You know how people always talk about “finding themselves?” This week, I am off doing exactly the opposite. I am on a quest to lose myself. That’s right. For a few days, I am hoping to lose myself in different surroundings, different activities, and different dining experiences (I’m talking about YOU, In-And-Out Burger!) I am also hoping that, in the process of losing myself, I will find a decent pizza.
At any rate, I’ll be back next week with new content. In the meantime, talk amongst yourselves. Better yet… if you are pining for me, consider toddling on over to your favorite online bookseller and ordering a copy of my book, Changing My Mind: Reinventing Myself In Retirement.
Have a purposeful day! It is always good to have a goal, even if that goal is losing yourself.
Max
and I went to the Flower and Garden Festival at Epcot the other day. I love Epcot and I particularly love this
event. There are huge topiaries of Disney characters. There are spectacular floral designs
carpeting the grounds. There are
creative and unusual playground gardens where children burn energy. There is a butterfly garden, filled with
light, lazy aerial ballerinas dancing nonstop through the air. There are different sights and smells all
over the park to entrance the senses. It
is no coincidence that we think of Paradise as the Garden of Eden and Epcot during the Flower and Garden Festival
definitely evokes paradise.
Now
that spring is here, the Flower and Garden Festival got me thinking about
blooming. There was a lot of blooming
going on in Epcot. Iām thinking of
another kind of blooming, though.
I
think we all go through spurts of spontaneous creative energy periodically in
our lives. We all experience times when
the momentum of our lives become sweet and fertile. We seem to experience one amazing epiphany
after another, each feeding on the one before it. The pieces are clicking together almost
automatically. It seems as though our
lives are enrichening moment by moment.
We may or may not experience success in all our endeavors and I donāt
mean to suggest that it doesnāt take hard work to make something wonderful out
of all this impetus. However, even in
our failures during these times, we are usually happy and satisfied and
confident. There is an excitement and
lushness about living that is completely independent of traditional
success. We are luxuriating in the
moment, thankful for all the unique miracles in our lives.
What
spurs these periods of renaissance in our lives? Iāve seen it happen when people fall into a
healthy love relationship. It can also
happen when people become parents.
Sometimes it happens when people have careers that reflect their intellectual
passions and work with colleagues who are likeminded. Maybe it boils down to love. When love is in the mix, whether it be love
for a significant other or love for a child or love for an idea, people may feel
safer pushing their boundaries and believing the dreams they normally wouldnāt
even dare to dream.
However,
it seems that loss can also be a catalyst for these periods of exploration and
awakening. Since my motherās death, I have been experiencing my own personal
renaissance. Iāve changed so much. I am so much more engaged with people and
with the world. I am much more confident
and secure than Iāve been in my life. My spiritual life is more exquisite. I
feel physically healthier than I can ever remember being. I feel like that health shines from the
inside out and makes me a more attractive person. Iām still not traditionally pretty, but I
just donāt care anymore. I no longer
worry about being attractive enough or good enough or anything enough to be
āworthā other peopleās attention and approval.
I am just me and I trust that is enough to attract the right people in
my life. There is a sort of centeredness
and peace in my spirit. I try things
that I never would have in the past- publishing the book, singing in the choir,
acting in a play, reigning as Alpha Hospitality Princess, creating art, and
many other activities. I am blooming.
If I
am honest, I think I have to say that some of this blossoming is the result of
the crushingly sad journey I took with my mother during her illness and
death. During that time, I found out
that I am much more complex and multi-faceted than the āmeā I always thought I
knew. I also had to learn, through the
grieving process, how to let go of parts of my life that were no longer
blooming.
Now,
you all know how much I loved my mother.
I still miss her sharply and deeply every single day. I would give up every blossom I have gathered
in the past year and a half if it could bring her back- healthy, happy, and living
life with me. Since I canāt bring her back,
I know she is happy that I am using the life and love she gave me to create
something wonderful in my spirit.
As
painful as it is, maybe sometimes you have to prune to bloom. Especially if the pruning is accompanied by
love.
Have you experienced a period of personal renaissance?
Tell us about it! Please share your
perspective by leaving a comment. In the
alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.
Last
week, I whined about all the difficulties roots have been causing in my life
lately. Removing them seems to have been
the solution to all kinds of problems.
My experiences led me to opine that perhaps roots are the problem.
My
mother died about eighteen months ago.
She was my rock and my root in this life. She grounded me and helped me grow. Since she died, I have definitely felt a
certain rootlessness. Somehow, I have
not been sure how to be me now that she is no longer around. I have been processing my emotions fairly
efficiently, but this is one feeling I have been avoiding.
In
essence, I have been avoiding my own roots.
It has been too painful to go down that particular hole. When I do certain activities, I desperately
distract myself from thinking of my mother.
