Shall I write a book today?

Yesterday I published my second novel on Kindle.  I've been writing novels for fun for many, many years, but never thought anyone else would read them.  Publishing a novel is an event, a landmark, that I always held as a far-off, probably unattainable dream.  Now I know, from my own experience, that it's another part of my process, my journey through life.  Exciting, yes.  But not an end-goal.  Not a final break.  Today, there's another book to finish.

Which makes me think: I keep expecting events and getting processes.  You would think by now I would know.

Take this whole retirement thing.  Even though I kind of slid in the back door, taking 2 months of medical leave that just morphed into retirement, I still thought it would be an event, a clear demarcation, a line in the sand.  Instead, it's just like everything else, mushy and hard to define.

Yes, April 1 was the official date.  As far as paperwork is concerned, there's the event.  But as I experience this new phase of life, there are many more markers on the side of the path than large, instructional signs.  And why should I have expected it to be any different?

When I was in my twenties, I visited an elderly relative, Aunt Jennie, who had long since moved to California from Iowa.  I had never met her; she was my great-grandmother's sister.  I was named after Aunt Jennie, my middle name being Jeanette.  I remember very vividly that day, after showing us her orange tree in the yard, and playing some music for us, she perched on the edge of a wingback chair and said "I'm 85 years old!" then shook her head and added wonderingly, "How did that happen?" 

Process.  Life from the inside feels seamless and actually timeless.  I didn't understand yet in my twenties and thirties.  I thought as the body ages, everything else does, too.  But now I'm 60, not old, not young, and I'm still me on the inside.  I look back and remember incidents or events, but the experience of life is like a long ribbon that continues to unroll.

So here I am at a beginning and this beginning is like other beginnings ---- exciting, thought-provoking, mysterious, a little scary.  I wake up every morning and I don't go to work.  I have more choice about how I spend my time than I ever have before.  For all my adult life, I've hoarded time, guarded it and doled it out with the feeling that it was the most precious, scarce commodity I had.  And maybe it was.

Now I have time to write, to think, to read, to dream.  Chores and errands are not as onerous because I still have time for the things I love.  I treasure my time alone and I delight in my time with Jill.  I even have time to play with the dogs.

I used to dread getting older.  All I could see was the encroaching darkness, the end in sight.  But now that I'm arriving, I find I have more than I ever imagined.  I've heard more birds, taken more walks, read more books, and lost myself in creativity more than I allowed myself in the past.  


And I still write novels for fun.

 

The old lady with purple socks

We've all seen her.  She's the little old woman in the grocery store who is wearing those shoes that might actually be slippers, purple (or pink or orange or white) anklets, knit pants that just graze the top of the socks, an oversize t-shirt that may or may not have Mickey Mouse emblazoned on the front. There is no indication of any sort of foundational undergarment present. Remember her?  The age is indeterminate, but whatever it might be, you take one look and wonder how anybody could leave the house looking like that.

Now I know!

I get up in the morning and throw on my sweats or plaid flannel pants (red or blue), and either my huge red shirt from the Pleasure Island Jazz and Blues festival 2007, or my purple glow-in-the-dark goddess t-shirt.  Those are the most comfortable ones, so they're usually conveniently draped over the quilt rack.  I slip into a pair of backless shoes and go outside to throw the ball around for Buddy.  Once he's run out of energy, I'll turn my attention to the day --- writing, sweeping, talking to the cats.  At some point I'll have a sudden inspiration to make (fill in the blank) for dinner and grab the car keys, call the dog, and off we go to Food Lion.  No bra.  No socks.  Jammy pants.

I'm HER!

There was a time in my life when I would not leave the house without taking a look in the mirror.  There was even a time when I wore make-up and wouldn't go downtown in shorts.  I know, it's hard to believe.  (My grandmother also cautioned me that women do no eat on the street, not even ice cream cones.  And you NEVER go barefoot!)

I'm not sure what this means.  I'm old and I don't care?  I'm not trying to impress anybody?  I don't expect to see anyone I know because this is such a big town?  Maybe it's just that I have other priorities nowdays.

Anyway, when I see her in the store or on the street now, I feel a sisterhood.  I've walked in her houseshoes.