coaching has proven to be effective in dealing with my anxiety. It is difficult for me to really explain how significant the impact has been for me. Last week, I talked about the pervasive fear with which I have grappled most of my life. I have always been afraid of pretty much everything. Being a reasonably courageous person and being a person who puts a high value on having a rich life, I spend a lot of energy trying to overcome fear in order to do the things I want to do… or feel that God has called me to do.

With the help of my life coach Todd Payne, I have been able to fundamentally change the way I manage my fear. I am not going to say that I am no longer afraid. I am, certainly, much LESS afraid that I was. I am also learning not to dread fear so much. Fear is like a rumor. It is information, but it may not be totally true. Sometimes, fear tells me something that is completely false, and I am learning to think critically about that. Sometimes, fear tells me that there is something important underneath the fear that I should explore. I am just trying things out now. I feel a little like a newborn colt. I know how to walk in this new way with fear, but my legs are still pretty wobbly. Most colts do learn to steady their legs and run at some point.

The other huge issue that has haunted me all my life and seriously impeded my life is my image of myself. I have shared some of this with you all before- my certainty that I am unattractive, unsexy, and unlovable because of my appearance. Part of that is body image, but it is more pervasive than that. It is really about virtually every aspect of my appearance, although the weight is the most obvious. I did not think I was ever going to be able to slay this particular dragon. It felt way too entrenched and vicious to ever evict from my spirit.

Todd uses the enneagram model as a basis for his coaching. I am a type six. I had a tough time figuring out that I am a type six. This is hardly surprising because the hallmark of unhealthy type sixes is self-doubt. The way to health for type sixes is to develop the quality of self-determination. In other words, my goal has been to see and assess my worth based on my own sense of self… and then to decide what I want and take steps to make it happen. In the past few weeks, I have started to experience a true shift in my mind and heart. I am saying this very quietly, as I don’t want the feeling to get scared and go away.

It started with a couple of very rough sessions where I came face-to-face with some fairly mind-blowing truths about the way I think about myself. For instance, based on the enneagram, only about 33% of all people even acknowledge any external standard of beauty. In other words, 66% of people do not even think about the vision of acceptable appearance that I grew up with in my head- the beautiful people in the magazines and on tv. About half those people do not expect to be attracted or not attracted to any particular type or standard- they just get attracted based on what appeals to them specifically. The other half are more likely to be attracted to someone based on how that person reflects an appealing place in the grand scheme of things. Theoretically, about 67% of people could be attracted to me, even though I look nothing like the industry standard of beauty by which I have condemned myself my whole life.

In another revelation, I found out that nearly 70% of American women wear a size 16 or above. What size do I wear? A size 16.

The hardest session had to do with my compulsion of looking for external validation for my wants. I never thought I could ask for what I wanted because I did not deserve to want anything. I was barely entitled to my needs, much less any wants. I wanted so badly for my coach to comfort me by telling me I was beautiful and lovable and valuable- in general, but also in his opinion. The compulsion was so strong that I was in physical pain. I knew he was not going to give me the assurance I wanted in that moment because it would not help me to develop what I really needed to develop… a sense of self-determination. He has always been supportive, and it is not like he has never gives me any positive feedback. He does. I think we both knew we had reached the point in the coaching process where I had to find that support within myself if I was ever going to crack the ceiling of our progress. I would like to explain how Todd led me through the process that day, but it just feels too private and too complicated and too unique to me. I still do not really understand how a conversation could make me feel so rejected and also so supported. I certainly was not able to explain it that day. I could not even articulate what I felt that day. My brain knew he was doing his job. My brain knew it was the right thing. What my heart felt was an ugly, disoriented, knotty mess of uck.

It was a pretty horrendous fifty minutes that day. We were able to mop up a little before we ended. I was not out on a ledge or anything. I did not feel hopeless. Todd did not leave me distraught, but he did leave me emotionally addled and in deep thought. A few hours later, I began to feel so much better… actually, better than I have in years. My mind opened up and thoughts came trickling merrily through my brain. The fruit of my thoughts seemed so much clearer than they had. I felt such a sense of relief. I decided to live in that relief and rest a bit- not try to motivate myself to do anything I did not want to do, not try to push the revelations any further. I just let my head, heart, and body rest from the workout they received during the session. A surge of excitement flowed through me, getting bigger and bigger with each moment.

