The South Bay’s June gloom has extended into July, which is just fine with me considering everything east of Hawthorne Boulevard is baking. I really prefer chill. Not too much, but short sleeves, cozy socks, red wine vs. white, 72 degree cloudy sky pie, is mighty fine with this Valentine.
I confess: I have a case of rhyme scheme Olympic’s Euphoria Story-a! Downright goofy. Hooky-Pooky hopeful. Silly blubbery me is fixated on table tennis first thing in the morning (in between Teletubbies and Barney). Backstory: I have the Official Early Morning Shift with my delightful 16-month granddaughter, Millie, from the moment she wakes up (5:30 a.m.-ish) until she hears Mommy Wonderwoman’s footsteps descend down the stairs sometime between 8 and 9. By then it feels like I’ve been up for hours, which I have, but significantly less groggy after my second cup of java-wava. Crazy, but it feels like Sunday when it’s Saturday. It’s the gloom, I say, the June gloom in July.
Back to table tennis and the Olympics. So last night during the opening ceremonies (6 on the Barker Scale) I hung in there and watched nearly all of the nations because I wanted to catch a glimpse of a former student who is playing for the Nigerian women’s basketball team. I felt absolutely giddy with hope. Maybe I’ll visit Nauru one day or Napal? Next year, Bolivia or Cambodia? Sure, maybe it was the Moscow Mule talking, but it was genuinely exciting watching the lava flow of young people who BELIEVE they will win. A parade of positivity, excellence and supreme work ethic. Me, sitting on the chair waiting to record the moment Antonye, my former student, walks past the camera and waves, thinking about all of the Olympics I’ve watched over the decades, with my mom, who loved all-things-Olympics and basketball, and now watching the Tokyo 2021 Olympics with my wee granddaughter. I get this overwhelming feeling that I am my mom and wee Millie is me, and I am connected to my adult children and future great grandchildren and my students, and the kids playing soccer up the street at the school I once attended, and taught at and now drive past in my early stages of retirement–the whole shebang, that’s what the Olympics are to me—especially this year. They represent resiliency and grit, which is something, I guess, me and my saggy jowls and pot belly can relate to.
I grew up during the crest of organized–validated–girls/women’s sports. In elementary and middle school, girls like me didn’t have the option to join a team. We could run around the track at school and play dodgeball and the like, but playing a sport outside of school–for fun, for competition–just didn’t happen.Those opportunities were for boys.
In high school, things started to change, thanks to the Girls Athletic Association and in 1972, Title IX. Thanks to the fighters, female athletes finally had a place at the table. We’ve come a long way, baby. Lots of grief, inequities and battles, but now watching women’s sports in the Olympics be celebrated at the same level as male competition is inspiring. And humbling. And lesson-reminding.
It took strength and guts to affect change. It took being stubborn and refusing to give up on what’s right, even though the naysayers were nasty and powerful.
That’s what I see when I watch the Olympics: All the people and the stories of falling down and getting up, of re-inventing, of shifting, of taking responsibility and following that inner calling.
It’s a constant battle, isn’t it? Doing that THING you were put on the planet to do. “Though the voices around you shouted, ‘Mend my life’,” but you figured out how to do the only thing you really could do, save your own life, to paraphrase Mr. Walt Whitman.
I keep trying. In between playing with grandchildren, perpetually cleaning , cooking, throwing a Winnie the Pooh shower for my impending baby grandson, I am also an Olympic dreamer negotiating my own version of rhythmic gymnastics.
Ever notice how the Olympic Rings are primary colors? No pastels. No purples. No grey.
What’s up with that? Not a fan favorite. I get it. In most ways, grey doesn’t suit me, not in clothing or hair color or senior citizen stereotypes. But those grey skies, to me, are a vessel of promise, a pixie dust reminder that eventually, tan-able, novel-reading summer days will return.
Right on cue, just like that, God cracks an egg into the milkshake sky and I can’t help but whisper, “Oh my!” dreaming of “The Places (I’ll) You’ll Go!” and that charming book I read to 18 years of graduating 8th graders, every year but this.