I donāt often reminisce much about our lives together when she was
well. There are some items of hers that
she had with her at the skilled nursing facility which I hid away in a
box. I could not bear the thought of
looking at them. It is a strange
sensation to avoid any aspect of my mother because I was so rooted to her. I would think that it would always be better
to remember than not, even when the memories fill me with an adrift sort of sadness
and purposelessness. Still, there are
certain experiences that I avoid because they remind me that I donāt know how
to grow without my roots. And my roots
fill me with pain when I dig too deeply into them.
Despite
how āwellā I have been mourning my mother, there is one part of me that just
seems stuck in mid-air by grief. I think
it has to do with permanence. If I can
avoid thinking about this last vestigeā¦ this last rootā¦ of sorrow, it feels
like my mother could still come back to me.
Of course I know she will not, but part of me unconsciously pretends she
is just on a trip or something and will return to the relationship we had
before her stroke.
The
other night, I had a dream. I was in the
middle of a large room, filled with many people. I think it was some sort of celebration. I seemed to be in the thick of whatever was
going on in the room. I was cooking and
answering questions for people who needed help.
Everyone seemed to be coming to me for direction. I kept asking people, āis my mother here
yet?ā They always replied she was not
there and I kept going with my tasks. I
felt like I was in a whirlwind of mental and physical activity, but I still
seemed to slow down periodically to ask, āis my mother here yet?ā Finally, I stopped what I was doing. The whole room seemed to get quiet and
everyone turned to me. I stared straight
ahead, at no one and everyone, and said, āSheās never going to be here again,
is she?ā That is the last thing I
remember about the dream, except that I woke up crying deeply and
viscerally. Iāve been exhausted ever
since.
The
next day, I opened the box of items I brought home from the skilled nursing
facility. I had forgotten what was in
there. Mostly, they were photos that
were on the wall by her bed. It was a
weird sensation to look at them and remember our roots. I remembered the very different people we
were when those pictures were taken, both before and after my mom got
sick. I felt crackedā¦ but not
catastrophic. Even thinking about it
now, I feel my gut sinking and my spirit sliding through a dark, heavy
place. Still, I do have a spirit and it
is moving.
One of
the pictures I found was particularly poignant.
It was a wonderful photo of me, my mother, and Tinker Bell at the Magic
Kingdom soon after we moved to Florida.
Looking at that photo, I remembered the day. I remembered the fun we had. I remembered laughing and loving. I remembered that I was my motherās Tinker
Bell always. I remembered the
roots. Right after she died, I could not
look at that picture. Today, I bought a
frame and hung it on the wall.
This
episode caused me to reflect on the rootlessness I have been feeling. In some ways, I think not knowing how to grow
into me without my mother here is all in my mind. If I am honest, even though exploring the
roots has been painful, I have been growing.
My life is bigger than it used to be.
My life is richer than ever and my heart is expanding all the time. There are lots of reasons for that. One of those reasons is that helping me grow
joyously is my motherās legacy to me. I
may have been avoiding thinking of those roots, but they have always been
there.
I
started out this post with the premise that the roots are the problem. I donāt think that is right, after all. Roots may be messy and may need management,
but they are miraculous as long as they keep growing.
What part have your ārootsā played in your
life? Are you a stronger person because your
roots are strong or are you a stronger person because you had to overcome your
roots? Please share your perspective by
leaving a comment. In the alternative,
you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.
Have a
growing day!
Terri/Dorry š
My beautiful mother, me, and Tinker Bell at the Magic Kingdom in happier times. I was always her Tinker Bell and she was always my “second star to the right and straight on ’til morning.”
Lately,
Iāve been rootless. At least, it feels
that way. One would think, at almost 60
years old, my roots would be getting deeper. On the contrary, I seem to be losing
roots right and left recently.
It all
started in January when I went for my dental cleaning. A few days before my scheduled appointment, I
developed a slight toothache in one of my upper molars. It wasnāt a big deal, really. I kept brushing and flossing, thinking I
might have a bit of something caught between my teeth or sticking into my
gum. I took some ibuprofen, but it
wasnāt too bad. When we first moved to Florida, I had a pain in the same area
but it went away after the dentist prescribed a course of antibiotics.
When I
went for my January cleaning, I mentioned my pesky tooth. The dentist concluded
that I had another infection in the same area. He was pretty convinced that the
time had come for the endodontist to go spelunking down the roots of that
particular tooth. I reluctantly made an
appointment with the endodontist.
The
endodontist took one look at the x-ray and immediately saw that I had a root
canal on the same tooth in the past. I
had all but forgotten about it, but I remembered the experience when he asked
me about prior work on the tooth. It was
35 years ago, so I donāt think anyone can fault me for not remembering the
details. At first, the endodontist
thought the tooth must have a crack in the root. That would mean a root canal would not
work. I would need an extraction and
related tooth replacement work. If there
was any news less happy than the fact that I needed a root canal, it would
probably be I didnāt need a root canal in these circumstances.
