To breakfast

When I went out this morning, the yard was full of fat robins, prospecting for the emoluments of a weather break. I was going to a friend's house, and we were going to breakfast together. Her yard was full of crows, cawking derisively and only reluctantly clearing a path for my car.

This day was for the birds, it seems.

We were contrary, though, and went to Country Cat. We both had eggs Benedict with shaved ham, and coffee. She had a cough, and a Bloody Mary. The drink was lunch: a thin slice of jerky, green beans, an olive - I don't know what all! It was an amazing drink.

But the conversation, the connection, was the best.

Like so many people I know, she's better than she thinks she is, more skilled, more gifted, more aware. She knows herself better than she likes to admit.

I sometimes wish these old eyes could be shared
so you could see yourself as I see you,
your shining intelligence, your passion, your heart.
Maybe then you'd have the courage
to reach for the job, the partner, the life
that would bring fulfillment, peace and joy.

What I did in writing class

The writing class I have begun is called "Writing from the Heart," and I believe it will be a good class for me. I'm an undisciplined writer, and this class creates a sort of "free discipline," if that makes sense. We critique the words, not the writer, and that will be good as well (I'll maybe learn to be less judgy!).

We started with a 2-page guidelines document, followed by a 2-page "inspiration" document, with poetry from Mary Oliver. (If I can, I'll insert them at the end of this.)

These are the two pieces I wrote. I may not post everything I write every time; some of it may be too personal, and some of it may simply be too awful. But here you go:

Writing 1

Death will come for you, I told my husband, my love, in 5 years or 10 years or 15 years. But it will come, and sooner than you expect, because death is like that.

He thought I had called him lazy or incompetent. I had not. I was just frustrated with his idleness when I asked for his help.

I’d had my own telegram from death, you see, a mere six months before. He knocked on the door and delivered the message:

            “All lives are as the grass.”

I retired so I could decide for myself how those weeks? months? years? could be used. I no longer wanted to sell my days for dollars.

I’d rather be hungry and free, because I have been hungry before, and not free.

I’d rather be cold, and free, because I have been chilled before, and not free.

Being a wage slave to a distant master makes for a narrow life, and I want a life that is as wide as prairie, as tall as sky, mobile and graceful and relentless as water.

So when death delivered that telegram I paid attention. I wish I’d done it when I was younger, but I didn’t, so I must do it now, before I’m older.

Here’s a wave at death, here’s a nod to mortality. Here’s a step into the wide prairie.

Writing 2

I remember a house with a hole in the wall. On the other side of the hole was a cousin.

The next house I remember was home – open, airy, wood floors, fine furnishings. It was my mother’s dream, a small suburban dream that turned dark. His tax fraud, her polio, my birth – it’s hard not to think I was the final, third thing that brought the end to all good things.

I try not to think that way. I try not to remember the men inventorying our possessions, taking our home.

The next home: a smaller, darker suburban dream, one with no daddy, except as a sporadic visitor. Almost as soon as we moved in: a hurricane (Donna), the floor tiles floating up, and my personal catastrophe, Raggedy Ann with mildew freckles, lying in the garbage can. How daunting it must have been for my mother, her new beginning flooded and ruined.

She resurrected it though, with new flooring, white, instead of dark brown; new furniture, light instead of dark; and more windows, more sunlight. We never had another disaster in 15 years of living until her health failed.

Then I inventoried our possessions, sold or shipped the goods, and brought Mom to my home. It was an old house, large and dark, but her room always seemed full of light, the children drawn to it like moths to candles. She lived in pain, but always tried to stay in light as well. Sometimes she failed, but she always tried.

I owe her that lesson: the dark can’t win as long as you seek the light. She never taught me how to be married, though – I learned that for myself. Home now is small but light, brimming with love and sunlight.

This "Retirement" thing I'm doing

"So, how's retirement going?" I've had several people ask me, so I thought I'd try a recap.

It started with a truly great party on Saturday, 1/14, thrown by the best boss I've ever had, Jeff. It wasn't as well attended as we thought, because there was a monster ice storm/deep freeze/snowpocalypse in Portland. But a good number of dear friends struggled in, and I felt all the warmth of their friendship. And scotch. Can't forget the scotch!

On Monday, I entered into what may be an endless, ongoing ground war with Medicare. I haven't prevailed, but there appears to be a chance that all will be well. Maybe.

The first week (1/15-21) was housekeeping: a mammogram, a doctor visit, two trips to the dentist. For fun, there was Theology Pub, where we had as a guest a woman who had assisted with the translation of the Bible into the Hawaiian pidgin language. The week was topped by brunch at Salty's with Teddie and Martin, where we drank prodigious amounts of mimosas and enjoyed some wonderful food and conversation.

The second week (1/22-28) began with us hosting coffee hour at church. One of my favorite things is feeding people! More medical followed during the week: the eye doctor, this time. And Steve and I began the delicate negotiations around space, time and chores. (This was also my week of Twitter & Facebook political hysteria.) Then Steve fell ill, so some of my outside activities were constrained; he needed my help. But he was well enough by Friday that I could go host the car campers at our church, St. Anne's in Washougal (stanneswa.wixsite.com/stanneswa). We open the church's fellowship hall every day for 2 hours, so our guests can come in, wash up, cook dinner and socialize. We have 2 or 3 car campers and 3 tiny houses ("homies") on our property. Steve and I will share hosting most Friday evenings.

Now, in the third week (1/29-2/4), I have begun living my true life. I started going to a book group, where we're reading 1984, and I began attending a writing class, "Writing from the Heart." And I've returned to this blog. I've also recognized how important homelessness is to me; it seems to rise to the surface every day, in one way or another. I may have found my "cause."

The book group, the writing class and the car camping program are all connected to my church, but are not "religious" activities. If you are unchurched because church has nothing to offer you, you may want to reconsider. Yes, some of these obligations are a pain in the ass; but many feed my spirit in vital ways, ways I couldn't easily access without the benefit of congregation.

So that's how retirement goes: like any new venture, good days and bad; idle days and busy days; active days and days for introspection.