Jumble, jumble, jumble. Mumble, mumble, errr, errr…wipe the slate clean…wait, I can’t, not now, stay put, be patient, “You may not realize it now, but the Universe is unfolding as it should,” reads a sign tucked in the lemon tree in northwest corner of my front yard. I believe the statement. I know it is true. But I want to see how all the pieces of the puzzle fit together. Now. Why is this happening? Why did that happen? Will I ever have day-upon-day of retirement bliss? Financial freedom? No responsibilities? Oh, tell me crystal ball, tell me!
Mostly what I want is what I have right now: The SoCal ocean breeze. 72 degree summer temps. The cooing of a mama dove. The gurgling sound of water from my backyard river-pond. A book to read. Art journaling to mess around with. Baby napping. Daughter sun-bathing. Boisset Chardonnay, Rose and French Sparkling wines chilling. Furry white rescue pup warming my calloused bare feet.
Yes, I could–and probably should–be cleaning the house prior to our guests’ arrival for the Baby Gender Reveal Gathering. Yes, I need to determine the Plan B Medicare coverage. I have a couple of bills to pay too. But I really need to sit here not thinking about thinking. No doing. I need to let go of solving other people’s problems and having everyone understand and accept me for who I am. What I really need is a nap. To let go. Float in that cloud of bliss my granddaughter’s in right now. Her body goes limp as I gently place her in the crib. She nuzzles her head on the pink rose sheet and she’s gone. Instantaneously.
No worries. No tossing and turning fretting. She didn’t do anything “wrong”, like her grandma seems to constantly do. And if she does something like poop in her pants, she’s forgiven, even loved during the de-pooping process. Can you imagine an adult being loved when they crap in their pants? I want to be like Millie. I mean REALLY. I like the rainbow shirts she wears, the butterfly pj’s, the tie-dye Crocs. Her emotions change on a dime (what does that mean anyway?): She can be ninny-ing like a goat to get her way one minute, then blowing kisses of adoration to a stranger the next. She’s such a character, cherished for who she is.
This being loved for just being yourself, flaws-and-all-thing has been a hard concept for me to grasp. I daresay that even as a baby I was the same person I am now—chubby, opinionated, friendly, strong-willed and a creative problem-solver. And yet, my siblings found fault. Perhaps that’s the role of siblings. They pick, pick, pick away at your faults and strengths to divert attention—back to them. Egos, egos, egos. Sibling relationships, that 24/7 reality show guaranteed to toughen you up.
Then there are your grown kids. Here to make you better. Correcting. Suggesting. Here. Not here. You’re the good guy, the bad guy. The bad stuff, according to their therapists, is your fault. On the cross. Crucified for the sins of being your flawed self. We forgive them, put up with them, because we love them, and their children because they are a constant reminder that maybe under the grey hair, pot belly and wrinkles, we aren’t so bad after all.
Today, we’ll find out if a boy or girl will be joining the tribe. While we speculate and consider the pros and cons of gender with a sibling a mere twenty months older, Millie’s brother or sister will make the biggest impact on her. Will they be friends for life? Will they be arch enemies? Will they duke it out in the back seat on the way to soccer? Will they share the same interests, be kind to one another? Will they stay in contact with each other when they have families of their own? Will they forgive, forget and forge productive and purposeful lives?
Like me, will it take them decades and decades to “Let It Go” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L0MK7qz13bU(at least half the time)?
Forrest Gump’s mama was right. Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get. So you might as well embrace the twists and turns of the entire plot. Eventually, the puzzle pieces will fit together. Until next time…
Postscript: It’s a boy!
Retired. I am. Fini. For now. Work-for-pay, that is. It hasn’t set-in—-yet—-the retirement phase. It’s been crazy, family-busy. But right now I have a precious moment to reflect, take stock, and allow the wave of “This Moment” settle-in like a pair of well-worn slippers.
My brother. The 6′ 2″ guy. Former cop. Former Naval officer. Former apple of my British parents’ eyes. Smart. Possessed abundant possibilities. Moved away. Had a family. Has grandchildren. A beautiful home in Oregon. His wonderful children, all big-hearted and magnificent. His legacy. Our family’s legacy. So much to be proud of.
We just spent five days together with the big, extended family tribe. Dinners around the campfire every night. Bottles of vino. Boisset https://my.boissetcollection.com/janet.barker/products/catalog/sale-1005, of course. Every night a new international cuisine. And now, as of 9 a.m. this morning, he and his wife are gone, traveling along the brutally hot spine of California on his way to his lush green neck of the woods. We haven’t visited for years. Barely speak on the phone. His life. My life. A legacy of distance.
