Author: Terri

Home For The Holidays

This year, Christmas has not seemed quite so much like Christmas, for some reason. I am not sure what the difference is. I went back to my post Gentle Christmas ( A Gentle Christmas – Terri LaBonte- Reinventing Myself in Retirement  ) from last year because the feeling seems a little familiar. I did have a sense that I might have felt the same last year. In re-reading last year’s Christmas edition, I learned that I did turn a very merry corner in 2023. However, last year I felt hopeful and happy about that change. This year, those attitude adjustments I made last year feel a little hollow.

When I thought about what made Christmas not feel like Christmas, it struck me that the statement was a bit of a mystery. It is like when someone says, “I don’t feel like myself.” If YOU are the one feeling a certain kind of way, surely feeling that “certain kind of way” must be feeling like YOURSELF. If it IS Christmas, then the way I feel must be the way Christmas feels.

In truth, Christmas is not just one thing, and it does not feel just one way. It is not as permanent and unchanging as we would sometimes like to believe.

Some events or traditions that do stay similar from year to year may not continue to serve the happiness of those who partake. For instance, I gave up on Christmas cards this year. It was a hard decision because I care so much about the connection that I have with the people to whom I send cards. However, last year my energy lagged as I plowed my way through the list. It became a chore, and I am afraid that the people whose names started later in the alphabet did not get the attention and thought that I would have liked to give them. I decided on a different way forward.

Some events or traditions that change dramatically may not feel good but that does not mean that they are necessarily worse in the grand scheme of things. For instance, I always miss my mother, but Christmas shines a harsh spotlight on her empty chair. My mother, like her daughter, was a Crazy Christmas Lady. Christmas will never be the same without her. However, when I feel that sudden stab of loss, as I do regularly during the holiday season, I tend to lean into it and live in the memory of her wild and uncontrolled festive reflex. That memory wraps around me and fuels me in a different way than while she was alive. Neither way is better. They are just different. I know my mother has gone home for the holidays forever, but she also left love here for me to celebrate.

I have been thinking about my expectations and paradigms around Christmas. Since I understand, at least in my heart, that Christmas does not have to feel just one way, I wanted to figure out what about this Christmas felt not just different but lacking.

Many people who are going through tough times find Christmas particularly difficult. I, on the other hand, have always looked at Christmas as an escape from the reality of troubled times. All my life, no matter what problems I faced or what hurt I was experiencing, I was able to put it aside and immerse myself in magic at Christmastime. And there was almost always much from which I needed to escape. I was able to release the burden of managing pain and fear for those few weeks each year. Instead, through sheer force of will, I could pretend they did not exist at all. Most people feel some post-holiday letdown, but that letdown could be crippling to me as the real world burst from its fetters and came back to haunt me on December 26th.

I realized that is the feeling that these past two Christmases have been lacking- escape. Here’s the good news- and this realization rocked my whole understanding of myself. I no longer need the escape. I have healed so much from the ugliness that attacked and eroded my soul most of my life, I no longer need to cling desperately to the life preserver a few weeks of delusion in December provided.

Now that I have reached this startling revelation, I am finding it much more comfortable to live with a more diverse paradigm of what Christmas feels like. So, this Christmas, what feels like Christmas for me?

As a Christian, I cannot ignore the fundamental importance of the Incarnation of Jesus. These are indeed tidings of extraordinary joy and, no matter how I feel in a particular moment, it will always be tidings of great joy. In my soul, I rejoice with exceeding great joy.

Additionally, God has made Himself incarnate in a very special way for me over the past week. This incarnation mimics and reminds me of that Great Incarnation of the Nativity in a humble way. The honest truth is that so many people heap God’s love over me. They are God’s love incarnate. I am so, so grateful and joyful for the people God puts around me and the love He gives me in my life   I’ve seen it so generously in the past few days especially. There is no greater “feels like Christmas” than this.

I know that one day I will go home for the holidays forever and it will be a joyful day. Until then, I will continue to rejoice with exceeding great joy that home is where the heart is and my heart lives in the love of my family- both the family by biology and the family by selection!

Merry, merry Christmas! Thank you all for your incarnation! May God bless you all in the coming year.

Terri/Dorry 😊

Does Christmas feel like Christmas to you this year? What makes Christmas feel like Christmas? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Silver Slippers Of The Smokies

I must be an extremely impressionable soul.

As I have discussed, we recently took a trip to the Great Smoky Mountains. While we were there, we visited Dollywood. We also spent a morning shopping in Gatlinburg. I have never been a huge fan of country music. I am not a detractor or anything. I don’t have a systemic hatred of the genre. There are even a few songs that I can identify as favorites of mine. However, country music as a whole never seemed to really resonate with me.

One trip to Dollywood and that changed. I overlayed Tennessee Hill People Culture over my base personality, like one of those “topper” pairs of glasses. The base frames are the same, but there are various “fancy” magnetic covers for those frames that you can purchase individually to change up your look. The core of my personality was still Terri, but I slapped on a set of sparkly, distinctive, “hee hawing” toppers the minute I got out of the car in Tennessee.

I had to stop myself from speaking with a drawl so people would not think I was mocking them. My drawl reflex was not intended to be rude or mocking. I just couldn’t help myself. My delicate ears heard the drawl all around me. My brain somehow managed to translate it and ordered my mouth to respond in kind. It took a lot of intentionality to ignore that command. I spent the entire time we were in Tennessee humming Dolly Parton songs. I even walked around two-stepping with an imaginary partner. I was offended on behalf of the hill people when I looked at goods in “real handmade Smoky Mountain handicraft” stores and saw “Made in China” labels. My GPS got screwed up one morning directing us to the visitor center for the national park. As we slithered our way up a mountain, with no sign of visitors anywhere (actually, no sign of any people at all,) I instinctively knew we were in a “holler” as soon as a saw a couple of rundown houses grouped together and flanked by equally rundown furniture. In an act of solidarity, I left considerable money in jars all over the area asking for help for hurricane relief. I felt really good about it.