To
confirm his analysis, he sent me for a cat-scan of my face. It turned out that I had badly infected,
drowning sinuses. Ohā¦ and my constantly freakish anatomy had
been playing tricks on me for 35 years. It seems I had a sneaky mutant extra
root which managed to escape notice when the original dentist roto-rootered the
infected tooth. That rogue root had been
playing hide and seek all this time. In
short, my tooth had been abscessed for 35 years. It just flared up from time to
time. Wow. Great news.
I could have a root canal after all.
After
the root canal, I felt fine. For about 30 hours, there was no tenderness or
pain or really any discomfort at all.
After the 30-hour mark, however, a small war broke out in my mouth. For about five days, I was miserable. My sinuses drained constantly. My gum throbbed. I had numbness and extreme swelling on the
right side of my mouth and face. I
couldnāt eat anything solid. There were
times I looked like a stroke victim. I
took the antibiotics and iced my face compulsively. I counted the hours until I could take more
ibuprofen. It baffled me because I have had a couple root canals before and I
didnāt remember them hurting like this.
Finally,
after four or five days, I began to get better.
I still wasnāt good, but I was a lot better. By the time I saw the endodontist for the
completion of Root Canal 2.0, the tooth was back to normal. Normal as in the way it had been for 35
yearsā¦. sketchy and skittish, but not causing me any consistent problems. A few weeks of misery and a couple of
thousand dollars later and my tooth felt the same as it had before the root
canal.
The
endodontist, to his credit, did not declare victory. He saw that the gum was still slightly
swollen. He took another x-ray and saw
that a pocket of infection still existed.
He ended up doing a small surgical procedure to open up my gum and
remove part of the root, along with the rest of the infection.
That
sounds horrible, but it was actually much better than the first visit. After the root-ectomy or whatever you call it,
I had no pain at all. I waited through
the first 30 hours in dread, remembering the previous experience when I was all
hoity-toity over breezing my way through the root canal. Then it happenedā¦. Nothing. Picture meā¦ rootless and loving it!
It
isnāt just my dental roots that have been acting out. An oak tree in my front yard was attacking my
house. The first day we moved into the house, we took a break from unpacking to
go to the local home repair store for something. When we returned, we saw a garbage truck in
front of our house, along with a huge pile of amputated tree limbs. A neighbor explained. While we were gone, the garbage truck got a
little too close to our yard and accidentally sheared off a large portion of the
tree. I should have known then that the tree was not to be trusted.
For the
entire time we have lived in Florida, that tree continued to be a
malcontent. Everybody else has clean
driveways. Not us. Less than an hour
after sweeping the driveway, weād find it covered in leaves. Northerners may
talk about the leaves falling in the autumn.
In Florida, there is no such thing as weather and Mother Nature canāt
seem to keep her seasons straight. The leaves fall ALL FREAKINā YEAR.
After
the hurricane, we surveyed our front yard with dismay. Yes, everyone on our street had some mess to
clean up. We had our own private natural disaster area on the front lawn. The tree was still standing, but everything
that used to be on the tree seemed to be covering the yard. Iām not sure we ever really recovered. The fallen leaves and branches seemed to
expand geometrically over time. Weād
work on the mess for a couple of hours and then take a break. Improbably, there seemed to be even more dead
tree vomit to clean up when we started up again. It defies all laws of nature the way that
dead tree matter multiplied.
There
was a bigger problem, too. Little by
little, the roots from that tree have been expanding and pushing up through the
groundā¦. And the driveway. We were the
only ones on our block with a split-level driveway. If the tree had its way, that split-level was
going to turn into a two-story model very soon. This all begged the questionā¦
if the tree roots were forcing our driveway ever higher into the stratosphere,
what were they doing to the foundation of the house? It truly was time to take steps.
We
hired our lawn guy to remove the Tree That Took Over The World. He cut it down and we learned that there is
sometimes sun in our front yard.
Apparently, our tree was causing a total eclipse. He recommended a guy to grind down the stump
to further thwart the root force. The
stump guy ground the stump down to a pile of sawdust. He told us ahead of time that we would have
to get rid of the sawdust ourselves. He
estimated we would have to shovel two to three large garbage bags of
sawdust. Fifteen bags of sawdust and
many sore muscles later, we placed the last of our tree on the curb for the
recycle people. It still seems odd to
look out the window and not see the tree, but I am hoping our efforts will
result in our house remaining affixed to the ground.
I
think when people say they are trying to get to the root of a problem, they are
barking up the wrong tree. The root IS
the problem!
But
more on that subject next weekā¦.
Am I the only one who is fighting with her
roots? What are your experiences? Please share your perspective by leaving a
comment. In the alternative, you can
email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.