A couple of days later, I was sitting in church, and it struck me. I am as appealing and cute as anyone else there. While part of me thought this idea was madness, most of me was actually embracing it. For some people, this may seem like a relatively minor realization. For me, it was HUGE. I have NEVER thought I was as attractive as anyone else. In fact, I always think I am distractingly unattractive. That I can sit there and believe, at any level, that I am attractive is a miracle. I wondered if it was sacrilegious or disrespectful to be thinking such things at church. But what better place than church to suddenly become aware of a miracle?

A few days later, I attended a meeting that did not go the way I expected it to go. It was challenging. There were a lot of people there who clearly did not agree with my perspective. They were people whom I have been trying very hard to please. I felt their displeasure viscerally at the meeting. A few months ago, I would have shrunk from the encounter and gone into hiding. Now, I could simply say what I wanted to say, understanding that I am entitled to my perspective and there is no catastrophe if others disagree. Just because someone disagrees with me does not make me wrong. I was able to sit in the moment, listen, be curious, and respond productively. It honestly did not bother me that people were annoyed with me.

Today, I was thinking about what I might want to pursue in my life. The thought came to my head that I am appealing, attractive, and desirable. I have not completely integrated that notion into my sense of self, but I am no longer dismissing it. For now, the notion is blanketing the top of my psyche. I am hoping it will start to sink in.

So, this is the story of my own personal Independence Day. I am declaring myself independent from the fears and insecurities and pain that have had tyranny over the best parts of me all these years. Just like with our nation’s independence, I know that I can declare it on a specific day but that it will take a lot more than just saying it to make it so. I know it will be a life’s work. And I am okay with that. I honestly cannot think of a better way to spend the rest of my life.

Have any of you come to an important realization later in life that you wish you had known much earlier? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a miraculous day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Fraidy Cat

On my recent beach trip with my friend, we had a close encounter of the creepy kind.

One evening, we got a late start out to dinner after a day on the beach… and the need to do something about our two days’ worth of beach hair. By the time we got to the restaurant, it was monumentally busy. It took some time to get served. The server was moving around like a tornado in a mobile home park, but there were just so many people. Despite her heroic efforts, we didn’t get through with dinner for about two hours. When we got back to our condo, it was around 10:00pm. I am old. I live in central Florida, which is “early bird special central.” I do not usually dine at eight and I do not usually stay out quite so long after dark. Still, I am a grown woman and should be able to handle myself past sunset just going from the parking spot directly in front of our condo to the condo door. It was a distance of about twenty feet.

Not so. I got out of the car and chatted with my friend as she gathered up her stuff in preparation of making her own exit from the vehicle. I happened to look over to the side of the parking lot and saw something moving under a large pile of leaves. I could not see specifically what it was, but I thought I spied a small, pointy face peering out from a tube of moving leaves. This was something creepy… in every sense. It was some creature- probably a mammal because the part of its face I could see appeared to be covered in fur. It was cylindrically shaped. I estimated it was about fifteen inches long and had a diameter of about five inches.

I was intrigued at first and wondered what it was. Then, the blasted thing started moving in our direction. Most animals will move away from humans, but this whatchamacallit was making a beeline directly towards us. It was not fast, but it was purposeful. I did not want to wait around to see how long it would take for it to reach us, so I mentioned it to my friend, who had all kinds of questions about the approaching critter. My friend is a curious person. She is talented at asking good, insightful questions that should generate helpful, informative answers. I was not that curious nor was I particularly good at supplying those helpful, informative answers at that particular moment. All I wanted was to get in the condo, safe from the creepy critter.

When we locked the front door behind us, barring the mystery animal from following us into the condo, I felt better. I began to wonder what the creature was. I did some googling to try to identify it, but never did nail it down. The leaf-incrusted tube of terror creeping towards us did not match any of the possibilities that either I or Google had. The closest thing seemed to be a shrew, but, if it was a shrew, it was clearly some kind of science experiment gone wrong because shrews are much smaller than the creepy critter on our front lawn.

I eventually gave up and figured this encounter was going to be the stuff that nightmares are made of if I did not stop thinking about it. My friend, however, was less daunted than I was.

“You were really afraid, weren’t you?” she asked incredulously.

“Yes,” I responded. “It was coming TOWARDS us. Besides, don’t you realize that I am afraid of EVERYTHING?”