The final straw came on our last full day in Tennessee. We were wandering around the shops in Gatlinburg. Uncharacteristically, I was having a challenging time finding stuff to buy. As we passed a shoe store window, a pair of silver sequin ankle boots caught my eye. Now, silver sequin ankle cowgirl boots may be the thing I need least in all the world. However, I could not uncatch my eye. Finally, Max convinced me to go in the store and take a closer look. I went in, hoping to find something about those boots that I hated so I could let go of the whole ludicrous idea that I might actually buy them.

After trying on the display pair in size eight, I loved them. My foot, however, is not a size eight. It seemed especially ridiculous to pay a price upwards of $200 for a pair of shoes that did not fit. Maybe even ridiculous enough to drive the notion from my brain. Max was not to be deterred, however. He asked the sales guy if they had any other sizes. The inventory showed they also had a size seven and a size 7.5.  After some concerted searching, the guy found the size seven, but it was too small. He looked and looked and looked for the size 7.5 before admitting defeat. Feeling like Cinderella leaving without the prince, I tried to find relief at not having to decide whether to spend so much money on such an audacious purchase.

As we were leaving the store, the sales guy found the problem. He explained that the 7.5 boots were the ones in the window. They did not want to sell that pair because one of the boots had one tiny, tiny sequin missing. I never would have known it was there if he had not pointed it out to me. I tried the boot on, and it fit perfectly. The sales guy said he would call the vendor and see if they could send me a new pair in the correct size.

Several hours later, he called me to report that the vendor discontinued the boot. They could not send me a new pair because there were no new pairs. Just as my brain was ordering a dip in endorphins, the sales guy suggested an alternative. After discussing the matter with his manager, they agreed that they would sell me the sample boots with the tiny, tiny, tiny imperfection for about $75 off the sticker price. I thought that was more than fair- especially when Max insisted on buying them for me for Christmas. They are now hidden in a closet here at home, hoping that I will forget about them and be surprised on Christmas. I don’t think that is going to happen.

So, I am soon to be the proud owner of a pair of sparkly silver boots. The only way these make sense is if I am going to become a country western singer or a Rockette. I don’t think either of those things are going to happen either . Still, I can’t wait to wear them!

Have a sparkly day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

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

Florida Woman

As of last week, I have been a Florida resident for ten years. An entire decade of my life. I am having a tough time wrapping my head around that fact. It seems like just a moment or two has passed since Max and I encountered the sudden jolt to our systems of moving and turning our world upside down… and sideways.

Just a second ago, we were preparing to celebrate our first Christmas in the South… without family, without friends, without even a Christmas tree. My mother considered this situation to be the eleventh circle of hell. She sent us presents (even though we celebrated an early Christmas at Thanksgiving, before we left California) because she could not bear the idea that I would have nothing to open on Christmas morning. I was 55 years old. She also had Amazon send me a small, pre-lit Christmas tree. It stood, forlornly, in a corner with no ornaments or any additional decoration amidst the boxes and piles of unpacking still taunting me. I remember bracing myself for that Christmas, expecting to hurt and feel bereft to the bone. It ended up not being so bad. Max and I had been so busy and stressed since the end of November, it felt kind of nice to take a “silent night” or two.

In all, it seems surreal to think that time was ten whole years ago. On the other hand, I can look at all the major life events that have happened since we moved to Florida and wonder if there ever was a life before the one I am living now.

  • I had new, meaningful experiences with my mother that built beautiful memory castles in my mind.
  • I celebrated ten additional anniversaries with Max, maturing and enriching our exquisite relationship. We lived through so many shared experiences and so much mutual vulnerability in our new surroundings.
  • I walked with my mother for 13 months on her end-of-life journey after a catastrophic stroke.
  • Four close family members died.
  • I lived through multiple hurricanes.
  • There was a worldwide pandemic.
  • I released three books.
  • I published 412 blog posts, totaling approximately 452,000 words.
  • I’ve petted, fed, and swam with an entire menagerie of land and sea creatures.
  • I’ve healed from past trauma in a way that I never dreamed possible.
  • I lost and gained weight about 1,468 times, give or take a few hundred.
  • I vacationed approximately twenty times, including visits to places I have never been before- New England, Charleston, Savannah, and Tennessee.
  • I revisited the first home I remember in New York and let my soul live there for a time.
  • I converted to a new Christian denomination.
  • I worked as a chaplain, vestry member, teacher, project coordinator, temporary office worker, meal delivery person, and other service positions in a new church.
  • I made numerous friends who I now call “family.”

Put in this context, the perspective is all cattywampus. The ten years no longer feels like an instant. How could all this have happened in only ten years? No wonder it sometimes feels like I must schedule time just to take a breath! Yes, it has truly been a lifetime since we moved to Florida. I have lived that lifetime thoroughly and well.

Have a valuable day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Do you feel you have lived your life well and thoroughly since retirement?  How so?  If not, what can you do now to enrich your retirement experience?

Psalm 30

You have turned my wailing into dancing; you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy, that my heart may sing your praises and not be silent, Lord, my God, I will praise you forever.

-Psalm 30:11-12

As Thanksgiving approaches, I thought it would be a suitable time for me to remember the Author of all good things- the most loving Father, the most compassionate Healer, the most powerful God. People talk about miracles, but most people do not know when they have experienced one. I have and it has changed my life. It was not the kind of miracle that is readily apparent, like healing a withered limb or clearing the eyes of a blind person. Just because my miracle was not so obvious does not make its impact any less significant. God did turn my wailing into dancing and removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy.

More than 40 years ago, I encountered a situation that definitively changed me. It was not a single episode or event. It was a condition of life that, over time, tore and seared and eroded my heart. My heart was in ragged, delicate strands with some sections entirely destroyed. Oh, my heart still pumped blood to the rest of my body. It could still recognize beauty. It could still feel compassion. It could still feel duty and responsibility. It could still feel gratitude. It could also still feel longing. However, the part of my heart that lived in my soul- the part of my heart that made me me– was no longer functional.