He has always been my big, scary brother, the guy who would tell me what’s right and wrong, aware that no matter the issue—he insists he’s always right. Few conversations. Mostly always one way. Conservative. Me, more liberal. Like our nation. One takes out a knife and cuts it into the heart. The other leaves in tears, emotionally mutilated. He’s in his 70s, I’m in my 60s. Over the years, I suppose, we passively the accepted the discomfort. It was OK not to be close.
But this trip, something changed.
Perhaps we have finally become grown-ups, too tired for discord. Both of us arrived at a place in life where we’ve learned to focus on the honey, not the lemon. Time is precious. No time left to do anything but love, and forgive.
The unfurling caterpillar. That’s us. Once cocooned in our own corners of righteousness, but now in tears–hugging real hugs— and excited about the next time we can see each other.
Maybe all this time he has been my best friend but I was so full of myself and my own pain I failed to see it. It’s funny this thing called life. Out of the blue, while opening up containers of take-out Indian food that you bought instead of your son (the guy who was supposed to pick up the tab), a new door opens that you NEVER expected would open. Voila! A lesson. A new possibility.
Did I say I was excited about retirement, which I guess I have been since June 11, 2021? I haven’t exactly been, at least not in the way I thought I’d feel. I’ve been shutting down my former life as a middle school teacher,. grannying to Baby Millie, busy preparing food, cleaning, and jumbling myself with all the tasks, with all the impossible fixing-others responsibilities, that I failed to notice the Monarchs’ regular appearance in my once-again, weed-filled garden. My floating orange reminder to pay attention to the the most important of all miracles: Sincere, loving and healthy relationships.
Not to go all Mary Poppins here: the pain was/is real. I still have some seriously rotten stuff going on. But I also have a renewed sense of hope, positive possibilities and a second chance.
Gotta promise myself not to miss the moment. Can’t miss the warmth, (and often times annoying) fury pup at-present sitting next to me, or the grandkids’ splayed plastic toys littering the garden, or the baby saliva staining my BeachLife sweatshirt or the dishes in my sink or the weeds in the garden that I’ll get to at some point, and the writing I’m doing: The chronically of the day-to-day as. a reminder that life IZ good, that life is most certainly sweet amidst the drama.
On cue, sirens blare down Pacific Coast Highway as the afternoon breeze rustles the gazebo curtains. Soon it will be too hot to watch movies indoors and we’ll move outside and sit here, close around the fire pit, swapping different versions of this kinda holy moly week of gratitude and forgiveness, the days my brother returned home and no one, not a one of us, brought up politics and past hurts. We all, as Rodney King implored, just got along.
It just isn’t right. It’s been almost two months since I last wrote. It’s not that I haven’t been thinking about you. I have. But, I have to be blunt and honest, you haven’t been my priority.
Here’s what I have done instead:
Which means what I haven’t been is present with myself. I have been, to put it mildly, distracted by life and responsibilities. But I am now starting to sense that just beyond the horizon of the day-to-day, is a new beginning. That’s what I’m looking forward to. A fresh new start. A chapter in my life that I can decide, “What do I want to do?”
I am definitely not retiring rich or financially prepared. I am not the 50 pounds lighter I wanted to be. I am not very wise. I am still rather undone and uncertain about a lot of things. But what I feel is instinct. I feel God’s presence and abiding love and belief in me. I feel like a Redondo Union High School grad with a cap and gown. I know on my last day I will throw that mortarboard into the sky and it will feel like turquoise and yellow confetti: I made it. The sky’s the limit. It’ll be a new, brand new, open canvas.
I will have a chance to write more, walk more, create more, go camping for as long as I want in the Fall. Take solo trips. Hang out with my retired friends, the ol’ pros at negotiating this chapter of life.
It’s been a hellofa final year teaching. We’re all pretty PTSD’d . But we are almost at the Finish Line. There’ll be a staff party in eight days, and some melancholy goodbyes. I worked SO HARD to be a good teacher. And just like that, it will be over. No more lesson planning. No more grading. No more angry parents. No more end-of-the-day visits from former students. No more knowing, “Did I do OK? Did I make a difference? Did I help?”
