Three Years and Counting

It takes awhile to get perspective on anything. It has now been three years since I officially retired from my teaching job. This morning, I found my journal from that time and read it, from September 2010 right through the breakdown that put me on medical leave in January 2011, then into retirement. Trouble was brewing throughout, and I was staring down that deep well of depression long before the day I walked out. I put up a valiant fight. I nearly lost myself in the effort.

What is most striking for me is the language I used to describe my situation at school. It was a battle and I was in the trenches. I was responsible for my company of 21 students and felt like I was failing them. There were too many casualities. I also used a prison metaphor. At that time, I intended to work until I turned 62, two more school years. I saw it as a sentence. I would be paroled on my 62nd birthday, and would return to civilian life, the world outside, the real world.

I had developed many coping mechanisms and strategies for getting from one day to the next. Over and over, the saving grace was time with the kids. I journaled my delight in them, described them as precious, worried over them and celebrated their successes. I sought refuge and support in my network of colleagues, foxhole friends who struggled along beside me.

Perhaps the strangest bit I came across was the account of a day when I couldn't stop crying, felt hopeless and defeated at school, and one of the people who held some power told me that "Depression is from Satan, and Satan has you right where he wants you." I was stunned speechless. I did feel like I was living in hell, but would never have characterized it like that. Way outside of my belief structure!

What made me think of this today was talking to a friend who escaped from the public school insanity into a more balanced teaching position. Spring break has just passed, and I remember spring breaks and Sundays back when I was working. They were not times of rest and relaxation. Every Sunday was a marathon of work: writing lesson plans, making materials, researching ideas, checking work, bookkeeping, and devising strategies and lessons for individual students who needed particular attention. It was also the day of dread, knowing that 5:15 would come on Monday morning and it would be on again, 10-12 hour workdays, faculty and committee meetings, conferences, phone calls, emails, assessments, and oh yes, maybe even some teaching.

I thought about this today while lying on the guest bed upstairs, petting the dog and doing nothing except enjoying the experience of a peaceful Sunday afternoon. I know what my friends are likely doing today, I know what tomorrow morning will be like, and the pace of the work week, and the feeling that whatever you do it is never enough, and there's no way to catch up. I'm immensely grateful to be out of it.

I wish teaching was truly about education. I wish it was more about discovery and delight, and less about measurement and regulation. I wish children were not being conditioned to think of learning in the negative context of testing, competition, inadequacy and, far too often, failure. It's not like that for everyone, but too often that is the reality of school for students, teachers and administrators alike. 

I still miss my kids. I still think of them. I no longer feel like I failed them, for the most part. I know I did what I could to bring human kindness and love into those groups of 6 and 7 and 8 year olds. They were still curious, excited, and motivated to explore their world. I like to think I helped guide them in those important ways, at least a little bit ---- and let them know that I believed in them. Those are qualities they can carry forward much better than scores on a test or grades on a report card. And that's why I wanted to be a teacher in the first place.

View from the back deck

My grandfather, back in Iowa, used to sit out on the kitchen porch after dinner and chew on a sprig of parsley that he picked from the flower box. Good for digestion. Of course, not in the winter time. Winter in Iowa is not conducive to either porch sitting or parsley.

I used to notice older people doing things like that, sitting on the porch or a park bench or, most amusing of all, in the open garage doorway since so many houses are built without porches these days. It always looked kind of sad to me as I raced by in my car on the way to somewhere, to do something. How sad it must be to be old and have nothing to do but sit. Especially in the garage.

Nothing in my life encouraged me to relax and contemplate. If I had occasion to sit and wait, I usually had a book to read or a notebook in my purse so I could plan or make notes. I had kids with me, or the radio to listen to. I had places to go and people to see.

I'm starting to change my tune and guess what---- it's not sad. Maybe what's sad is all the time I've spent rushing through the world not really seeing or hearing or smelling or tasting much of anything. Until I was 30 and changed my ways, fun revolved around intentionally changing my perception as much as I could, trying to find that fine line between euphoria and oblivion. Once I put that behind me, I still wasn't ready to be present to myself or the world around me. I was busy. I had responsibilities. People expected things of me. I didn't have time.

It's only been in the last couple of years that I have been able, with any consistency, to slow myself down to a pace that allows me to simply be for longer than a few minutes. It wasn't that I didn't see any value or try to do that before, but it's hard to still a racing mind. What I discover now is that sitting and being is not sad. I don't have to always distract myself with music or a book. And most startling of all, it's not boring.

So I'm on the back deck doing the old person sit. It's the same view as it's been for the past ten years--- except it's not. The pine trees that used to come up to the first floor windows of the houses across the way now tower over the rooftops. I can't even see the houses anymore. A few days ago, the silver maple had lots of seed pods, but almost no leaves. Now the leaves obscure the seeds. The ash tree was bare, but this morning there are tiny leaves, the butterfly bush has its first hints of purple. The mockingbird--blue bird wars are in full swing.

The view may seem the same at first glance, but it's never the same way twice. The wind shifts direction, the clouds blow across the sky, the sun angles differently with each season and time of day. The corkscrew willow that dominated the yard is now gone. I've erected a bottle tree in its place, and sunlight dances through the colored glass.

I have a baby portrait of myself hanging in my study. I was about 6 months old when it was taken. It's large and framed in gold-painted wood. I've seen this photograph all my life. When I look at that picture I know it is me 62 years ago and, strangely enough, it looks like me. I haven't changed a bit, except for the growing up and growing older part. I still look like me.