Working
with the Alpha program at church reminds me again how valuable everyone is. It is a huge undertaking, with many moving
parts and many needs. We should notice and thank the people who step up and
meet those needs. It is easy to see and
appreciate good leaders. They are the
face of the effort. They are easy to
spot. They contribute unique and
wonderful skills. They orchestrate the
whole project with an artistry that merits gratitude. But there are other people who are a bit
harder to see who also merit gratitude.
There
are so many unsung people who help with clean-up ever week. These angels stay out of the spotlight
washing dishes, putting leftovers away, and cleaning countertops. They may not have glass slippers, but they
are Cinderellas, for sure.
Young
adults volunteer to staff the nursery room so that parents can attend the
sessions. These teen angels regularly
ride herd on several small, squirmy bundles of kinetic energy during the two
hours the Alpha course meets. They feed
them dinner and prevent all manner of disasters. So far, the same number of children
who go into the nursery have left in one piece every week. I think that is quite an achievement, but I
am guessing that most of the Alpha participants donāt even realize they are
there. Out of sight, out of mind.
My
friends Laura and Kari help with any number of smaller tasks, week after
week. One major contribution has been
their skill and patience with folding. It may not sound like a talent, but I
have to tell you that their penchant for folding laundry has helped me kept
what little sanity I have. I donāt mind washing and drying table linens,
but those linens are supposed to be folded in a strange and wondrous way that
is completely beyond me. Laura and Kari
patiently lay them out and follow the established protocol so that they end up
neatly hanging in the linen closet.
Other
people pray for us. They quietly beseech
God to surround us with His grace and He always does. I know that cadre of people generating
powerful prayer is helping to fuel our efforts.
It
strikes me that there are unsung providing the backbeat, not just in my Alpha program,
but in a good many life experiences. It
seems to me that almost every undertaking is supported by an army of people who
are quietly contributing without anyone really noticing. In fact, their job is often to make sure no
one notices. After all, if the
tablecloths are clean and tidy, no one pays attention. If they are a mass of wrinkles covered in
stains, everyone noticesā¦. And that isnāt a good thing.
Iām
going to make an effort to seek out the unsung and sing their beautiful melody
to the whole world. It may be quietly
and to one or two people at a time, because sometimes the unsung truly donāt
like a fuss or a lot of attention. But
Iām going to make sure their music is heardā¦. because, even if a person doesnāt
like a fuss, everyone needs to know he or she is valuable. If you agree, I hope
you will find ways to spread the music of the unsung people in your life and
activities.
I also
suggest that we might consider joining the unsung choir ourselves sometimes. Iāve found that there is always a myriad of
tasks that need to be done in any projectā¦ often tasks that no one ever even
anticipates. Being able to complete
these tasks may not seem to be much of a talent or God-given giftā¦. Until you
are the one on the receiving end. Then,
it is clear that, as quiet as those unsung musicians are, they are extremely
talented and I am gifted when they show up for the concert!
Who are the unsung in your life?Ā Please leave a comment to share their music!Ā In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.Ā
I am not artsy-crafty. I donāt really cook. I donāt believe in ironing. I am about as far from extroverted as you can get.
So
how did I ever get to be Hospitality Princess for my churchās Alpha course?
Alpha is an international program of
interactive sessions designed to explore the big questions of life and
faith. It was originally intended to
minister to people who would not necessarily identify themselves as churchgoers
or Christians. The target audience has
expanded to include anyone who wants to feel more connected, passionate, and
intimate about the Christian faith. The
program lasts for twelve weeks, meeting once a week. Every session includes a shared meal, a video
about basic concepts of Christianity, and small group discussions. One of the significant hallmarks of the
program is that it should provide a welcoming, low-pressure environment that
organically encourages comfort, trust, introspection, and searching.
When I heard about Alpha at our churchās
ministry fair, I was interested. I read
somewhere that ministry is the place where a personās skill and passion
intersect with a need of the people of God.
When I was working, I taught leadership classes on a fairly regular
basis. I loved it and I was quite good
at it, if I do say so myself. From what
I understood of Alpha, the approach and techniques sounded very similar to what
I employed in my leadership classes. The
content and objectives were different, but the overall strategy seemed similar. In both situations, the idea is to help
people explore important questions. Both
experiences try to grow understanding and confidence in an environment that
encourages trust, openness, and experimentation. I volunteered to help with Alpha. I thought I could assist with facilitating small
group discussions or something like that.
During our initial Alpha team
organization meeting, our administrator mentioned that we needed someone to
take care of the hospitality aspects of the program (Hospitality Princess is my
self-proclaimed title). When he
described the less tangible needs, like transforming an institutional parish
hall to evoke comfort and coziness, my mind harkened back to more of the
techniques I used when teaching the leadership classes. He also described some
of the more tangible needs, like providing meals. The closest thing to providing a meal I ever
did when teaching leadership courses was supplying the occasional box of
donuts. I didnāt want to subject our
guests to my weaknesses, especially one as profound as cookery. On the other hand, I didnāt want to avoid
volunteering if I was the only one willing.