I have much to write about, think about. I hope you’ll hang in there with me as I am about to become more prolific. But for now, there’s a baby stirring and a Mama who is pooling it up with her sister and nephew. Duty calls.
Baby Millie’s in da house! She’s a year old now; active, smiling, eating and pooping up a storm. Lil’ Gboy B-man is at the homestead, along with his older cousin, Jack. Daughter’s upstairs remote teaching and I’m holding down the roost as bubbles and a mini margarita liven up the already lively Spring Break 2021. But one can’t help but reflect upon how different this year is from last! Birds are chirping, the traffic outside is sporadic, but destination-bound. The baby monitor is purring as Mill takes her afternoon siesta. The boys, at least for now, are occupying themselves with traps and trains. The dogs too, are quiet, sleeping in the springy Spring afternoon sun.
All is well in the world. We went camping over the weekend with the baby and my son and his crew. The Easter Bunny joined us as the glorious Sunday sun rose as the kids hunted for eggs. Life Really IZ Good! Glory be to God.
Change is edging forward.
In eight weeks I will be retired from teaching 8th graders.
In eight weeks, my son-in-law, who is studying for a big med exam, will have the test behind him.
In eight weeks, I will be 65.1 month years young.
In eight weeks, hopefully, everyone in our family will be vaccinated from Covid-19.
In eight weeks, I will have concluded 20 years in the teaching profession, plus 14 years as a journalist, for a total of 34 9 to 5+++++ years working for a paycheck.
Soon, it will be forever. I can go out for coffee with my friends during the week and not feel bogged down by grading and class responsibilities. Soon, I can work on writing projects, a podcast that’s been in development for 1.5 years. I can go camping in the Fall. I can camp during the week. I can go for walks. I can sleep in. I can stay up late. I can work around the garden whenever I want. I can play with art and go to the art museum in the middle of the week. I can be more flexible with child care assistance. And what I’m most looking forward to, discovering a me that’s been on hold for a very long time.
I sense a great deal of stress will melt away. I sense the life I wanted to live when I was a girl, I’m about to get a chance to live. Only better. Because along the way, I’ve become way hipper. Wiser, you could say. And humble. I know every day is precious.
But for now, duty calls. The kids are in da house and they need their g-ma!
Thanks Colin Hay for the song. It expresses what I’m experiencing better than anything I can write: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fRO66I22qi0
Waiting for My Real Life by Colin Hay
Any minute now, my ship is coming in
I’ll keep checking the horizon
I’ll stand on the bow
Feel the waves come crashing
Come crashing down down down, on me
And you say, be still my love
Open up your heart
Let the light shine in
But don’t you understand
I already have a plan
I’m waiting for my real life to begin
When I awoke today, suddenly nothing happened
But in my dreams, I slew the dragon
And down this beaten path, up this cobbled lane
I’m walking in my old footsteps, once again
And you say, just be here now
Forget about the past, your mask is wearing thin
Just let me throw one more dice
I know that I can win
I’m waiting for my real life to begin
Any minute now, my ship is coming in
I’ll keep checking the horizon
And I’ll check my machine, there’s sure to be that call
It’s gonna happen soon, soon, oh so very soon
It’s just that times are lean
And you say, be still my love
Open up your heart, let the light shine
Don’t you understand
I already have a plan
I’m waiting for my real life to begin
On a clear day I can see, see for a long way
On a clear day I can see, see for a long way.
Good question. In the garbage disposal crunching up all the waste, all the debris, all the junk. Behind a screen teaching others. Not sleeping. Hunched over. Worried. Fixing. Building. Grandparenting. Working. Mostly working. Existing. Waiting. Worrying. Worrying. Worrying. Holding my breathe. Counting down the days. Not that I am, but 81 days until I bid eight hours+ of weekly grading behind me: Retirement. In quotes.
It’s like having three burners on my stove set low. Much to do. Much to wrap up. The retirement papers. Medicare. My classroom which currently has 18 years of books and materials strewn over the desks which will soon be occupied with students.
