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One month from today is my birthday. I turn 59 this year. And then next year, of course, I’ll be sixty. (How did that happen?) February 26, 2017 will usher in a brand new decade for me, a hastening in the decline – already well underway – of what I’m both physically and sometimes mentally able to do. Certainly, a march toward death to be perfectly blunt about it.

Actually, though, I’m not one to rant and rave or opine – to no good outcome, in any case, so what would be the point? – about what is ultimately inevitable. Like many people my age and even older, I don’t feel ‘this old’. True, my body often conspires against those delights in which my heart and soul would otherwise love to partake. And sometimes, I say ‘body, be damned’ and I’ll go ahead and do what I want to anyway. Maybe not easily or elegantly or with grace. Certainly not without paying a price for it the next day (queue the Icy Hot and ibuprofen). The thing is, though, that is what’s cool about getting older. You don’t really care (as much anyway) about appearances as when you’re younger.

In any case, retirement becomes more of a focus. Most people in their fifties begin thinking about Life After Work and I’ve been no exception. But now, with the Big 6-0 only a year away, I’m starting to think more seriously than ever about what I want to do when I retire. I’ve posted on this topic before but today, with my 59th birthday one month away, the reality of this new stage of my life (yet to come) is now a little more clear, a little more urgent, a little more REAL. And this both terrifies and thrills me.

Being a Cradle Robber, I’m fortunate in that my husband will continue to work once I retire and therefore cover my health insurance needs until Medicare kicks in. I hope to acquire a little four legged friend with fur to accompany me on long walks and hikes and bike rides. I look forward to playing the role of Just a Housewife and welcoming Bill home from work with hot and healthy meals and the occasional dessert (those who know my husband are well aware of his almost unquenchable appetite for sweets so I’ll need to exercise some caution with my Adventures in Baking).

I’ll read. I’ll write. I’ll color. I’ll blog. I’ll have time to exercise and eat right. I’ll sleep in if I want to or get up while it’s still dark out and get my walk in for the day. Certainly, I’ll indulge my passion for photography. I’ll experiment in the kitchen and keep the house clean, uncluttered and organized. In the winter, I’ll crochet and in the summer I’ll ride my bike. I’ll probably even get a part-time job, both for a little mad money and to keep my social skills current and, hopefully, up to par. These are things that I’ll do – for me. And I’ll glory in the freedom to do whatever I want, whenever I want.

I’m not naïve or star struck enough to think retirement will be all rainbows and roses. Things Change.  Life Happens.  But whether I’m working or not, this would continue to be the case regardless. Time and having more of it to do as we please (as we march forward) is that currently elusive animal that I long for, that I crave. And just as I savor the joy of planning a vacation or a weekend getaway, so, too, do I eagerly anticipate the liberation of being daily accountable to an entity other than myself: Work. Sometimes gratifying (and the money is nice), work is no longer the be-all, end-all (if ever it really, truly was) of my existence, of what is ultimately most important to me, to my life, to our marriage. Knowing that I plan to retire in the not so distant future makes it easier to deal with the sometime frustration of meetings, deadlines and difficult co-workers. Because now I know that work really is just a means to an end. We all need money to pay the bills (and plan for our retirements!) Work can also provide a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction. All well and good. But the allure has begun to tarnish and I now seek other avenues of pride, pleasure, fulfillment and release.

With anything in life, there are no guarantees. For all my planning and daydreaming and list-making, the longed-for freedom to live a fulfilling life after retirement may not transpire. Sickness, disability, financial burdens, family emergencies can easily wreak havoc on my future in one fell swoop and swiftly (and oh, so cruelly) undo all that I’ve hoped for. So while I’m able to, I’ll continue to chart my path toward that which I covet and nurture my spirit as best I can to deal with whatever comes my way. I’m incredibly blessed and fortunate to have a husband who loves and cherishes me and we are both in fairly good health. Financially – for now, so long as the market cooperates! – we’re in a good place. All we can do is plan for our future and hope for the best.

Full speed ahead!

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Last night, while waiting for the clerk to wind some yarn for me, my husband and I walked around Valley Junction to stretch our legs. This area contains several unique shops and historical buildings and is a fun place to explore. It was just starting to get dark and the shop windows illuminated the walkways. Although I’ve been there many times before, I’d never noticed this old barbershop and dug out the point-and-shoot Canon Elph I carry in my purse. I took a shot through the window but decided to step inside for a better vantage point. The place was empty and I wondered if the shop was even open. Quietly, I opened the screen door (!!) and walked inside.

