Grandpa Still Snowboards - How Staying Still Doesn't Allow Us to Grow

What’s the name of that restaurant? You know, the one on Irving, no, on Cicero, no, on Milwaukee? You know… the one with Baked Alaska*, it’s on the tip of my tongue…

That searching for a word, it’s called anomia. I’ve had run ins with it for a long time. I admit, a catalyst for retiring at the first chance came after sitting in meetings and feeling stupid. The times I couldn’t find the memory of the results of a previous day’s meeting, or I’d look at someone and couldn’t come up with their name, let alone their kid’s names. When anomia strikes, it erodes my self-confidence and immediately makes me think I will be in “the home” before the bananas turn yellow. 

Not so fast…. In the last few days, after truly launching my child across the country into his life after graduate work, after a year of retirement, after four years of learning to paint, and two and a half years of living on my retirement income, I’ve realized I put off focusing on my own growth and development in this next part of life. It doesn’t mean I haven’t been talking about it with whomever will listen… friends, neighbors, the Whole Foods cashier.  I typically spew the first part of my exploration like the gush from a fire hose, as the unsuspecting ask, how are you? Fine. I’m trying to figure out my life. I am done with health care, could use some money, I want a life of meaning, and painting and people, should I move? And on and on. 

It’s Wednesday and I have a wide open day, ripe for me to scratch off the items on my to-do list that extends to a second side of paper. I look forward to my still life painting class at the other end of my day that is part of my self directed curriculum on becoming an artist.  

Development as an artist is one of two successful elements I can claim on my plan to retire with intention. The other, which I may delve into more at another time, was living on my retirement income for more than a year prior to declaring a retirement date. Once I felt confident that I could exist, I set a date first in my own mind, and eventually with my employer. 

Which brings me back to today. I’m eyeing tchotchkes on a shelf I want to clear… for good, while packing my back pack for today’s attempt at a good submission for a plein air competition in Schaumburg.  I’m feeling pressure to get on with my life in the near term, and make sense of the rest of my days. Stat! Gratefully, I woke up to an email from one of my friends who’d sent a link to a TedTalk that she thought spoke to my woman’s “search for meaning.” It does. It’s by Bill Thomas, MD. a Harvard trained geriatrician who is reframing aging. I listened to the Ted Talk and intrigued, found another, more meaty presentation that got me to breathing a little easier. 

One of his messages is about anomia – the word finding issue I mentioned above.  When a young person stores a word in their brain, they don’t know a lot, and there is a lot of room to store words in their brain. Their filing system is simple, a single filing cabinet. If you live long, you have many filing cabinets, with many words, filed in different locations for different reasons. When you can’t think of a name of a restaurant or a person, it’s actually a consequence of how much you’ve stored.  

Research has shown that when people are asked to recall, young people remember the details, elders remember the gist. Elders have the store of knowledge to connect many aspects and pull on the architecture of the brain to activate and retrieve from different parts. Our brains have the power to provide a broader view of the issue. In other words, we elders have the gist of the story. In that sense, Bill Thomas jokes, “young people are neurologically disabled.”  

Yet, as a society, we don’t think in these terms. I smiled at Doctor Thomas’ concept of how we ineffectively cast “still” in our language. My Aunt Edith at 84 still drives. Grandpa still snowboards at 91… barefoot.  We are measured and somewhat revered by how we STAY the same. If we don’t stay still, we are disappeared.

Remember taking a child to the pediatrician and receiving a report in weight and height, or later talking with the child’s teachers about their maturity?   We have metrics to show change and growth from childhood, through adolescents and into adulthood. We recognize a fourteen year old who hasn’t dropped their blanky is acting inappropriately for their age. A twentysix year old still living at home…. (oops, scratch that example.)  Even with social trends like kids living longer at home, we recognize the end of the younger developmental phase, yet we don’t have a positive, recognizable phase for after adulthood. We are destined to stay still or disappear. It's a limbo, a time before death. It's not a recognized time for its own growth. For the most part, we measure peoples in terms of loss of adulthood. Dr. Thomas offers the name to this time as elderhood. And, he doesn't see it as staying still. 