This week, I have to go into the class and box them up. No one wants them. No one wants the thousands of dollars of materials I’ve purchased over the years, the story of my teaching life; the projects, our many investigations into literary Black, Hispanic, Asian, Native, Women, Artistic Americans That Matter. I pulled hundreds of sources out of the cupboards, laid them on the desks, offered them to overworked, over-stressed colleagues, and when I open Room 18 this week they will, no doubt, still be there as an homage to exuberant teaching. My well-exercised credit card. My joy of teaching.
I’m not going to talk about this “crazy year.” Everyone else is doing a great job at that. It’s been taxing. My neck and back are cast into the shape of a fisherman’s hook. My butt is pancakesque. My eyes from squinting at the computer all day talking to first and last names are officially worse: I just had to get a stronger eye glass prescription. Thanks COVID-19.
You see, I am not a sitter. I’m a dancer. A move-about-the-roomer. I don’t have a desk in my classroom or at home. I prefer to shimmy.
Soon enough, I’ll be back in the classroom and my dance floor will be restored. Wait, I forgot, I think I have to stay in one place, next to the monitor where I’ll teach to the camera and teach to masked middle school ones–in my double mask! Fun times.
It will be good. It won’t be normal, but it will be good to be six-feet-apart from humans. Am I scared? Yeh, I am. I know not everyone is as careful as I am. I know someone’s gonna get sick. I just hope, selfishly, it’s not me. I’ve got 2.5 months until GRADING IS PAST TENSE.
Friday I get my second shot. My doctor doesn’t want me mingling for two weeks, that’ll be post Spring Break. “Be patient,” she said, “and safe.” I wish the powers-that-be would have given all teachers that same mandate. I wish we were pushed to the head of the line sooner. So we could get on with it. I wish the public understood how hard it is to be in a room with no circulation, with kids who aren’t so diligent and sanitary, and sit in a stew of virus–without the benefit of proper gear and the vaccination. No other profession has the same demands as being in a class with active, vibrant kids. But somehow, returning to school and anti-teacher union sentiment has clouded our unique situation, our reality.
I’m grateful that I will finally be fully vaccinated before returning to campus. It was, by the way, a fluke. I happened to be at the doctor’s at the end of the day being treated for an eye infection (Thanks COVID-eyes) and a nurse walked around asking, “Does anyone need a COVID shot?” Right place, right time.
Like this morning: Sitting in the gazebo, the rising sun bleaching my face, a zippy hummingbird helicoptered above the Sunday newspaper. We were both in awe; a flying glittery jewel staring down at a frumpy, dressing-gowned, soon-to-be, former teacher.
It darted to another destination as a shadow flew into the newly trimmed Chinese elm tree. A hawk. A hawk in my backyard! A regal king surveying my city-forest backyard.
And just as suddenly–gone!
Like my teaching career. Like raising children and grandchildren. Like stomach aches and COVID worry and overspending on the new Affordable Dwelling Unit–Moonstone Cottage–and stressing over finishing the To-Do The List before Sunday night.
Just like that.
A purple, magenta and apple cider ale sunset.
Which sounds just about right this cool Spring Eve of Everything.
I’m gonna be vague. I might be specific. I’m eating steel cut oatmeal on a rainy Saturday morning with my grandson, two pups and ex-husband. The veggie sausages are sizzling and my coffee needs re-freshing. None of this matters and yet everything matters. It’s all in the details, in the paying attention to what makes life actually good. It’s been toasty. It’s been freezing (SoCal version). It’s writing. It’s reading. It’s the ability to make a wonderful dinner. It’s going for a walk along the beach. It’s having a cozy bed and actual books with paper and a hardback cover to read. It’s having a family who loves you, and sometimes disagrees with you and your political point of view. It’s having friends, real friends, who have your back even when you don’t see them in person for months–or decades!
All of it matters. None of it matters. Because next week’s gonna happen, and the next. We have a new president, then we’ll have another. Now it’s winter. Soon it will be spring, then summer, then my new life as a retired person begins.
Topsy Turvey. Upside down. Hear the circus revelry? See the helium balloons? The caramel popcorn and corn dogs? Babies. Toddlers. Elementary school—leap into college. In a nanosecond, whew, it’s gone.
The enemy of fast, whew, is hitting the remote, the pause button. Which I rarely do. I’m busy with grandkids, schoolwork, TV-watching, CNN-scanning. But this week, this week of impending rain, I had to stop. Take stock. Cry. Toss and turn. Listen to the distracting lull of podcasts. Feel useless. Cry some more. Pray. And pray and pray and ask, “Why?”