It baffled my mind that my friend who has known me for five years could be so unaware of the terrified nature of my personality. Fear has always been my emotion of choice. I get scared before I even have a chance to realize what else I feel in any given situation. This tendency towards terror makes life a little difficult. I would not say it limits me unduly, but I do find existing in the real world to be a ton of work.

Let me be clear. I am not a coward. A coward does not do things because she is afraid. I, on the contrary, am incredibly brave. Even though I am afraid of everything, I overcome the fear to do the things I want and need to do. Most of my life, this has meant fighting my own impulses and acting against what my brain is telling me to do. In its fear and paralysis, I must summon superhuman strength to catapult past my emotions to accomplish the life to which I aspire. In my life coaching process, I have been working on not forcing myself to catapult past the emotion. I am learning to do two things. First, to find the emotions that lurk just under the surface of the fear… the desire, the love, the anger… and use them to propel myself forward. In that way, instead of using my energy to keep the fear emotion at bay, I am using the momentum of the more positive motions to fuel my efforts. Secondly, I am learning to befriend the fear. Maybe I do not have to catapult past the fear. Maybe I can take it with me. Maybe there is strength to be had from allowing fear to be my traveling companion, but not the tour guide.

On the other hand, I am just as happy that the jeeper creeper in the leaves was NOT my traveling companion back into the condo!

What gives you the creeps? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a not-so-fraidy day!

Terri/Dorry 🙂

The Not Crummy Bun

Some of you may recall my inherited fascination with a little confection called the “crumb bun.” Not the “crumb cake,” which is an altogether different animal. The “crumb bun” was a staple of Italian bakeries in New York during the 1950s and 1960s. My mother was crazy about them. She passed the crumb bun gene on to me.

When we moved to California, my mother mourned the absence of New York crumb buns. Vendors tried to palm off different types of crumb cakes and some questionable, decidedly crummy, crumb buns. Grocery stores did not have them. Specialty shops did not have them. Even bakeries showed a suspicious lack of crumb bun knowledge.

When I was a little girl, cross country travel was still relatively exotic and we were a solidly middle class family. We rarely returned to New York after our move. Every time we did go, however, the first thing my mother typically put in her mouth after the plane landed was a real New York, Italian bakery crumb bun. As time passed, though, even New York did not have a steady supply of New York crumb buns. Family bakeries, like many small businesses, were dying as big box stores and grocery chains moved into the neighborhood. My family members who lived in New York were oblivious to the catastrophe that this entailed. They had been on a gradual crumb bun withdrawal process. To my mother, it was cold turkey.

My mother reacted to the disappearance of the greater New York crumb bun, by going into mourning. Still, she lived in denial. When we moved to Florida, she decided we needed to search for crumb buns. She reasoned that we were now on the east coast. She reasoned that a lot of people retire to Florida and maybe there were a few former New Yorker bakers who enjoyed getting up at 4:00am to make crumb buns. She did not believe the crumb bun was extinct. She believed they were just elusive, like some exotic bird that ornithologists stalk with great enthusiasm.

I did not know whether crumb buns were extinct or not, but I was perfectly happy to travel the state looking for them. I do not know if I had quite the level of enthusiasm and commitment that my mother did, but I did my best. Time after time, the crumb bun rumors proved unfounded and we did not find an acceptable rendition of the traditional New York crumb bun. We found a few possibilities, but none quite measured up to our standard. One of them felt like sawdust in the mouth. Another one had way too much lemon taste in the base. A crumb bun should not taste like lemon cake with cinnamon all over it. The most common problem with the crumb buns we sampled was an insufficient crumb to bun ratio. It was a sad state of crumb bun affairs.

Once, I thought I had an answer when I discovered that Buddy Valastro, owner of the Carlo’s Bakery of Hoboken and star of television’s “Cake Boss,” had a bakery in Las Vegas where there was a pretty good imitation of a true crumb bun. When I heard he was opening a store in Orlando, I was excited to introduce my mother to this “almost authentic” confection. Unfortunately, he did not stock crumb buns in the Orlando store. I take it as a personal failure that my mother never got another “real” crumb bun before she died.

When I went on my little beach getaway with my friend recently, we went to an Italian bakery in Fernandina Beach called Nona’s. When I looked in the window, I saw something that looked suspiciously like a REAL crumb bun. Finally, it looked like I had found my quarry.