I thought I healed from that situation, but what I really did was gather up the detritus of the “me” heart and carry it to a hidden place in my soul. I lovingly wrapped the shards and shatters tightly in filmy, bulky bubble wrap. The wrap obscured what was left of the me-ness, but it protected that preciousness from further destruction. I always carried that piece of my heart in that hidden place in my soul. I cherished it and I mourned it. I shielded it so much that even I forgot what it looked like. Sometimes a brave bit of hope would be able to exert enough pressure to nudge the contents in the prison of bubble wrap. During those times, my heart would struggle to escape its confines. However, I had wrapped those pieces of me-heart the way a child wraps a Christmas present- with enough knots and folds and tape to secure the contents from any attempt to open it, short of tearing it open from the outside. 

One day, a couple of years ago, God did exactly that. He grabbed hold of that plastic- encased mess of a heart and ripped open the wrapping. He ripped open the protection, but He also ripped open the limitations. I even knew the day it happened. To be completely transparent, it had been coming for some time. Still, there was a particular moment I can identify as the moment God “turned my wailing into dancing.”  I have been a Christian all my life. This was the first time I understood- in a truly experiential way- “If anyone is in Christ, this person is a new creation, the old things passed away; behold, new things have come” (2 Corinthians: 5:17) I was new. I was healed. I was liberated to become the person God created me, wonderfully and fearfully, to be.

Certainly, God is still working on me. In that one moment, He ripped enough of the wrapping so that my me-heart could emerge. He still pulls off bits of bubble wrap and gives them to me to pop. Sometimes, I struggle with that. I reach out to Him and to loving people with whom He blesses me as I grapple to continue towards perfect freedom. I expect that this process will continue my whole life. I also think that God will intentionally leave some pieces of my heart fragile and scarred, to remind me to rely on Him and to encourage me to nurture the parts of me that I need to nurture.

It is as if this process has been a redemption of my creation- the restoration of the person God meant for me to be. All the phases of the process- my attempts at protection, my refusal to completely discard the broken parts of me, the people and circumstances God used to clear the way for His work, and God’s miraculous healing- are equally worthy of praise and thanksgiving because they have all been part of God’s miracle.  I know what I am saying in this blog post is weightier than my usual offerings. It feels scary to write it and post it. It is easy to see Thanksgiving Day as simply the springboard to the busy, festive, frantic holiday season, but my me-heart must praise and thank. So, today, nearing Thanksgiving, “I will not be silent.”  Thank You, my precious Lord

You have turned my wailing into dancing; you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy, that my heart may sing your praises and not be silent, Lord, my God, I will praise you forever.

-Psalm 30:11-12

As Thanksgiving approaches, I thought it would be a suitable time for me to remember the Author of all good things- the most loving Father, the most compassionate Healer, the most powerful God. People talk about miracles, but most people do not know when they have experienced one. I have and it has changed my life. It was not the kind of miracle that is readily apparent, like healing a withered limb or clearing the eyes of a blind person. Just because my miracle was not so obvious does not make its impact any less significant. God did turn my wailing into dancing and removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy.

More than 40 years ago, I encountered a situation that definitively changed me. It was not a single episode or event. It was a condition of life that, over time, tore and seared and eroded my heart. My heart was in ragged, delicate strands with some sections entirely destroyed. Oh, my heart still pumped blood to the rest of my body. It could still recognize beauty. It could still feel compassion. It could still feel duty and responsibility. It could still feel gratitude. It could also still feel longing. However, the part of my heart that lived in my soul- the part of my heart that made me me– was no longer functional.

I thought I healed from that situation, but what I really did was gather up the detritus of the “me” heart and carry it to a hidden place in my soul. I lovingly wrapped the shards and shatters tightly in filmy, bulky bubble wrap. The wrap obscured what was left of the me-ness, but it protected that preciousness from further destruction. I always carried that piece of my heart in that hidden place in my soul. I cherished it and I mourned it. I shielded it so much that even I forgot what it looked like. Sometimes a brave bit of hope would be able to exert enough pressure to nudge the contents in the prison of bubble wrap. During those times, my heart would struggle to escape its confines. However, I had wrapped those pieces of me-heart the way a child wraps a Christmas present- with enough knots and folds and tape to secure the contents from any attempt to open it, short of tearing it open from the outside. 

One day, a couple of years ago, God did exactly that. He grabbed hold of that plastic- encased mess of a heart and ripped open the wrapping. He ripped open the protection, but He also ripped open the limitations. I even knew the day it happened. To be completely transparent, it had been coming for some time. Still, there was a particular moment I can identify as the moment God “turned my wailing into dancing.”  I have been a Christian all my life. This was the first time I understood- in a truly experiential way- “If anyone is in Christ, this person is a new creation, the old things passed away; behold, new things have come” (2 Corinthians: 5:17) I was new. I was healed. I was liberated to become the person God created me, wonderfully and fearfully, to be.

Certainly, God is still working on me. In that one moment, He ripped enough of the wrapping so that my me-heart could emerge. He still pulls off bits of bubble wrap and gives them to me to pop. Sometimes, I struggle with that. I reach out to Him and to loving people with whom He blesses me as I grapple to continue towards perfect freedom. I expect that this process will continue my whole life. I also think that God will intentionally leave some pieces of my heart fragile and scarred, to remind me to rely on Him and to encourage me to nurture the parts of me that I need to nurture.

It is as if this process has been a redemption of my creation- the restoration of the person God meant for me to be. All the phases of the process- my attempts at protection, my refusal to completely discard the broken parts of me, the people and circumstances God used to clear the way for His work, and God’s miraculous healing- are equally worthy of praise and thanksgiving because they have all been part of God’s miracle.  I know what I am saying in this blog post is weightier than my usual offerings. It feels scary to write it and post it. It is easy to see Thanksgiving Day as simply the springboard to the busy, festive, frantic holiday season, but my me-heart must praise and thank. So, today, nearing Thanksgiving, “I will not be silent.”  Thank You, my precious Lord

You have turned my wailing into dancing; you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy, that my heart may sing your praises and not be silent, Lord, my God, I will praise you forever.