And, of course, there is no answer, no reason why a dear friend of mine is in pain, is suffering, from what she didn’t know she had a week ago, less than a week ago-–cancer. Her husband, her dear, dear husband, says with chemo, if it works, she might might live nine months. Oh, my God. It. Can’t. Be.True. I can hardly type it. It isn’t fair. It isn’t FAIR. She has so much to live for: her beloved husband, her children and grandchildren, all the places she wanted to visit, all things she wanted to do.
But today, she just needs the pain meds to work. So she can sleep, which she hasn’t done for two weeks when the ugly tumors knifed her stomach and back until she had no choice but to go to the COVID-laced hospital. Today, she wants to be well enough to go home and sleep in her own bed and blanket herself with her world of blues and yellows and hot cocoa stations and remaining Christmas decorations. Because I know her, Christmas all year long.
I am profoundly broken-hearted. As are her loved ones—her vast network of friends, family, neighbors, fellow parishioners and beyond. She has done so much good in the world. She isn’t done!
I ask for your prayers, right now, in this moment. I ask that you pray for my beautiful, passionate friend, because if it was you or me, she’ be on her knees asking for God’s grace to help navigate these thunderous days.
Time. No one knows how long or when. No one knows why one person suffers and that son-of-a-gun down the street has the privilege of traveling the world well into his 90s?
It’s a cliche, don’t take anything or anyone for granted. Because you don’t know. We don’t know. What’s gonna happen today, or tomorrow, except IT’S going to happen at some point. It’s going to rain. It’s going to be sunny. COVID will be history. A new virus will take its place. But today, with any luck, we get to breathe. And see. And hear. And dance. And sing and share our love with everyone we love.
My friend wants nothing more than to do that. She can’t do it today as the chemo does its job. But maybe she can do it tomorrow and for as many tomorrow’s God grants her.
For her, I hope you will press the pause button. Take heed to all the beauty and wonder that surrounds you.
I don’t know if it is the hot, Southern California January weather or exhaustion from the last four years of constant havoc, or anticipation of a new, hopeful president and Vice President, or the fact that I submitted my retirement paperwork a few days ago, but now seems like a pretty awesome time to re-focus: To minimize.
Do I need that? No. Does it bring me joy? No. Does it make my world crowded? Yes. Is it taking up space that I could otherwise use to place, say a dog bed? Yes. Do I need to eat that? No. Could I have just a little bite? Yes. Do I really need Apple Music? Yes, until I stop teaching full-time. The newspaper? Aww, giving it up would be painful. Do I really need to buy that new sofa that is 70% off on Wayfair? Absolutely not.
I don’t need to panic. I don’t need to keep watching TV news. I don’t need to scan Facebook or shop for sales or eat unhealthy food or stress over all the things my Distant Learning students aren’t doing because class is remote. I don’t need to shop as a hobby. I don’t need more stuff.
Period. End of story.
I am going to retire. Made the decision when our school district announced an early retirement incentive. It’s time to take a new road, discover new things. Yes, I will miss teaching. Terribly. But I have a feeling teaching will take on a new shape. I’ll get to go back and re-visit some of the things I always wanted to do, like write more out of love rather than economic need, like cooking and crafting and visiting and creating.
Life IZ short. We gotta drink more Boisset wine, go barefoot, and dance and sing just for the heck of it.
Big changes this year.
A few hours ago I did something I should have done ten years ago: Budget. I need to figure out how I can be happy and frugal. I definitely don’t want to give up things like wine and going on adventures. So I have figured out a way to go on an economic and food diet. Budget. Instead of not looking at the receipt, like I have embarrassingly done, and pressing “buy” rather than reflect, “Do I need it versus want it?” like I used to do when I was younger, I now have to ask the question: “How will this purchase best help me reach my goal?” If it won’t, DENIED!
Amazon seduced me. I admit it: once again, I am embarrassed. I spend way too much on things I want, but don’t need. And now, from this point on, it has to stop.
In my family, I am the Amazon account owner. I pay the yearly fee and other members tap into the benefits of my “membership”. But this year, when my renewal comes due, I’m cancelling it. Frankly, it’s too tempting, too easy to press “but”. Like having chocolate in the cupboard. I know it’s there and I’m gonna consume it. Because I am a consumer. Not out of control. But sort of.