I bought a crumb bun… and, eureka! It was moist and sweet and spicy. It had the perfect crumb to bun ration. There was no lemon aftertaste. It melted in my mouth, enveloping my tastebuds in a smooth, rich, delicious blanket of awesomeness. It was one of the best lunches I have ever eaten.

#Lifegoals!

What is a delicacy that you remember from your childhood that no longer seems to be around? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a delicious day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Out To Sea

Recently, my friend and I whisked ourselves away for a beach getaway. We spent three delightful days on Amelia Island hanging out with the four “s’s”- sun, sand, sea, and shops. We had a wonderful time, but there was one catastrophic moment.

We were staying in a condominium a couple of blocks from a beach slightly north of the main beach, so we had been walking to that area for most of our beach time. We had an enjoyable time, but the ocean was pretty rough, and the beach was very, very rocky. I had an excellent pair of water socks that protected my feet very well. My friend had water shoes, but they did not fit so tightly. The tiny rocks that seemed to make up the entire shore filled her shoes like cement. She finally gave up and tried to remove them while still in the water. She successfully removed one shoe but lost the other one in the process. She chased it around in the surf for a bit, but finally realized that resistance was futile. The pink water shoe disappeared into the ocean. We went to Walmart that night and got her a pair of more fitted water shoes.

On our final day, we decided to visit the main beach for a few hours before starting our journey back to our landlubber homes. We immediately noticed that the ocean was less rough and less rocky than at our walkable beach. This perception turned out to be sinisterly deceptive.

Because the ocean was smoother at the main beach, we were able to make our way much further out to sea without being pummeled by waves breaking an inch or two from the shoreline. My friend and I were enjoying the sense of coolness and freedom as we bobbed up and down with the waves. We giggled and chatted like little girls. Neither of us wanted to tear ourselves away from this moment of time to go home.

At some point, we decided to venture out a little further and my friend realized she had her drugstore sunglasses on over her prescription eyeglasses. We decided she should go back to the shore and leave her prescription glasses in her beach bag. I, however, did not think to leave my costly brand-new prescription sunglasses in my beach bag. While waiting for my friend to return, I was pulled under a breaking wave. The undertow caught me, and I thrashed around for a bit. Luckily, I eventually surfaced. Unluckily, my brand-new prescription sunglasses did not.

I suppose that, if something had to go missing, it was better that it was my sunglasses than my lifeless body. I was still pretty bummed. However, I did not want mourning over the loss of my sunglasses to overshadow what had been an exceptionally wonderful time. I decided I was to reframe the situation.

Most of you know my Tinker Bell obsession. You may not know that Tinker Bell lives in Neverland. She collects “lost things” and repurposes them to create new, innovative items that make life in Pixie Hollow easier. My friend’s shoe and my sunglasses are not gone for good. I am convinced they have washed up on Neverland Beach. Tinker Bell will find them and turn them into something wonderful. You never know what a tinker fairy can do with a water shoe and pair of sunglasses!

What is the strangest thing you have ever lost to Mother Nature? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Hope you don’t hit rough waters today!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Dear Mrs. Rice

When I was a little girl, Mrs. Rice was the director of the children’s choir at my church. I joined the choir when I was eight or nine, during the late 1960s.

I have not thought about Mrs. Rice in many years. The other day, though, I put on a dress that touched a Mrs. Rice memory. Mrs. Rice always wore these wonderful long bohemian/peasanty kind of dresses. They were fitted through the bodice and flowed from her natural waist. The dress I put on reminded me of her dress and her body and her beauty. Vivid memories of that time and of Mrs. Rice scuttled into my brain. Mrs. Rice always fascinated me.

Her body was lush and soft and solid, all at the same time. Mrs. Rice was an artist and a performing musician. She made wonderful art in oils. She played the guitar. She had a voice as sweet and clear as a mountain spring, with an exuberant undertone that reminded me of a brook running merrily into that spring. Her personality was warm and enveloping and comforting. She had dark, exotic hair. Her complexion was pale, and she always wore makeup, including very red lipstick. Her eyes sparkled. She reminded me of Snow White if Snow White had been a gypsy. As a child, I always had the sense that there was something about Mrs. Rice that did not quite fit in with the rest of the suburban mommies in my parish. I do not know what her backstory was. I did not care then, and I do not care now. All I remember is that Mrs. Rice was wonderful, and I loved her.