-Psalm 30:11-12

As Thanksgiving approaches, I thought it would be a suitable time for me to remember the Author of all good things- the most loving Father, the most compassionate Healer, the most powerful God. People talk about miracles, but most people do not know when they have experienced one. I have and it has changed my life. It was not the kind of miracle that is readily apparent, like healing a withered limb or clearing the eyes of a blind person. Just because my miracle was not so obvious does not make its impact any less significant. God did turn my wailing into dancing and removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy.

More than 40 years ago, I encountered a situation that definitively changed me. It was not a single episode or event. It was a condition of life that, over time, tore and seared and eroded my heart. My heart was in ragged, delicate strands with some sections entirely destroyed. Oh, my heart still pumped blood to the rest of my body. It could still recognize beauty. It could still feel compassion. It could still feel duty and responsibility. It could still feel gratitude. It could also still feel longing. However, the part of my heart that lived in my soul- the part of my heart that made me me– was no longer functional.

I thought I healed from that situation, but what I really did was gather up the detritus of the “me” heart and carry it to a hidden place in my soul. I lovingly wrapped the shards and shatters tightly in filmy, bulky bubble wrap. The wrap obscured what was left of the me-ness, but it protected that preciousness from further destruction. I always carried that piece of my heart in that hidden place in my soul. I cherished it and I mourned it. I shielded it so much that even I forgot what it looked like. Sometimes a brave bit of hope would be able to exert enough pressure to nudge the contents in the prison of bubble wrap. During those times, my heart would struggle to escape its confines. However, I had wrapped those pieces of me-heart the way a child wraps a Christmas present- with enough knots and folds and tape to secure the contents from any attempt to open it, short of tearing it open from the outside. 

One day, a couple of years ago, God did exactly that. He grabbed hold of that plastic- encased mess of a heart and ripped open the wrapping. He ripped open the protection, but He also ripped open the limitations. I even knew the day it happened. To be completely transparent, it had been coming for some time. Still, there was a particular moment I can identify as the moment God “turned my wailing into dancing.”  I have been a Christian all my life. This was the first time I understood- in a truly experiential way- “If anyone is in Christ, this person is a new creation, the old things passed away; behold, new things have come” (2 Corinthians: 5:17) I was new. I was healed. I was liberated to become the person God created me, wonderfully and fearfully, to be.

Certainly, God is still working on me. In that one moment, He ripped enough of the wrapping so that my me-heart could emerge. He still pulls off bits of bubble wrap and gives them to me to pop. Sometimes, I struggle with that. I reach out to Him and to loving people with whom He blesses me as I grapple to continue towards perfect freedom. I expect that this process will continue my whole life. I also think that God will intentionally leave some pieces of my heart fragile and scarred, to remind me to rely on Him and to encourage me to nurture the parts of me that I need to nurture.

It is as if this process has been a redemption of my creation- the restoration of the person God meant for me to be. All the phases of the process- my attempts at protection, my refusal to completely discard the broken parts of me, the people and circumstances God used to clear the way for His work, and God’s miraculous healing- are equally worthy of praise and thanksgiving because they have all been part of God’s miracle.  I know what I am saying in this blog post is weightier than my usual offerings. It feels scary to write it and post it. It is easy to see Thanksgiving Day as simply the springboard to the busy, festive, frantic holiday season, but my me-heart must praise and thank. So, today, nearing Thanksgiving, “I will not be silent.”  Thank You, my precious Lord, for Your goodness! I will shout Your praises all the days of my life.

Have a miraculous day!

Terri/Dorry 🙂

What makes your heart thankful on Thanksgiving and every day? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

PS. IF YOU ARE READING THIS, I AM SO THANKFUL FOR YOU!!!! MAY GOD BLESS YOU WITH LOVE, JOY, AND PEACE ALWAYS!

Wild Or Mild? Part 2

As our visit to Tennessee continued, I loosened up a little. As touristy and garish as Pigeon Forge is, the Smoky Mountains are definitely a place that markets adventure in the great outdoors. In an attempt to blow a raspberry at the emotional impact of turning 65, I decided I wanted to partake. In my world, having an adventure includes a tour guide, a driver, and a souvenir shop. I’m into carefully controlled adventure and planned spontaneity.

I scheduled two different pink jeep tours. I have never been on a jeep, nor have I ever gone off-roading… at least not intentionally. Both jeep adventures were fantastic. Everything was so beautiful. The trees, the rivers, the waterfalls, and the sunlight dappling the fields created an exquisitely tuned symphony of primitive perfection. We made multiple stops along the way to give us the chance to wander a bit and climb down to creek beds to get a better look. The Great Smoky Mountain National Park is one of those places that expanded my mind to a new level of beauty perception. It happened to me the first time I went to Hawaii and the first time I went to New England. I was so profoundly aware of not realizing somewhere so beautiful could exist until I saw it with my own eyes. The Smokies had the same effect on me. At the end of each tour, the guide took us off-roading on a course specifically designed for thrills and chills and no broken bones.

There was so much exhilaration in walking on unpaved trails, climbing down a slope so the guide could take our picture right next to the river, sliding my feet through fallen leaves, filling my lungs with so much crisply clean air flavored with forest, looking for bears in the trees,  and giggling maniacally when the off-roading experience popped my butt off the seat and into Max’s personal space.  That exhilaration made me feel young, vibrant, carefree, and wild. My mood felt unfettered. My muscles felt loose. My vital signs felt like they clicked right into optimal normal range as soon as we officially entered the park. The adventure created so much superpower in us, we could actually be in two places at once. See the pictures below showing us behind the jeep and at the front of the jeep in the exact same photograph. To be honest, I felt like a bit of a badass.

