So many inner-voices show up to tackle the mundane and the life-changing; and they don’t always agree.
We are seniors Fourth-years No longer freshmen Experience Lives within us Promising a cocky confidence We assume the freshmen Will turn to us For wisdom And advice Instead, they reverberate With bustling expectation Of their own possibilities Their own awaited promises They nod vague respect in our direction But we are mostly a passing thought Our time dwindling Our term at this institution Nearing graduation’s end
Photo source: Walk the Goats
The woman boards the bus Her hair white, face creased Skin loose Yet her step firm. Steady Would you like my seat? I ask My hair dusted pepper-gray Is there a slight hesitancy A pause A flickered frown As she considers my offer? She glances down the aisle To the overflowing seats Negotiates with her inner voices She exhales slightly Turns back toward me Her deep brown eyes reflect decades of living Her lips hold a whisper of humor Some understanding Just beyond my grasp Then, with a calm surrender, she accepts Why yes, thank you
Photo source: Walk the Goats
Rivulets course Over dry, fading skin Ever-deepening furrows Revealing age as the days pass Two tiny mountain ranges Stand firm in goose-flight formation Crossed erratically by a thin, dark vein A distended mar across the surface A movement, and the shift Smooths lines here Scatters sand-patterns there In crinkles of joy and sorrow
I was raised in a house of heels. And now I’m done with them.
High heels were a family thing. Dad bought them. Mom wore them. And I adored them. Many came from Frederick’s of Hollywood, a catalog company carrying sizes large enough to fit mom’s feet, with a selection not available at our local shops.
They were usually stiletto’s, tall and sparkly, with a heel strong enough to be used as a weapon. For me, they were real versions of Barbie’s peep-toe mule sandals. When mom and dad were going out for a night of dinner and dancing, these are the shoes mom would wear to finish her outfit.
I loved watching her get dressed up. I loved watching her glow as she slipped on the magical shoes to complete her outfit.
She’d come down the stairs and swirl before dad. Her full skirt would rise, revealing a bit more of her long legs, their curve enhanced by the heels. Dad, watching appreciatively, would emit a low whistle. Mom beamed.
Bubba and I will be several blocks from home when one of us turns to the other and asks, “did you lock the door?”
The question triggers doubt. The doubt clings. When that question gets asked, we’ve learned to turn around, go home and check. Then we can go forward, unencumbered by worry.
Locking the door is an automatic habit. We do it absently. Most of the time. Except for those times we forget.
Because we occasionally do forget, our question—did you lock the door—compels us to return home.
With all our mindfulness exercises, we kept thinking there must be some way to help us remember if we locked the door.
There is.
It’s a professionally-approved system, elegant in its simplicity.
As I insert my key in the lock—we live in a dumb house and are damn proud of it—I say, out loud as I turn the key, “I locked the door.”
Sometimes I say it twice, always out loud.
If Bubba is there, he says it back, “you locked the door.”
It’s very low-tech. No app required. Short. Concise. Engages the brain in actively noting the task as it’s being done.
To help me not view it as a sign I’m getting older, I imagine it’s like a pilot going through their pre-flight checklist. I don’t care how many hours they’ve flown, I want them verbally saying each item on the list as they do it.
If it’s good enough for them flying a plane, it’s good enough for our home security system.
Photo source: PhotoMIX-Company on Pixabay
Am I creative? Am I willing to fail?
As I face these questions, I squirm.
I feel like a caterpillar in a silk cocoon, not quite sure where I am in my evolution, but feeling as if some transition is unfolding, out-of-sight.
What transition, I’m not sure. Nor why.
Being unsure, I feel afraid, uncertain, confused.
With a tinge of hopeful anticipation.
Given the nature of life, sh*t happened this past year. The same month I started blogging, mom almost died. She didn’t, not then, but 6-months later cancer got her. My blog turned out to be an unexpected blessing; a place I could try and make sense of mom’s last months. Who would’ve known when I launched WTG it would give me a place to unpack stuff, and get support from fellow bloggers?
At this time last year, I was still working, self-employed. After mom’s first hospital scare, I scaled back my hours to be available. It allowed several trips east to help navigate mom’s health issues. After her death, I called it quits, claiming sabbatical, but wondering if I’ll ever go back to seeing clients. I was ready to stop; this was an easy nudge.
Given the time I’ve spent helping dad with things—some of which mom used to handle—I’m grateful I’m not also juggling a full-time job. Between mom’s-post-death stuff, Board duties, Bubba-relationship, and blogging, my days are filled. As some commitments fade away, I’ll see what new interests reveal themselves. Maybe National Novel Writing Month?
Not working is intriguing.
Friends thinking about retiring fear they won’t know what to do with their days.
Friends who’ve retired say they’re always busy, although half-the-time they admit they can’t figure out what they did all day. They share a persistent wondering: “how’d I used to work full-time, raise kids, do the shopping, run errands, make meals, clean the house and occasionally have fun?”
Sabbatical is my version of not working; certainly of being busy while not getting paid. My experience throws me solidly in the how’d I used to manage all that stuff camp.
I’m getting a taste of not working; feeling a nudge toward retirement. I like it.
How about you? If you’re retired (or nearing retirement) or on sabbatical, what inner voices chirp away in your head? Are you embracing or resisting it? Scared by or excited by it?
And if you’re fully immersed in it, what fills your days?
Photo source: geralt on Pixabay
“My mom will be alive for at least six more days. Now five.”
A countdown had begun in my head.
They were unsettling thoughts, this countdown to…what? A renewed chance at life? Or death. I wasn’t thinking these thoughts; they—and the associated fear—were just…there. It didn’t matter that I didn’t want them.
My 88-year-old mom landed in the hospital multiple times this year, starting in March, when my 94-year-old father got her to the ER just in time. By summer, after multiple hospital trips, doctor visits and medical tests, they had her scheduled for heart-valve surgery in June; told her she needed a new hip; and informed her she had a slow-growing cancer. It was a layer cake of issues.
Walk the Goats 