I said I would coordinate the hospitality elements, if no one else
wanted to do so. I explained the limited
skills I brought to the table, and disclosed the areas in which my talents were
subterranean.
No one else volunteered.
Fast forward several weeks and I am in
the midst of the Hospitality Princess revelries. Despite my many deficiencies, things are
going well. Let me tell you about it.
During session three of Alpha, I cooked
dinner for over 50 people and no one needed a trip to the emergency room. Not even me.
I have another dinner planned in a couple of weeks. My bar for success for that meal is that I
once again avoid poisoning anyone. I
have reasonable confidence that I will meet that admittedly low standard. I do
intend to declare victory. I have
individuals or groups signed up to handle the other ten nights of dinners. I am certain that these meals will prove much
more satisfying to everyone involved. My role will simply be to support these
folks in their food preparation efforts and applaud.
I donāt believe in ironing.
I found out, to my relief, that the
tablecloths beneath my non-poisonous dinners are permanent press. Iāve laundered the tablecloths several
times. They seem to come out of the
dryer clean. There might be a few
suspicious wrinkles, but they smooth out when I put the cloths back on the
tables for the next session. One could
argue that I really donāt need to launder all the tablecloths every week. However, if I didnāt bring the tablecloths
home to wash, Iād have to hang them in the linen cupboard of our parish
hall. There is a specific,
origami-inspired technique for folding the tablecloths over hangers. It terrifies me.
I am about as far from extroverted as
you can get.
Here we have it. Nothing has changed on that front. I am still about as far from extroverted as
you can get. I do have an overactive
sense of duty and a genuine heart for people.
As a result, my extreme introversion sometimes takes a back seat to
showing people how much I value them. I
am still incredibly introverted, but I see it as my job to make our guests feel
welcome and comfortable. I am still
incredibly introverted, but I honestly want our guests to feel loved and
wantedā¦wherever they are in their journey.
If I do not engage with them, they will never know what is in my
heart. Such engagement is sweet, but
also takes a lot of energy out of an introvert.
I am still incredibly introverted, which means I am incredibly
tired. On the other hand, things seem to
be going incredibly well.
So,
Iāll ask again. How did I ever get to be
Hospitality Princess? All other
considerations aside, how did the person with the highest level of introversion
get to be the person whose most important task requires the highest level of
engagement?
I still didnāt get it. Then, our rectorās wife and my friend, Sunny
(some of you might remember her from my post at http://www.terrilabonte.com/2018/05/growing-grown-ups/)
told me about something she experienced months before Alpha started. She said
she had been praying about the program and wondering who would be willing to
coordinate the hospitality elements. It had
been on her mind and on her heart for days.
Then, one night, she felt that God was just telling her āTerri will do
it.ā She knew nothing about my
background. She didnāt even know me very
well. She just felt that God had the
whole thing sorted. I would be the
Hospitality Princess, no matter how unlikely. No one ever mentioned this to me
until several weeks into the program.
How
did I ever get to be Hospitality Princess?
I think I am beginning to
understand. Something our rector said in
his sermon last week seems to apply. God
does not call the qualified. He
qualifies the called. It seems that God
is qualifying me- turning me inside-out, upside down, and sideways. And so, the reinvention continuesā¦.
Have
you ever had an experience that you believe is God āqualifyingā you? Tell us about it! Please leave a comment to
share your perspective. In the
alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.
Have a hospitable day! And be a princess (or prince) if you are so
inclined!
I live
in an age-restricted, 55+ community.
āNocturnalā comes early here.
I used
to think it was a fallacious stereotype that people over 55 ate dinner at
4:00pm and went to bed before the sun did.
Now, I see that it might be a stereotype but it is not necessarily
fallacious. I often go to restaurants
before the evening news. For years,
bedtime in our house has been inching ever earlier. Nowadays, it is not unusual for me to be in
bed by a quarter past nine. As weāve
established in previous posts, I donāt usually sleep, but I do lay down
on my bed and pretend. I was astonished
this New Yearās Eve when midnight came and I was still conscious.
You
would think, given the number of years that I rebelled against going to bed early
and rising at the crack of yesterday to get to work, I would be embracing
retirement as an opportunity to stay up late and sleep until noon. In retirement, I could reinvent myself into a
night owl. The thing is, I donāt think
my natural inclinations ever tended towards ānight owl.ā I wasnāt really an āearly birdā either. I was
always more whatever kind of bird it is that flits about from ten in the
morning till three in the afternoon.
Unfortunately, working for a living required a peak activity period of
more than five hours a day. Therefore, I
forced my biorhythm into the āearly to bed, early to riseā model most
appropriate for my working hours. Now,
when I can indulge the limited ebb and flow of my energy, I find that my body
is unable to slide into standard Terri time.