On the other hand…. I was inept at getting out of the jeep. Getting in was not too much of a problem. I could grab onto a handle and haul myself up into the back. Getting down, however… that was harder. I did not feel steady enough on my feet to dismount the vehicle and find the ground while still remaining upright without holding on to at least one other person’s hand. I am a rather short person, and that ground did seem pretty far away from the back of the jeep. Still, no one else seemed to need life support to get out of the jeep. It was embarrassing.

It was also embarrassing when a visit to an old house shone an even brighter spotlight on my unsteadiness and extreme lack of coordination. There were three steps up to the porch of the house and zero bannisters. Most people visited inside the house. I certainly had that intention. When I came face-to-face with the steps, I wisely realized that I could get up them without a railing but would be stuck there forever until bears ate me or I died of old age because there is no way I was going to be able navigate descending those steps.  It was a humbling feeling for my newly declared badass self.

Another day, we took a trip to Skypark in Gatlinburg. We took a chair lift about 500 feet up the mountain. It was the coolest thing we did on the trip. I had considered ziplining but chickened out. Skypark was my compromise with myself. The view from the ski lift was fantastic and, arguably, I appreciated it much more than I would have at the breakneck speed of a zipline. It still felt pretty wild.

There were a few non-wild moments, however. When we pulled the lap bar down on the chair lift, I did not immediately realize that there was a security support bisecting the center of the main lap bar. Instead of the bar gliding smoothly over both our laps, I somehow managed to bring the security support down directly on my thigh. I was apparently sitting too close to Max and was not in my own lane. I ended up having quite a lovely bruise on my thigh after that. When we reached the end of the ride, I also found that my purse and sweater were hopelessly tangled in the lap bar. It required two quick-moving attendants to extricate me from my accessories and get me safely back on terra firma.

Once we got off the ski lift, I poured on the wild again. We walked across the skybridge- the longest cable bridge in North America, which spans the 400 feet or so from one mountain top to another. The bridge also boasts a 30-foot section where the footpath is not wood or stone or anything that feels solid. Instead, that 30-foot section is made of glass. As you traverse that section of the swaying bridge, you can look beneath your feet and see nothing between you and the ground 500 feet below. Max and I had no issues walking the bridge. We suitably impressed ourselves with our courage when we made it #PassTheGlass. I even conquered the swaying and managed to stay on my feet. Handrails, even when made of rope and cable, are my friends.

Now that the vacation is over and I have had time to reflect, I must admit that my badass self was maybe not quite as edgy as I first believed. I look back at all my adventures and feel enormously proud of myself. To be honest, I don’t think I saw any other short, pudgy, 65-year-old women braving jeeps, ski lifts, and swaying glass bridges 500 feet off the ground. Still, it is humbling to think of my wobbly dismounting from the jeeps and clutzy exit from the ski lift. It is also only fair to go back to my original point, which is that my adventures were carefully controlled, and my spontaneity was planned. So, what is your verdict? Wild or mild? I think I’m going with wild AND mild!

What do think?  Am I wild or mild?  Is my ass bad or good?  Please share your perspective by leaving a comment.  In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com. 

Have a wild day!

Terri/Dorry😊

#PassTheGlass

Wild Or Mild? Part 1

Recently, we took a trip to the Great Smoky Mountains in Tennessee. With uncharacteristically excellent timing, we managed to plan the trip between two tantruming hurricanes. I was driving from our home in central Florida to our ultimate destination- a distance of over six hundred miles, each way. Previously, the furthest I’d ever driven was about 380 miles to Charleston. I had some trepidation about upping my motoring game that much. I know plenty of people who regularly make 600-mile trips in one day, but I ain’t one of them. To be honest, I was not convinced that I would even have the stamina to do two back-to-back driving days of three hundred miles each, but I told myself to get a grip, put on my big girl panties, and embrace the wheel. After all, God made cruise control for a reason. As a sop to my anxiety, I did decide to stop overnight in Macon, Georgia instead of driving the whole distance in one day.

At the beginning of the trip, I began to think that I had become an adventurer in my old age. I felt super comfortable the first day driving. I was puffed and chuffed about my performance. I felt very peppy and full of myself when we pulled into the Homewood Suites for our overnight respite. I was really feeling my oats. I felt confident enough to suggest to Max that we might be able to cancel our overnight hotel reservation on the way back, but I wanted to see how I felt after Driving Day Two.

Waiting until after Driving Day Two to make that decision was one of my wiser moves. The next day was much more difficult. As we inched our way through Atlanta traffic, I found out that fifty miles of northern Georgia is not equivalent to fifty miles of northern Florida. Time, as well as the traffic, stood still. Just when things started flowing more rapidly, we were exiting the freeway to approach Sevierville, where we were staying.

I should have been suspicious. The owners of the Airbnb we were renting told us that the house was about six miles from Dollywood and six miles from Gatlinburg. That information did seem to coincide with what Mapquest and the GPS (why only rely on a belt when you can have BOTH a belt and suspenders?) were showing me. However, the GPS was saying it was going to take half an hour to get to the property. This turned out to be accurate. The traffic on the main drag from the freeway to the turn-off to our house sludged its way across the miles even slower than the traffic in Atlanta. I could not believe the number of cars and the number of pedestrians walking along the Parkway.

The slow traffic did give me sufficient time to really take in the sights on the Parkway. How would I describe the scenery in Pigeon Forge? The first word that comes to mind for me is tacky. Not that tacky is necessarily a terrible thing in my book- my favorite color is glitter, and I leave a little pixie dust wherever I go. The Parkway was overstimulating even for me, though.

There was a smorgasbord of souvenir shops, restaurants, miniature golf courses, mountain coaster parks, more souvenir shops, escape rooms, bars, ice cream parlors, and even more souvenir shops. Oh, and did I mention souvenir shops? The souvenir shops touted “hand-crafted” Smoky Mountains products. I later discovered that the products might have been “hand-crafted,” but that crafting was done in China. The mention of “Smoky Mountain products” apparently referred only to the fact that they had “Smoky Mountains” printed on them.