After taking a few shots, an elderly gentleman walked in from the a darkened room at the back of the store. I asked if he was the owner and did he mind if a took a few photos? Not at all, he was happy to oblige. We then chatted for several minutes and I learned that he’d been the sole proprietor there for 42 years. It was a fun and interesting conversation. Kevin is 70 years old and hopes to continue his barbershop business until he’s 77. That’s the age his own father was when he retired. His dad worked in construction all his life and Kevin once him he hoped to work until he was that same age as well. He reasoned that if his father could work that long doing something as physically taxing as construction, certainly he could fare as well – and for as long – as a barber cutting hair!

Kevin agreed to allow me to return to his shop anytime to take more photos. My little Elph is a great tool to keep on hand for the ‘unexpected’ but I look forward to coming back with the Big Boys to try for something a little more creative. All in all, it was a very pleasant encounter.

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Late in the spring of 2015, I decided to dust off my hooks and pick up some colorful skeins of yarn and start crocheting again, a craft I first learned when I was pregnant with my son who will turn 40 this year. After a short ramp-up period that initially required clearing the cobwebs and relearning the basics, I began in earnest.

Warm weather and seasonal activities intervened not long after that but now with wintry weather as the order of the day, I’m back at it and thoroughly love the calming movements of hook to yarn, the quiet repetition of stitches and the fabulous feeling of accomplishment when a piece is finished. Is it vain to admit I love to look at the projects I’ve completed – with my very own hands! – and to revel in the consistency of my stitches and to admire the look, the feel, the texture of my work? While by no means perfect or even the result of anything challenging in the way of design, I feel tremendous pride – and not a small amount of disbelief! – at what I have created. This makes me smile. This makes me happy.

There really is something to stepping outside one’s comfort zone AND to expressing yourself in whatever manner you wish to pursue with passion. A sense of pride and accomplishment – I’ve had too little of that in my life and I want more!

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Sitting at our favorite Starbucks one day, I spied these two in the adjacent lobby. Hoping to add some ‘people’ shots to my photographic archives, I asked if I could take their picture. Happily, they complied. Because I didn’t want to intrude further, I quickly left without getting their names or their relationship to each other (I suspect they may have been father / daughter). Anyway, it’s scary enough to ask someone if you might ‘seize their soul’ via your camera and another thing entirely to get up close and personal.

People photography is not my strong suit and so I welcome your suggestions and advice on how I might grow in this direction!

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This old sled was a Christmas gift from me to my son Wesley when he about ten years old. Shortly after the holidays, we were blanketed with a lovely snowfall and hardly able to contain our enthusiasm, my son and I headed to Pilot Knob State Park. It was a steady snowfall, no breeze whatsoever, a still and glorious backdrop to our efforts as we gleefully trudged up the steep hill that overlooks Dead Man’s Lake. This was a popular sledding spot that afforded a thrilling ride down a seemingly perpendicular drop and then a long skid across the ice of the frozen pond below.

I can still recall – with a huge smile on my face – the magic we both felt as we made our way to the crest of the hill. We had the place to ourselves and the anticipation was almost tangible. Finally, we made it to the top and as we dropped the sled, ready to course down the trail, reality rudely and abruptly brought us up short. The snow was a fine powder, clean, white and distinct – each and every one of those hundreds of thousands of uniquely magnificent flakes. Beautiful to behold but certainly not the right texture for sledding. Wesley’s brand spankin’ new sled was designed for hard-packed surfaces and as such, it dropped with a thud and was buried beneath that fluffy accumulation of winter precipitation. Wesley and I just looked at each other – and then we laughed. All our efforts to climb the hill, the huffing and puffing, the exertion required to carry ourselves and Wesley’s new sled all that way were for naught. It didn’t matter though because my son and I were together, sharing a wonderful moment and unbeknownst to us at the time, creating a powerful memory.

To this day, it still makes me smile.

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Angry voices, unbridled venom.
Wired (and wireless) pokes and jabs targeting a multitude of faceless entities.
Ugliness leaching outward, spreading like a stain

On humanity.

Or rather, what we once knew as

  • Humanity
  • Community
  • Respect
  • Tolerance
  • Patriotism
  • The American Way

We are now a nation no longer united but rather horribly, inextricably divided.