I can relate… I am becoming an elder. I am done with certain things in adulthood. I am done being a slave to a work schedule. I am done with progress reviews that indicated my worth to an employer. I am done with conformity to fashion, cosmetics and other things that dictate how I must present myself. I really don’t understand cosmetic surgery, except for those days when I feel myself disappearing. I am done with raising a child… we now can have adult conversations. And, I am ready to grow. 

I am ready to reframe how I think about this time in my life. I want to create. I want to create meaning. I want to  be a successful painter- it burns me when someone asks, is this a hobby? Not really, I responded on Monday. The guys who asked followed up with, so you're making a living? Not a big one, I told him. But I am, not in money maybe, but this is big living for me.  

This morning, I am grateful to my friend who sent the link to Doctor Thomas’ talk (I encourage you to watch it) and I am grateful to him for helping me reframe my sense of self and my sense of meaning. 

Let the gist begin! 

*Community Tavern 

Self Confidence and the Up Hill Climb of Learning a New Craft

My experience at the easel on Labor Day weekend nearly topped painting, an act that I've come to love after sixteen months of being new. You know that feeling... walking into a meeting where it seems everyone knows more than you?

Arriving at Fort Sheridan north of Chicago, a little after eight, I parked in the prime slot closest to the Lake Michigan.

No horizon came into view as I reached the path.  My friend Lynne who saw the same from a beach a mile up, told me later, "If we were being invaded by stealth ships, they would’ve had the advantage," ... an apt analogy for the scene of WWII artillery just to the right of where I'd set up my equipment.

For most of the past 60 weeks, I’ve visited this spot to capture in watercolor, the Lake, the waves, the sky, the clouds, the trees, the wind, the leaves, and the weeds, to learn about light, and shadows, and glare and seasons, the paper, paints and brushes. The fun, challenge and frustration of painting pleine air requires that the artist deals with scene changes as the earth rotates, the sun rises and lowers,  shadows appear, fall, deepen and shorten from side-to-side… even when it’s grey.

I started out in jeans, flip flops, a long sleeve blouse over a t-shirt and opted because of the grey and haze to leave my wide brimmed hat in the car. Promised rain didn’t materialize; the sun invaded the haze and within an hour I took off my over shirt and wished I had my hat.  I fought the desire to push on my sunglasses to battle the glare because they dull and tint the colors I wanted to capture.

No one came by while I assembled my easel, organized the tray holding brushes, and pigments, poured water into rubber-coated collapsible cup and sketched the scene I planned to watercolor on the 140-pound paper I taped to a board.

The pre-sketch is a new process for me. A teacher last year recommended it, but never did it himself. I decided I wanted to be that accomplished so I’d did as he did. However, over the year, I realized I am not that accomplished and I’ve learned my picture is more likely to turn out as I envision it, if I actually envision it. Duh!

Those sketches look like scribbles. I draw the loosest of shapes, dash lines across for a horizon which slowly comes into focus, and more shapes for trees and fences. The scribbles I've learned map lights and darks which create the better composition. More than once, after hours of painting onsite, returned home and added quick washes on the scribbles and liked that outcome best. No one is supposed to see them. 

A woman’s voice with a hint of Europe came from behind and startled me. “May I see your sketch?” I flashed the scribbles and closed the book. A camera dangled from her neck and a fanny pack surrounded her waist. We talked for nearly twenty minutes and in that time I learned about a different area I wanted to see in the Fort. She learned about my interest in facilitation and we both learned about each other’s writing and decided to exchange emails. Her name I learned is Emma. 

I finally got my paper and board affixed to the easel and a wash applied. Until recently I immediately painted objects into the scene. Reading my urban sketching books, watching You Tube videos and using my repeated visits to the Fort to test techniques, I better understand the value in staking out the scene, plus, preserve white on the page and put in a light wash of color, my renditions now show contrast. This is a huge improvement from paintings as recent as Memorial Day. 

 

A few minutes later, a family approached: Frank the dad, Kylee about four, Ellen in third grade and Grandma. Ellen, came over touched the board and asked if I was painting. 