The buildings stood shoulder-to-shoulder like people standing in an overcrowded elevator. It even felt like the buildings were hunching their shoulders to avoid touching each other, so aware of the lack of personal space. They were huge, painted in bright colors that had faded over time and weather. Much of the architecture was campy and bizarre. Every building was clearly competing to catch the eye. One souvenir shop had a huge alligator covering the middle third of the façade. That alligator was as wide as my entire house. It wasn’t even just painted on- the front of the building was molded into the shape of the alligator. I did not even know they had alligators in Tennessee. Another building had a huge bear, roughly equivalent to the height of the building, spouting from the roof. There was a large wax museum that included a building in the shape of a castle bigger than any Disney royal residence. The main building was shaped like the Empire State Building, complete with King Kong hanging on its side. That King Kong sculpture had to be four stories tall.

As we turned off the Parkway, the roads got narrower and curvier. Thankfully, they also got less populated. As we meandered into the outskirts of the city, I began wondering if we were on the right track because there was not much around except trees. Max began to express concern emphatically that we were out in the boondocks and were overly isolated.

As we reached the last mile of our trek, the concern level elevated. As did the road. I knew I was renting a “mountain cabin,” but I guess I didn’t realize just how much of a mountain I was getting. After living in Florida- the flattest state in the union- for nearly ten years, I’ve apparently forgotten what mountains really look like. I’ve also forgotten what the “roads” up the mountains feel like. I navigated one hairpin turn after another up a steep 2-way road that was only wide enough for about one and a quarter cars. There were no guard rails on either side, so a misstep would mean plunging to our death in the valley below or ramming into the wall of a mountain.

One of the reasons I chose this location is that it sounded like it was part of a community, which felt safer than being out in the wilderness completely alone. The cottage was part of a community, but there were only three or four houses built together before the road curved off into some new curlicue. Even once we located the community, finding our cottage was a challenge. Part of that challenge involved making several wrong guesses. This required driving up multiple blind steep hills and some death-defying U-turns. It also required me to drive in Reverse, which is always death-defying in my case.

When we finally got to the house, I was tired, hungry, anxious, and felt like there was a steel bar between my shoulders. I was also pretty testy. The house was very nice, though. The view was lovely. It was cozy and quiet. There were a couple of neighbors, which made the drive seem less terrifying. After all, if the neighbors could navigate that road on a regular basis, surely I could do it for a few days.

My adventure in the Smoky Mountains certainly started in the “wild” category. Between changing lanes on the freeway through Atlanta without having any idea of what lane I needed to be in, traveling through the Pigeon Forge fever dream of a landscape, and navigating the mini-road up to the cottage, I felt quite the thrill-seeker. I even ventured out back into town to get some dinner, which necessitated coming back up that mountain after dark. The mild part? We cancelled any thought we had of evening entertainment on this vacation. After making that trip in the dark, I decided discretion is the better part of valor. Besides, what is a vacation without several hours of YouTube videos each evening?

Have an adventurous day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

What is the most adventurous trip you have ever taken? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Terri Years

You know how they say that one dog year equals seven human years? I understand that this axiom is not particularly accurate. Calculating a dog’s aging process is more complicated than that. It seems, with a dog, a year is not a year is not a year. Some years are more equal than others.

I think the same is true with humans. At least, it is for me. I am not talking about the various and sundry health issues that seem to jump out from behind a curtain and gobble me up rather than nibble away at me gradually over time. If I am honest, those health matters do creep up over time.  The only thing sudden about them is my sudden inability to live in denial about them.   The more striking example of some years being more aging than other, seems to be my appearance.

Now, most of you know that I have never been any great shakes to look at. The one good thing I could say about my appearance is that I floated through year after year without seeming to change much. I probably spent 15-20 years looking almost exactly the same. We sometimes look at old pictures and it is difficult to date them by my appearance. If we look at old Thanksgiving photos, there is really no way to tell if we are looking at Terri 2002 or Terri 2012. In the last three years, though, I’d say that aging has been making up for lost time. The last year, especially, seems to have been hard on my constitution. I just compared some recent pictures to ones from the same event last year. I am now depressed.

I noticed a year or so ago that my jawline was starting to sink. And, believe me, I cannot afford to give up any space between my face and my shoulders. My father always called me the neckless wonder, given the fact that my chin nearly touched my boobs even when I was young. Now, it is a complete mystery whether or not I do have any neck at all because I have sagging jowls. My skin used to be oily and acne prone, but at least it glowed. It is now a peculiar shade of dull. I never used to have dark circles under my eyes. I now look like I am wearing glasses even when I am not wearing glasses. I don’t even have bags anymore. The indentations under my eyes are now twin steamer trunks. I could be sailing to Europe on the QEII with this much luggage. My hair looks even more tired than I feel. The grey roots seem to appear overnight about two and a half weeks after a trip to salon. It grows out, rather than down. As I have tried to embrace my curls, I find myself looking increasingly like a brunette Bozo the Clown… or like there is a family of cats living on my head somewhere in the chaos.

Maybe I am just having a bad self-image day. Maybe I am just overcritical of my appearance. It wouldn’t be the first time. Even given that I can be somewhat delusional about my looks- or at least some people say so- I cannot help but believe that some years age me faster than others.

I do want to be fair. I did have those 15-20 years of time standing kind of still. I suppose it was bound to catch up with me someday. I am grateful for the years of looking young. My self-image was no better in those days. In fact, it was a good deal worse. I am not sure I could have handled feeling ugly AND old all the time. Over the past several years, I have been working hard to rewire my brain. I can get through a day or a week or even a month without feeling ugly and repulsive. When I do feel ugly and repulsive, it is a mood or a moment, not a state of being.

Despite the progress I have made in seeing and appreciating myself as I actually am- physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually- my appearance has aged way more than one year in this past year. I accept that, presuming I don’t get run over by a bus, it is likely that I will encounter this phenomenon of “ultra-aging” more frequently in the next years. On the other hand, I am happier and more at peace than I ever have been in my life. I am gentler with myself and others. I am more comfortable living my life as it comes. I am more excited about growth. I am more trusting of God.