Besides
a sleep button that is permanently faulty, I also struggle with eating at
reasonably regular intervals. Again,
during my work life, I often ate poorly because I was always too busy to eat
during the work day. It was always a
challenge to balance the needs of employees, customers, supervisors, time-zoned
challenged conference calls, and that feeling of desperation I got when my
diabetes reminded me that I would pass out without an infusion of nutrients. Now
that I donāt work for a living, youād think Iād be able to better regulate my
eating. Despite my best efforts, I still
struggle with finding an appropriate meal schedule. We often go to a movie in
the middle of the day (donāt even get me started on why we must attend movies
that start before 2:00 oāclock in the afternoon.) Typically, weāll share a pastry at Starbuckās
before the movie and I feel fine when the picture starts. Then, when we leave the theater, I feel like
I can and will eat anything that doesnāt eat me first.
I know
I am not the only one that is experiencing this day-shifting phenomenon as I
age. All I have to do is look around me,
especially in the winter months, to see that my timing is trending. Honestly, one of the biggest reasons we go to
dinner so early is because restaurants in this senior-centric area get
ridiculously crowded by 5:00pm. The
choice is to be there by 4:30pm or give up on eating until 7:00. I get too hungry for dinner at eight (or
seven, for that matter), so we go with 4:30. Going to a grocery store before 10:00am is an
enlightening experience. Clearly, the
shoppers have been up with the chickens and are making good use of their time
by doing the marketing. Navigating a
shopping cart along aisles filled with people, walkers, and electric scooters
can be perilous. There is also gridlock
to considerā¦ aisles are often blocked with one too many lanes of cart
traffic. I often wander aisles where
there is nothing I want to purchase, just to be able to make my way from the
back of the store to the front. In the
afternoons, grocery shopping is much more leisurely. Iām sure that going to the store after dark
is like visiting a ghost townā¦. not that I would know.
Recently,
I found further evidence that seniors have their own time zone. The wildlife in our community is adhering to
daylight senior time. When we saw the
jaguarundi in the backyard, my first thought was that it was odd that a wild
cat would be up and about in the daylight.
I always thought cats were nocturnal.
I checked Google and found that, while most wild cats are night-dwellers,
jaguarundis are diurnal. They are often
up and at āem at about the same time that the local grocery stores bustle with
energy. This makes my community the perfect environment for them.
I
didnāt think too much about this correlation at first. Then, shortly before Christmas, we came home
from doing errands at around 4:00pm. We
happened to look out the window and saw three raccoons digging for worms or
whatever raccoons do in backyards. I
named them Dasher, Dancer, and Prancer in honor of the season. Santaās raccoons have visited us a couple of
times since, always at around 4:00pm.
Google
is clear on this point. Raccoons are definitely supposed to be nocturnal. No self-respecting raccoon should be out in
broad daylight. I felt bad for them,
thinking they must be kind of backward. I
thought they might need remedial raccoon lessons. I still didnāt draw any particular conclusion
from their appearance.
On
Christmas Eve, Max and I were driving around the development looking at holiday
decorations. At 6:00pm- the witching
hour, apparently, in a senior subdivision- we saw a coyote running along the
side of the road. Coyotes are
nocturnal. They are some of the shyest,
most people-averse creatures on the planet.
Living their lives in the dark of night meets their needs.
Yes,
at 6:00pm the sun was downā¦ just barely.
Still, I donāt think you could really call 6:00pm ānight,ā could
you? In most places where people are
still working for a living, 6:00pm is a busy, crowded, vibrant time. People are getting off work and going
home. They are picking up children from
soccer practice. They are preparing to
go to a movie or concert or whatever other evening plans they have. For most people, their āreal lifeā for the
day is just beginning.
In my
55-and-over development, 6:00pm might as well be the ādark of nightā and,
apparently, the coyotes know it.
Do you find that the rhythm of your life
is changing as you age? Is the āearly
bird specialā dining and sleep schedule for senior citizens just a stereotype
or do you think there is truth in it? If
so, why do you think that is? Please
share your perspective by leaving a comment.
In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.
As
Valentineās Day approaches, this old womanās fancy is lightly turning to
thoughts of love. To me, a life must
have love to be healthy and hardy.
Without love, I think our physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual
well-being suffers. Our spirits become
pale, weak, puny little things that fail to thrive. With love, our lives are robust, multi-faceted,
and always growing.
This
will be the sixtieth Heart Day I have spent on the planet. They havenāt all been happy. I havenāt always had a special valentine of
my own. I havenāt experienced any of
those ārom comā Valentineās Days filled with flowers, surprises, and perfect
proposals.
Over
all, though, Iāve been pretty lucky in the love department.
To
begin with, I have God. As St. John
says, āGod IS love.ā How can any
Valentineās Day existā¦ or any day at all exist, that doesnāt include a celebration
of the abundant love of my Lord? I am
wondrously and robustly blessed. My life
can be nothing less than a love letter from and to God.