It’s this kind of question that rocks my confidence that I am doing "it" right. I smiled, worried that maybe I was knitting and dementia is in full episode. I swallowed my sarcasm, humored her and asked if she liked to paint. She did. I asked if she would make a picture in my sketchbook. She agreed and I gave her a sketchbook, I carry for "Guest Artists" along with markers. Ellen set to work. Kylee straddled a razor scooter and drank from a glass bottle of Perrier, Grandma kept walking, and Frank held the markers and encouraged Ellen’s art.

I learned Frank recently registered Ellen for an after school painting class in Wilmette because she is good in that and math. I got a sense that Ellen runs their house. She demanded a different color from her dad, then asked politely for a pen from me, because she wanted to be more precise. She told me that though it looked like a man, the person she drew was a woman. I promised her that I’d remember. Her dad told me they were from China then spoke to his son in Chinese. Ellen signed her drawing, put the caps back on the markers and said good-bye. Her dad asked me if I had grand children and for my phone number. He wrote his number and email on the opposite page from Ellen’s drawing and asked that I call him when I returned there again. I remain confused by his intent and didn’t ask. As they left for the beach, Ellen said, “nin hao.”

Painting away, bikers rolled down hill to my left. The decline there is steep. Bikes sound like bees swarming as they whiz by. On the way back up, the riders sound like steam engines. More than once, I’ve said, “I think I can, I think I can” as they effort to pedal the incline. 

One couple returning from the beach got off their bikes to comment on my work. Empathy told me the wife-leader needed a rest. The laboring husband did too. They complimented the gobbledygook on my paper that minutes before a ten year old questioned its validity as a painting. Their (and several others) praise when my scene is without shape or definition confuses me too. I thank them for their encouragement, though in my eyes the painting at that phase is crap.  They got back on their bikes and I sprayed the paints with my little atomizer bottle to get back to work. 

Behind me, I heard two women discussing someone who disappointed the lady on the far side at a recent funeral. The person closest to me counseled, “People who don’t bother to come to a funeral, aren’t likely to want to do much more for you.” I thought that a bit closed minded but decided I didn’t need to get into the conversation. 

Several people walked by ready for the beach, loaded with blankets, chairs and bags that seemed to contain food. Too bad I didn’t pack an apple. I took a swig from my bottle of water, reminding myself that I should save some if the water cup gets to murky and I could only stay as long as my bladder held out. I don’t like, to leave my stuff unattended there to use the facilities, so to go means completely packing up.  In all my trips to the Fort, I’ve metered the coffee and water well. 

Another couple of women about the same age as the earlier pair, in their fifties, walked by, talking about a person they see at the health club who hogs the machines. Again, I decided to not offer my thoughts.

A man, arms pumping, trekked uphill toward me. A while before, I watched him and another man with a bull dog on a leash, walking down together. He complimented my art then asked if I knew the area.

He told me that they’ve lived in Gurnee for twelve years but decided to explore the shore line by driving down Sheridan Road and accidentally happened on the Forest Preserve.  His partner and the pup caught up but  didn’t stop. He plodded his way up, both he and the dog panting. Watching him, I considered saying, I think I can, I think I can, but when people are on bikes, it doesn’t seem rude. The first man told me that he admired “my attempt at painting.” Ha! Once again, feint praise. 

An Asian gentleman, maybe Korean, wearing a khaki brimmed hat  stopped to chat. He asked whether I was retired. He told me he wanted to learn to paint and would like to paint as good as me when he retires. He lives in the Fort and owns a couple neighborhood liquor stores. I told him I’d been a customer of his and promised to buy more, so he could retire sooner. 

A man and a boy with a fresh outbreak of acne approached and said something nice about the painting. The dad said he wished he could paint, but has no talent. I told him to try anyway and I wished I could tell the boy to change his pillow case every night… it helped my boy along with some dermatological medicine with dire side effects that might have rendered a deformed baby if he got a girl pregnant or maybe made it impossible for me to have grandchildren,  I don’t remember exactly,  because apparently, I look retired. 