I guess I can put up with cheeks that are closer to my esophagus than my eyeballs, skin the color of old tissue paper, hair that looks like cats live in it, and luggage for a transatlantic voyage under my eyes if the pay-off is self-value and joy. 

This is going to take some getting used to. In the meantime, I definitely think I am going to stop going anywhere near a camera without make-up!

Have a youthful day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Do you think that some years age you more than others? How do you come to terms with the changes age makes to your appearance? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

I’m Not Marooned On A Mountaintop

The best laid plans of mice and men and Trrri sometimes actually do turn out to be the best-laid plans. Last week, nestled between two hurricanes, Max and I went on a scheduled vacation to the Great Smoky Mountains. My understanding when I moved to Florida was that the hurricane season ended with September. I should have gotten that in writing.

As we drove towards Tennessee, it occurred to me that I was driving practically into ground zero for Hurricane Helene. Luckily, where we were going did not have too much damage, but there were storm ravages in nearby areas that were now inaccessible by vehicle. Two of our tour guides volunteered with the relief efforts. In their case, “volunteering” meant hiking up into isolated sections of the mountains with 35 pounds of basic essential items on their backs. That was the only way to transport life sustaining items to help the people stranded by the storm’s damage to the roads.

While we were in Tennessee, Hurricane Milton fought his way across a swath of central Florida. We were safe 600 miles away, but we were concerned for our family of friends in Florida and, of course, for our house. The hurricane hype trailed us two states north.

I’m happy to report that we arrived home safely, about three days after Milton’s temper tantrum. All our friends are safe and very few experienced any significant damage. We came home to traffic lights floating at weird angles because the hurricane winds had warped them off their normal balance perpendicular to the pavement. We had some yard debris and we lost approximately six roof shingles. The street sign where we turn to approach our house is a bit more difficult to read than usual because it is now lying face-up on the ground. Neighbors inform us that the power was powerless for about 12 hours before the electric company was able to get it restored. We didn’t lose any groceries.

All in all, I’d say we fared pretty well. After all, I could be marooned on a mountain top in Tennessee waiting for some kind, physically fit volunteer backpacker to bring me peanut butter.

Have a peaceful day!

Terri/Dorry 🙂

What is the worst weather you’ve had to face? How did you handle it? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. On the alternative, you can email me at terriretiremet@gmail.com.

Follow The Bouncing Birthday

I turned 65 on Monday. It didn’t suck.

Some of you know that this birthday was kicking me with a high wattage emotional jolt. Becoming officially “old” according to the United States government caused me to re-evaluate the ways I think about myself. I’m usually  the youngest in the room. I’ve always had a rather child-like persona. I see myself as young. Clearly, by sending me a Medicare card, the United States government is suggesting that I might be delusional in that perception.

Well, I re-evaluated but have decided that the United States government is wrong in its perception of me, and I am right. I am me, with all my quirks and oddities, all my failures and frailties, all my childishness and hyper-responsibility, all my creativity and stability, and all my playfulness and wisdom. In short, I am the wildly wonderful, bizarre buffet of attributes that God combined with inscrutable intentionality to design who He wanted me to be. That design is ageless. In God’s time, I am young… and always will be.

My birthday celebrations certainly make a strong case that the number of years of my age does not define the youth of my soul.

Things started strong with a birthday box I received from my precious sister by selection in California, Judy. The box contained a variety of gifts that spoke to my value in the world. One of these small gifts that housed great value was a small sign that proclaimed that I have been loved for 65 years (and every variant possible of “65 years.”) Another was a little zippered pouch that proclaims that I have been making the world a better place since 1959. Such simple thoughts, but they packed such an emotional wallop. They forced me to tap into my spirit and find a place that values myself in these ways. It is wonderful that my Judy has these sentiments, and it is even more wonderful that she reminds me that I have them deep inside me, as well, and it is important to honor them.

I told you I had plans to visit a ranch called Beautiful Creatures Animal Sanctuary but was concerned that Hurricane Helene would dispose of those plans. Fortunately, the weather cooperated, and we spent a FABULOUS day with Candice at the ranch. I fed Dolly the sloth. I took the mini-horse Casper for a walk. I played with Betty the porcupine. Mountjac deer Prongs and Clary gave me kisses. I gave toddler kangaroo Hopper his bottle. I served dead meal worms to rambunctious lemurs. I wrapped myself in a corn snake. I hugged a hedgehog. I fell in love with a French bulldog puppy named Hiram. His custodians referred to him as “Darryl,” but I have it directly from him that his name is Hiram. There was so much more that I could say. This brief paragraph can’t even begin to describe the surprises and delights!

Candice, one of the owners of the ranch and our guide for the day, was another reason my experience was so joyful. She made me feel so special. It is not like me to take precedence over other people. I like being generous and doing things for other people. It is very unlike me to “go first” or be the one to ask for an opportunity if it means someone else won’t get one. Candice went out of her way to make the day all about me. She made it extremely easy for me to be “selfish” on my special day. Maya Angelou said that “People will forget what you do, but they will always remember how you made them feel.”  Candice made me feel awesome.

On Sunday, my friend and pastor preached a sermon that seemed to be especially for me. It was one of those sermons that bore some careful holes into my heart so God could reach me at a deeper level than usual. It felt like a warm, encouraging validation of worth. I am not so self-absorbed to think that the sermon was all about me. I am sure it spoke to many others in the pews as well. I don’t even know that I entered into the inspiration phase of the sermon, but I am so thankful that I could receive it in the way that I did.

On Sunday and Monday, friends and family showered me with birthday wishes. One friend stopped by with flowers and a balloon. On Monday morning, I slept until 9:00am. Since I usually crave sleep the way a crack addict craves cocaine, this was a fantastic way to start my actual birthday. When Max gave me my card, he commented, “I am so happy you are the love of my life.”  My heart just melted like the ice cream with the birthday cake that someone left on the counter.