I have
always had the most supportive and loving family and friends. Theyāve always laughed with me, held me up
when Iāve been drowning in sorrow, made me feel special, and pointed me true
north when my internal compass wobbled in wild wonkiness. Even in times when I was without a romantic
relationship and felt desperately unloved and unwanted, I have always
been loved and wanted. I was just too
much of a goose to realize it. Max and I
have been binge watching Downton Abbey again recently. In one episode, the cook, Mrs. Patmore sends
an anonymous Valentineās Day card to her assistant, Daisy. Mrs. Patmore is sure that one of the footmen
is going to send a card to the other kitchen maid and she wants Daisy to have
something to open as well. After much
ado, Mrs. Patmore finally confesses to Daisy that she sent the valentine and
apologizes for instigating an unintended drama.
Daisy thanks Mrs. Patmore, responding that she might not have a young
man, but she has a friend and āthat is something.ā It certainly is, Daisy. In fact, it is a great deal more than
āsomething.ā
Actually,
Valentineās Day has not been a very big deal in my holiday hierarchy. I send cards, but thatās about it. Even when I was in romantic relationships, my
beaux have always approached the most romantic day of the year as little more
than a Hallmark holiday. The first guy I
dated after my divorce asked me why I didnāt get him anything for Valentineās
Day, although I had, in fact, sent a card.
The irony, apparently quite lost on him, was that he had done nothing at
all for me for Valentineās Day. Another
fellow, who I dated for several years, did get me a valentine gift one
year. It was a rain gage. Yes, a rain gage. I think I can claim the distinction of having
received the least romantic gift of all time.
I know everyone has a different language of love, but I think it is safe
to assume that lovers donāt speak ārain gageā anywhere.
Max
and I have always acknowledged Valentineās Day, but in a pretty low-key way. We
exchange cards. I always get him the extremely sentimental gift of a renewal of
his AAA club membership. I know it isnāt
a rain gage, but we canāt all be crazy romantic fools. Honestly, he would be
very disappointed if I did not renew his membership. His gift to me is usually rolled into whatever
ābigā gift has been burning a hole in his present budget. For instance, last Christmas, he got me a
tanzanite ring that represented Christmas, birthday, anniversary, and
Valentineās birthday for three years.
We
donāt drag out the trumpets and play a fanfare.
It always feels like we āshouldā do something special, but we usually
donāt. Neither one of us really like to
go out for dinner or anywhere traditionally romantic because everything is so
crowded and expensive. It is a bit galling to realize you are paying more for
an experience that you could have much more pleasantly on any other day of the
year just to be able to say you are doing it on Valentineās Day. It is kind of the New Yearās Eve of love. Hardened partiers call New Yearās Eve the
amateur night for drinkers. Maybe
Valentineās Day is the amateur night for people who are trying desperately to
be good at being in love.
There
certainly are times when I fantasize about receiving a grand romantic gesture,
especially at Valentineās Day. For the
most part, though, I am happy to take my love as I find it, on any day of the
year. Our Valentineās Days are not
exploding with passion like a fireworks show.
I would rather know that I am loved and cherished each and every day
than point to one specific moment in time when the valentine fireworks
ignited. Our Valentineās Days are
sweeter and less flashy, like savoring hot chocolate.
Max
and I understand each other. We nurture
each other. We enjoy each other. We have
a lot of the same interests and preferences. We introduce each other to
different fancies that become shared eccentricities. For instance, how many 68-year-old men trail
after their girlfriends visiting Tinker Bell in Pixie Hollow? And delight in it?
We may
not always admire the other personās less-than-pleasant personality quirks, but
we admire the totality of the other person.
The quirks are just part of the package.
Max loves me enough to do just about anything for me, if I tell him it
is important to me. He doesnāt try to convince me why it isnāt important, he
just trusts that it is. In exchange, I
love him enough not to play the āimportantā card unless it really is. I donāt ask him to do things that I know he
wonāt want to do unless it truly is important to me.
Yes, I
am well-loved. And, because I am, my
life is heathy and heart-y!
Do you have a special valentine wish you
would like to send? Please feel free to
reach out to your loved one with a heart-y message by leaving a comment. If you would like to email me, you can do so
at terriretirement@gmail.com.
Recently,
I asked you for your feedback about whether or not I should host guest bloggers. Your comments were so flattering and
encouraging. I appreciate your support
more than you can know.
Most
people who responded enjoy the blog the way it is, but were also open to guest
bloggers if I decided to go in that direction.
The clearest message I got was that I should do whatever my heart told
me to do. My heart is still unsure. I want to branch out, but I am reluctant to
let go of the tree trunk. Since this
metaphor is the story of my life and has usually meant that I cling to the
trees with an iron grip, I want to be sure I am not missing an opportunity to
do something that will ultimately make me even happier.