I went googling to see if I could locate Mrs. Rice. I am guessing she would be somewhere between 80 and 90 now. I did find a photo from the Orange County Register, our local newspaper in the town where I grew up. The photo was dated in 2013 and Mrs. Rice was leading a group of school children singing at a celebration to dedicate the parish school’s new playground. She was wearing the same kind of dress, the same bright lipstick, and had the same dark hair. I checked in with a friend of mine who has connections in that parish to see what he knew. It turns out that Mrs. Rice is still alive but is ending her journey in this world even as I write this. My friend did get me an address, however.

I decided to write to Mrs. Rice to tell her what kind of impact she had on me, even fifty plus years later. From what I understand, she is at the point of her journey where she probably will not be able to comprehend or process a letter from me. I still want to try. Some part of her may delight in hearing the impact she had on me and, I am sure, lots of children like me.

Dear Mrs. Rice,

I do not think you would remember me, but you were someone very special to me when I was a little girl. I sang in one of your children’s choirs when I was 9 or 10 years old, back in the late 1960s. We sang during Mass and, also, I remember one year singing as entertainment at the St. Joseph’s table celebration. This was so meaningful to me because the grade school glee club rejected me and I was devastated, as I had been waiting a long time to be old enough to sing in the choir. You embraced me, both physically and metaphorically, into the church children’s choir.

Your kindness meant so much to me then, filling me with confidence and a feeling of worth. It was not just the acceptance into the choir, though. There was something about you that just radiated joy, love, and peace. You fascinated me. Your energy was warm and creative. You had the ability to make me (and I am sure, others) feel like I was the only thing that mattered when you talked to me. There was something slightly exotic and different about you that intrigued me, as well. I had the sense, even as a child, that you did not quite fit into the “mommy mold” that most of the women in the parish crafted. I do not know what it was, but I always felt you were a bit outside the traditional clique community. Instead of seeming bothered by that difference or trying to reform yourself into the image of life that the “church ladies” held, you seemed to celebrate your difference. You were an example to me of living in a world, but not of it. I felt that you accepted yourself and loved the life God called you to live. You had that sense of acceptance and celebration not “in spite” of your uniqueness but because of it.

I have thought of you many times over the years. I am now 62 years old, retired, and living in Florida. The other day, I had an experience that brought back my memories of you so vividly, that I had to reach out to let you know of your continued impact.

I purchased a dress and I put it on for the first time a week or so ago. It reminded me so much of the dresses you wore when I was a little girl- long, fitted through the bodice, maybe a tiny bit low-cut, and flowing from the waist. The dress is made of yellow and white gingham. I feel faintly ethereal in it. I applied makeup carefully and spent some effort on my hair.

All my life, I have believed that I look ugly. I do not think there is anything about my looks that is remotely beautiful. I certainly do not look like I belong in a fashion magazine. Even in my younger days, I was not the kind of girl that attracted positive attention or inspired men to cross the street, much less cross the sea, to be with me. I worked extremely hard to be “good enough” or “sweet enough” or “smart enough” or something enough to compensate for my looks.

When I tried on that dress, I realized something. We are not shaped the same. You are more pear-shaped and voluptuous, and I am more apple-shaped and round. You are tall and I am short. Still, in that dress, I saw some similarities. VOGUE would not be interested in featuring us on its cover. Our bodies do not mirror the image of beauty and health that most people accept as fact. We both have extra weight. We both use makeup to create more luminous faces. We both color our hair to feel more energetic and vital.

When I looked at myself in the “Mrs. Rice” dress, I remembered how much I loved you and how exceptionally beautiful I thought you were when I was a little girl. You are beautiful, outside as well as inside. From the way you presented yourself to the world, I believe you knew you were beautiful. That made you even more beautiful and more magnetic. Mrs. Rice, when I realized all this, I realized something important. If I believe you are beautiful, perhaps I need to believe I am beautiful, as well. And perhaps I can.

Thank you so much for all you did for me as a little girl and for the lessons you taught me, almost subliminally, that are still teaching me today.

With love, prayers, and thanks for all you gave me,

Dorothea Goodness Curran

Have you ever contacted someone who impacted your life positively after many years had passed? What was the result? Please leave a comment to share your perspective. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a beautiful day!

Terri/Dorry 😊