Talking heads and a 24/7 vomitude of news and commentary
Twisting ‘freedom’ to spew hate
And incite fear, violence and an uneasy division

Of our fellow compatriots, instilling disrespect and incivility far and wide.

What’s our way forward? No answers here.
Sadly, this very medium
While a powerful tool for good
Still contributes to this implosion of ill-will.

I’m hopeful, however, that we can come together and find a way. United we stand and, truly, divided we WILL fall.

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She sits adjacent to the dark hallway that leads to a dingy bathroom in a humble middle class ranch home in a small town in Nebraska. With her folding chair positioned just slightly – deliberately – outside the invisible cord that serves to bind this gathering, she’s taken her place among the women from St. Boniface who have formed a tight, informal circle – a circle that includes both friends and acquaintances.

‘The Book of Revelation’ is the theme for tonight’s first meeting of a new 10-week session of Bible study. Her heart is racing. Despite her outward appearances to the contrary, she silently and vehemently curses her decision to ‘step outside her comfort zone’, done so largely as a nod to her daughter-in-law’s incessant urging to involve herself in activities, to get herself out of the house, to ‘enjoy life’, to find her passion. Ever so slightly, she closes her eyes and, inhaling deeply, she shakes her head. Exhaling now, she nervously looks around, hoping that no one has taken note of her discomfort.

The regret she feels about coming here tonight is palpable. She had many opportunities where she could have changed her mind – backing out of the garage, turning onto Bradley Street where tonight’s proceedings are being hosted, maneuvering her car to park, stepping out of the vehicle, navigating the uneven brick walkway leading to the front door and – finally – ringing the cracked, unlit doorbell. Still though, she had continued to put one foot in front of the other and well, now, here she is. Dammit.

Her stomach is twisting and churning. She loathes calling attention to herself and, more than anything, she is afraid that someone will call on her tonight to lead the group in prayer. Or to read a passage. Or to answer a question. She is terrified that someone will ask her to provide her opinion on the topic at hand: What do you think, Betty?

Seriously, why HAD she come here tonight?

She’d been consumed by fears for much of her life, always cautious – usually more so than was ever warranted, always afraid, always apprehensive.

Her reticence about life had, she was beginning to see, robbed her of life.

It wasn’t just the usual stress-inducing situations most people become anxious about: scenarios involving water, questionable judgment and electricity or strangers at the front door at midnight while at home all alone or white-knuckle driving during a brutal Midwestern snowstorm.

No. It was more than that.

She was unable to account for the lack of anything even resembling a spark – let alone a fire! – in her belly relative to a single, solitary facet of her life, save her two sons. Her boys, now grown men, were her Life, her All, her Everything. Tim and David were her pride, her joy, her springtime, her blue skies. She hadn’t considered that perhaps she should have tended to her own needs with the same enthusiasm and devotion, and provided herself with a reserve of sorts, to shelter and nourish her when the time came – which it had, long since past – for them to move on with their lives. And now, she was reluctant to acknowledge, she had little else to show for her seventy-plus years on this earth. Nothing, anyway, to lift the fog of gloom that had wormed its way into every opening, every crevice of her very being. The world before her now was gray and hopeless and tired.

Her husband, a good man, and her sons, both of them loving and attentive, could only do so much to try to fill the void in her life. She knew (but did not want to know) that they felt helpless to alleviate the growing depression that now overwhelmed her. She also knew (but did not want to know) that the lack of joy and purpose in this life of hers was HERS to resolve, to fix, to deal with. Old habits die hard and it was easier to expect others to provide her with what was needed to move forward than to accept the responsibility for making herself happy.

And now she finds herself committed for the next hour or so to sitting here as scripture is discussed. She’s uneasy thinking in terms of actually participating in said discussion so in her mind’s eye she frames these next sixty minutes in a detached manner, as one would in observation of some event rather than in taking part of it. Inwardly she sighs – and trembles.

She knows (but truly wishes not to).

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Assimilation
Mightily so with a good stiff breeze
Or gradually over time
Thanks to gentle stirrings, peppered with patience.

New growths occur
Some perhaps at great distances.
Nature has her ways
And always provides – well, when she’s not feeling feisty.

Randomness
In the world
Accounts for much of the way of things.
Fairness – not so much…