I
really liked Reader Bonnieās suggestion about making guest blogs
interactive. I could give the guest
blogger a series of questions to address in writing. Then, Iād read the responses, ask follow up
questions, consider the replies, and then cobble together a post that includes
the back-and-forthā¦ sort of like a written interview. This will likely cause me more time and
effort than just writing the blog piece myself. However, this structure might help me release
control more gingerly than just haphazardly farming out the blogging duties on
a given week. It wouldnāt be as much of
a jolt to my system. Bottom line is that
Iām not sure if it would work, but Iād
still be the one deciding if it worked or not.
Well,
you never know until you try. I may
explore this path in the next few months. It makes me feel nervous to even
contemplate this, but I also think it could end up being a very good
thing. Maybe every few months, Iāll
collaborate with someone who actually knows something about something or with
someone who I think is fun and quirky enough to entertain us all.
After
all, whatās the worst thing that could happen?
I could fall out of a tree?
Are there any topics that YOU would like
to see me explore with a guest blogger?
What fields would you be interested to cultivate? Please share your perspective by leaving a
comment. In the alternative, you can
email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.
Okay,
Iām traumatized. I have been stewing
over an incident that happened a few weeks ago. Iāve decided to go public with
my story, in the hopes that sharing my experience will mend my scars. Also, if
I can save one senior citizen from the tragedy I experienced, the pain of
reliving it will be worthwhile.
I
traveled to Orlando to see my endocrinologist.
That wasnāt traumatic. Everything
was fine. He said, as he always does,
āYou are too healthy to come here.ā I
decided to visit a store near the doctorās office that sells bulk
products. They have barrels of loose
goods, like nuts and grains, that they sell by weight. You simply pick what you want, fill a bag
with as much as you desire, and attach a tag with the item number on it. They always have interesting things. I
appreciate being able to buy a little of several different items.
Still,
no trauma. I filled a few bags with
goodies and went to pay. I chatted with the cashier while I dug out my credit
card. My transaction completed, I
gathered up my purchases, credit card, and handbag. My car keys were laying on the counter.
Thatās
when things went south.
āOoops,ā
I laughed. āI wonāt get very far without
these,ā referring to the car keys on the counter. āI just have too many things in my hands to
keep track of, I guess.ā
The
cashier, who looked like she was about twelve or maybe twenty-two (if you
squint), smiled at me. I thought she was
going to laugh with me about how easy it is to get scatterbrained when you are
busy and have to juggle numerous items. Instead,
she gazed at me with a kind, concerned, condescending expression on her face. Then, she struck the fatal blow.
āNever
mind,ā she simpered. āI just think it is
great that you can get out and be active and vibrant as you get older.ā
I
wanted to smack her. I consider it a
sign of incredible self-restraint that I did not. If I had, could you really have blamed me?
I am
59 years old. I am younger than
approximately 24% of our nationās presidents were when they took office. Only 10% of the American workforce retires
before age 60, so it follows that somewhere around 90% of people my age in the
United States are still doddering around at a job.
When
did I get to be so old that going to a bulk goods store qualified as active and
vibrant?
I knew
I was getting older, of course. Still, I
didnāt think Iād entered another demographic quite yet. It is easy to forget your advancing age when
you live in a community where the average age is much older than yours. I look fairly young. I feel very young. In fact, I feel younger now than I did when I
actually was young.
I
should have known the jig was up, though. It started innocently enough. When people started addressing me as āmaāam,ā
I had my first twitch of antiquity. I
always felt that being a āmaāamā was a hallmark of old age. When anyone called me āmaāam,ā I felt vaguely
embarrassed as if I had been caught masquerading as someone much more grown-up
than myself. I donāt think Iāve EVER
seen myself as a āmaāam.ā In my head, I am still that fresh-faced, naĆÆve kid
that first stepped into the adult workforce in 1981. That was when people
started to call me āmaāamā occasionally.
It always felt artificial.
The
āmaāamsā started multiplying when we moved to Florida. At first, I was able to rationalize them away
as being a āsouthern thing.ā And indeed,
it is a āsouthern thing.ā Everyone
female, even a two-year-old, is a āmaāam.ā
After four years of living in Florida, I, too, am pretty footloose and
fancy free with the term. I kind of like
that people here use the terms āmaāamā and āsirā as routinely as they call perfect
strangers āhoney,ā ādarling,ā and āsweetie.ā
It feels gracious, cozy, respectful, and intimate all at the same
time.
Still,
after my experience with the cashier at the bulk goods store, I wonder if there
isnāt some insidious connection between the ever-increasing number of āmaāamsā
I am generating and my ever-increasing age.
Rather than being a gentle and gentile southern convention, maybe the
āmaāamā is a slippery slope to old age.
Iāll
never know for sure because my active and vibrant self might break a hip if I
ever slid down a slope.
Have you ever been taken aback by the way
someone reacted to you because of your age?
What was that experience like for you?
Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.