Much to his relief (he has been trying to get me to open gifts for months now), I finally broke into the presents. I was delighted because I had forgotten every single one of them. Max tends to buy my presents at random times during the year and only when I am around to concur with his choices. This means that there is often a backlog of gifts. If the backlog gets long enough, I forget what we chose. It is a win-win scenario. Max does not need to stress about perhaps buying something I won’t like, and I get a surprise because my memory is not that long.

 Max and I went to Orlando for a birthday dinner at BJ’s Brewhouse, which was delicious. Finally, just when I thought the birthday was basically over, the doorbell rang. When my mother was alive, I used to buy her a gift every year on my birthday. I figured she did all the work. All I did was show up. This year, this very special birthday, I ordered a floral arrangement of white roses (my mother’s favorite flower) and pale peachy pink roses (my favorite flower. It is a fitting celebration of both of us and the path that she set us on 65 years ago.

On Tuesday, there was a bit more bounce left in the birthday ball. At our Alpha course session, there was birthday cake and ice cream to celebrate me and my dear friend who partners with me in producing Alpha. Her birthday is today, so please everyone repeat after me….”HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BABS!”

I don’t know how a girl could feel anything but loved and valued and joyful with family (by birth and selection) and friends like mine. I am a very, very blessed lady.

Please remind me of this the next time I fall into a pit of darkness!

Have a celebratory day!

Terri/Dorry 🙂

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

Sog And Sag

It is late September, and this summer is slinking by like a sloth stuck in saran wrap. I am tired of it. Granted, I was tired of it in May. At least in May, I could tell myself that the miserableness of the atmosphere was simply summer and would pass in time. I have reached that point in the sog season now where I firmly believe I will never be cool again. For the rest of my natural life (which may end in a tragic air-drowning accident), my body will continue to stick to every surface imaginable. A layer of sweat and humidity will glue every random object that I touch to my body. I don’t feel comfortable. I don’t feel clean. I don’t feel cute. Actually, most of the time, I feel disgusting.   And it is never going to end. Don’t try to talk me out of it. I know this is a permanent condition.

Friends of mine spent part of this summer in Scandinavia. They kept posting pictures of the Arctic Circle, reindeer, huskie farms, and people wearing long pants and sweaters. Personally, I think it is sadistic. I was in possession of her plants, watering them while she was away. They required three or four kettles of water a day to keep them upright. All those pictures of frost-friendly Scandinavia  caused me to contemplate plant-icide in retaliation.

The Florida summer rain is getting to me, too. Usually, it rains heavily for a fairly short time period each day, maybe a couple of times a day. However, it is also hurricane season. When I first moved to Florida, I learned that it can rain any day of the year in Florida and sometimes it does. I finally got to the point where I did not despair and suddenly change plans when a forecast several days in the future called for rain. First, those forecasts for a “future” beyond three hours from now are completely unreliable. … Just because tomorrow’s forecast says it will rain, one shouldn’t contemplate changing plans. It is very likely that, when one checks the weather by hour the next morning, there is a good chance rain will no longer be part of the mix- and, if it is, it will likely be pretty self-contained in a one-hour block of time.

This year has been different, however. We have had activities rain out because the weather did not cooperate. In fact, that is why I am writing a second summer rant about the weather. Normally, I limit myself to one whiny post a year about how annoyingly oppressive and completely bizarre the weather is in Florida. This year, however, something has happened that really must be addressed.

My birthday. Of course, I have one every year, but this September 30th is my 65th birthday. Not to put too fine a point on it, but this one seems fairly momentous. One could argue that, along with the 18th and 21st birthday, 65 is one of the most significant milestone birthdays in a person’s life. Many people retire at 65. Medicare kicks in at 65, suggesting that the United States government proclaims one officially “elderly” at 65. Typically, I have always been the youngest in my friend group and in the workplace. Even though I retired nearly 10 years ago, I have been able to avoid thinking of myself as “old” because of context. Most of the people I knew were older. However, that is changing. Every year, there is a new influx of people newly retiring into my community from points north. There is no doubt about it. There are now numerous people around me who are younger than I am. That, along with the United States of America seal of approval on my “elderly” status, has sent my brain careening into “old” with all the subtlety and finesse of electroshock therapy.

Anticipating that this was going to be a tough transition for me and also wanting to celebrate myself on this landmark day, I have been thinking for months about what to do  to mark the occasion. I particularly planned vacation around my birthday this year. The past couple of years, we have been traveling to or from a vacation on my actual birthday. I wanted 65 to be special and I wanted to focus all my energy on my birthday on celebrating me. I had several ideas, but nothing was really singing my name. Finally, I found something that had me written all over it. I planned a trip to an animal sanctuary ranch about an hour away from home. As part of the experience, I planned to interact with a sloth, pet a hedgehog, and take a miniature horse for a walk. There was a catch. The owners were planning to be out of town beginning on my actual birthday. If I wanted to do all the elements of the experience, I would have to visit on the Saturday before my birthday. This was not my ideal plan, but I finally decided to do it.

Our visit is planned for this Saturday. Yesterday, the governor of Florida declared a state of emergency because of Hurricane Helene’s approach. She is expected to make landfall on Thursday. The storm is extremely slow-moving and may still be raging on Saturday. Even if Helene has passed by Saturday, it is likely that she will leave a wide field of damage in her wake. It seems more than likely that I will not be slothing or hedgehogging or mini horsing around on Saturday. And I blame Florida weather for this travesty.

Of course, this is not a giant problem. I am blessed that Helene will probably not cause much damage in my neighborhood (knock on wood) and safety is the main thing in a hurricane. It seems very callous to even complain about my birthday celebration when people will be afraid for their lives. Even people in Helene’s path who are physically safe will be way more inconvenienced than I will be. Losing power is a bit more tragic than losing the opportunity to walk a miniature horse. I am still sad that the storm may keep me from having the birthday celebration I planned. And really peeved at the weather. I mean, is it not enough that I am turning “old and saggy?” Do I really have to be soggy, too?

Have a storm-free day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Have you ever had your plans for a “special” birthday derailed? How did you end up celebrating? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.