So if you walk through my neighborhood and you see me sitting on  the glider out front, doing nothing, don't shake your head and feel sorry for me. I'm not doing nothing. I'm smelling the scents, just like the dogs do. I'm feeling the air move across my face and arms. I'm listening to birdsongs and relishing the first bright pink azaleas. I'm noticing the sun as it descends to the horizon and yes, I'm greeting people and dogs as they walk by.

Someday, I hope you'll have time to sit on my porch, too. We'll have a glass of tea and talk a little bit. We'll watch the evening gather and keep an eye out for the first star. And maybe we'll just sit in companionable silence for awhile. But you'll have to bring your own parsley.

Normal is as Normal Does

I used to live in Normal.  Normal, Illinois, that is.  That's where I finished my undergraduate studies and took my master's ---- Illinois State University.  I was always amused by the thought of living in Normal, even though I knew it derived from the fact that the university used to be a "normal school" --- a training college for teachers.  That's what they called them, back in the day.  Don't ask me why.

So did living in Normal make me normal?  I suppose it depends on your point of view. If paying enough money, putting in enough work and jumping through enough hoops to be awarded two degrees is normal, then yes.  I was normal.  As a matter of fact, considering the heavy emphasis on education and academic achievement that I learned at home, I felt as though it was not only normal, but imperative to earn a graduate degree.  That's how you become a good person in order to lead an upright, normal life.

But did I consider myself normal on the inside?  Not in the least.  Since I had long since developed the habit of comparing my insides to other people's outsides, I always felt like a mess.  From the inside out, it felt like I was always on the verge of collapse, ever in peril of being discovered to be a fraud.  I went through all the motions, and I developed real skill at hoop jumping, but I never felt that I earned my diplomas like other people did.

Now I feel pretty normal, for the first time in my life.  And this is in spite of living a life that many other people would consider abnormal.  Two Old Broads --- that's us.  Enjoying wedded bliss.

DIGRESSION ALERT: I've been annoyed lately about the word "lifestyle" being used to describe how I, and others of my tribe, live.  Lifestyle is what you buy at the mall. I didn't purchase lesbian at Pottery Barn.  Being gay is one of the aspects of who I am.  It defines me in a limited, but profound way.  I'm also short ---- very short.  Not even 5 feet tall.  But I assure you, I don't live a "short lifestyle".  END OF RANT

Normal.  When I was growing up in the 1950s in rural Iowa, it was normal to go barefoot a lot, to have the run of the town and surrounding countryside without adult supervision, to create your own games and amusements out of whatever raw materials were available, and to be fed candy and cookies by any kind lady whose porch or kitchen you fetched up in, whether you knew them or not.  That was normal because that's how most people lived.  It would have been abnormal to cosset your kid indoors in front of a screen all the time and away from other people.  Folks would have thought there was something wrong with you, that you were not parenting your kid correctly.

Now I'm not saying that was right and people do it wrong now.  Not at all --- I don't have a cane to thump on the floor while declaiming "Back in my day..."  What's changed is what NORMAL is.  Normal comes from the root word norm.  Norm is defined as a standard or average.  What is most common?  Today, because of changes in society, changes in parenting standards and educational practices and employment, it is more normal for kids to be in structured activities or institutional settings during what used to be playtime.  More people live in neighborhoods where it is unsafe, or it is felt to be unsafe to let kids play without direct supervision.  So the new normal involves a great deal more direct supervision and less opportunity for chance discoveries or encounters.

Normal has shifted in so many spheres --- watch a few episodes of Mad Men or better yet, old 50s and 60s sitcoms, and it's easy to see the underlying assumptions about relationships, roles, behavioral expectations, etc.  It's startling to see how many people smoked and where they did it, now that the norms have shifted so much.  Drinking and driving?  It's always been a scourge, but time was, you'd get off with a warning or rarely even be stopped in the first place.

At my doctor's office there is a sign above the scale that says "Normal is just a setting on the washing machine."  What's the worst part of going for a checkup?  Not the fasting, not the needles, not the long wait in a flimsy gown --- it's the scales.  It might as well be SCREAMING --- "You pathetic excuse for a human being, you waste of oxygen, get the hell out of here and don't come back till you lose forty pounds!"  The sign doesn't drown it out, but it helps.

For most of the last decade,  my normal was working 60+ hours a week and never being done.  It was always thinking about school, the kids, the job, the unfinished tasks, the new things to try, the things that didn't work.  Normal was guilt about being an inattentive wife, a negligent daughter, an unavailable mother, an infrequent friend.  Normal was putting self-care dead last on the to-do list.

I'm glad I live in a new normal now.  

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.

Retirement changes things

Suddenly I have time to do the things I've only thought about, or tried to fit into the corners of an over-full working life. 

I married a woman ten years my junior, though neither of us could be called a spring chicken.  Hot flashes.  When two people are having hot flashes at the same time, life gets interesting, especially when it comes to the thermostat, open windows and covers on the bed.  Mine were from age.  Hers were from breast cancer.  It all amounts to the same thing --- where'd the estrogen go?

Now I'm home in the daytime while she's still working.  Somebody, after all, has to bring home the bacon.  It's brand new, this retirement gig.  It won't last since my pension is really low, so I'll have to find some way to make money.  But for a couple of months, this is what I'm doing.  I'm staying home to write, to recover from the most stressful situation I've ever experienced, and to raise the puppy.

The changes are enormous already.  I'm learning to relax.  I can make decisions about how to spend my time.  Without the never-ending pressure of school work and unfinished tasks, I am able to sleep again, to read for pleasure, to follow my curiosity, even to "waste" time if I want to.  And I want to.