I’ll be reporting back how it’s going. But if I follow the budget I have established, I should be able to set up a pretty healthy saving mindset prior to my actual retirement. I have a few other factors that should help out: My Affordable Dwelling Unit, otherwise known as Moonstone Cottage, is almost ready to rent. I hope in two weeks to get it on the market, which is a whole other set of questions/concerns. But I am gonna trust this next step. I’m counting on the income to help me retire. So many things to consider: The renter his/herself, taxes, the responsibilities of being a landlord–especially now. For sure, I’ll be doing a lot of praying and investigating.
Meantime, I’m going to be figuring out new more affordable and healthy foods to eat. I happen to love veggies, beans, rice and tofu, so that should help with the budget. Again, I don’t want to feel deprived and poor. I’m thinking my new choices will help me feel rich and plentiful. At least that’s what I’m hoping. That’s what I’ve heard.
As my horizons expand, I sure hope this Covid-belly, double-double chin and on-my-butt-too-long ass retracts to a healthier version of me. Stay tuned.
What do I know? What can I possibly say that other people haven’t? Why do I need to say anything? I’m just a person with a blog, writing in a vacuum, next to a space heater, with the TV off, with the newspaper read, with a heavy, yet hopeful heart, with a, “Shit, we have to do something–now!” overwhelming need to respond to last week’s acts of terror.
Love. Once again. It comes down to love.
They love America. You love America. I love America.
When we got married, what, something like more than 200 years ago, we were in love. New country.New life. New possibilities. But the red flags were there. Be honest; we chose to ignore them. We believed what we wanted to believe. Hope–cross our fingers, wink, wink–that it would turn out OK, once we had kids, once we had the house, once we paid off college debt, had careers, credit cards, leased cars, shopped organic ...
We kept piling it on. Pushing the debris under the rug. Never addressing the real problem. The source of the tension. The tip of the iceberg. We distracted ourselves: Netflix, Amazon, Facebook, Twitter, booze, bars, Flaming Cheetos, too much screen time, CNN, FOX, MSNBC, Yahoo News, Apple News, “reality” TV, “reality” POTUS. You know. It became, like, a hobby, a sick waste of time: What will happen next? we wondered. It’s like we were living in the middle of a Martin Scorsese Netflix movie.
Martial difficulties, when it’s someone else’s, is voyeuristically compelling.
But here’s the deal: We can’t divorce. We’re married for life.
Yes, you might be Republican and I might be a Democrat. You may love Trump and all he stands for and I may loathe him. And we are passionate, as we should be about things that matter to us. But hating doesn’t solve anything. Demonizing digs us further into the hole: Go to your corner–The Midwest and South: Go to your corner–The West Coast and big cities. Puff up your chests. Duke it out and pummel your opponent ’till there’s nothing left.
Yeh, that’s one way to end a marriage. Tough guy. Blind yourself with rage. Make everyone else the enemy. Take no responsibility, accountability. Just be right. You’re always right. You win. But everyone else–your spouse, your kids, your extended family and neighbors–lose. That’s OK. Because winning, taking back what’s “yours”, is what ultimately matters, right? Being tough. Not backing down.
That’s one way to go. Yelling. Screaming. Putting down. Feeling righteously vitriolic. But at what cost?
We can’t get divorced. We aren’t the North and the South. It might feel like it right now, but we aren’t going to split. We can’t go to our corners. We are married. We are Americans. All of us. Amer-i-CAN.
We need some counseling. Serious marital counseling. Led by respected spiritual healers, teachers. So we can get to the source. And stop burying it. Once and for all, let’s pick up the rock, and see what’s underneath it.
This is a profound, real moment for all Americans to calmly share our thoughts and desires without hyperbole and put-downs. Make “I” statements. No pointing fingers, no blaming your partner. Remember, you love him or her. Or at least one time you did. Remember what you loved. And don’t bring other people, other sources, into the room. It’s just you, your counselor, and your partner, you know, that spouse you have been married to for more than two centuries, the one you fought alongside during the Revolution, the Civil War, World War II, Vietnam, the Civil Rights movement. We’ve been married far too long. Think of the kids, my students. We gotta get it together! Divorce is not an option.