The dad said they were visiting from Georgia to attend his oldest son’s graduation the day before from Basic Training at Great Lakes Naval Academy. My heart broke for him as he described saying good bye to his boy who shipped out the same day for medic training in Texas, “shipped out the same day,” he repeated, like it hadn’t sunk in. No dinner at Maribel or celebration at a Tapas bar as we did for celebrations with my son. I wondered about “shipped out” as an all purpose term. I couldn’t quite picture him taking a boat through the Great Lakes or even down the Mississippi to San Antonio. He asked about things to do, as long as it didn’t mean going downtown to where there were a lot of people. I asked the teenager if he likes cars and suggested the auto museum in Volo and the renaissance fair in that area too. The dad said they were thinking about Gurnee Mall. 

A couple with a big Golden with grey at the jowls, stopped on their way down to the beach. I see them nearly every time I paint at Fort Sheridan. He is Caucasian, stick-figured and tall and nearly always wears a red t-shirt. She is Asian and comes up to his sternum. She must change her clothes because they don’t impress on me. He asked permission to look, leaned in, didnt comment and told me that their whole family is artistic. Their son in law just did all the labels for Burghoff beer in Chicago. 

 

Ellen, Frank, Kylee and Grandma trudged single file from the beach. Ellen wore Grandma’s hat, Grandma pushed Kylees scooter, Ellen asked if I’d like a rock that she found, then went in my bag, found the markers and colored a sliver of it dark blue, then told me I should do more. Frank asked to take a picture with Ellen and my painting which had progressed since they’d been through earlier. They all waved and said nin hao or neha, something I will need to clarify as one seems to be a greeting and the other a greeting to an old person. 

Several pairs of people went down or up and said nothing. 

The artist-couple returned, their dog’s hair matted and darker from a swim and proudly carrying a tennis ball in his mouth. The stick man said don’t let him brush up against you, I didn’t counter. They checked out the painting and said, “See you again,” and climbed on up the hill. 

Another group of two adult women and a rash of kids all on bikes struggled up the hill. The last one, a boy, maybe around eleven years asked if I would draw him. I said if he didn’t pedal any faster I probably could. Mostly, at the speed he was progressing, I worried that he’d fall over. He stopped to look at my painting. I suggested he paint himself, but I got to keep it? He took the sketchbook and markers still out from Ellen. He painted a navy blue half moon then a black u-shaped line beneath for his helmet and strap… a perfect likeness. His mom circled back and watched him. He used the handle bars for his easel and balanced the markers with his knees. His mom said, “What are you drawing?” “Me on my bike.” “Why don’t you get off your bike?” I knew why she asked, it looked awkward. “I’m good”, he replied. He was. His mom circled around again and headed up the hill. He said, “I’d better go, they are leaving me again.” He signed his drawing, “Colin” and took off. 

An older man trying to control a wheel chair with a woman whose head appeared no higher than the back of the chair, reminded me of a Pinewood Derby race car from Boy Scout days as they sped by. “Hell-low”, I heard once they passed. There isn’t much more asphalt to explore at the bottom of the hill.  One must immediately navigate steep, cement steps, the uneven kind used to manage shoreline erosion to get to the beach. So, it was only a couple minutes later that I saw him pushing the wheel chair with his arms tightly outstretched and locked up the private road. A couple minutes later the Pinewood Derby couple flashed down the hill again. Returning by way of the path, he stopped to rest and chat. He found the gate at the top closed. He told me that they were visiting his sister in law from Ohio, She gave him the much needed hat he wore imprinted with Mackinac Island and he hoped to visit there one day. Good-bye were her only words. 

There are a couple themes from this day. First, that painting plein air is not solitary. In pursuing painting or any new interest, I wanted a community. I figured it would be artists discussing perspectives. Little did I know it would be a greater world community who are attracted to an easel and the act of painting. My art community, as it turns out, is intergenerational, international, may not experience painting and includes dogs. Discussions are varied, broad, sometimes intimate and in some instances, the potential to be continued. 

A couple years before I dove in, I saw a couple in Taos, NM painting a mountain scene out of the back of their pick up truck, and I saw people dotting the landscape of Cedarburg, WI, participating in, what I learned was a pleine air competition. It occurred to me that I could be out anywhere in the world, by myself and paint, not feeling the pressure of singleness. This particular day, my need for community was satisfied. And, my interest in being outside without pressure to walk or bike to feel productive and still not look like the little old men on park benches asleep with a newspaper draped across their chest.

Let me make this clear. I am not retired. I am not a grandparent. The questions about this phase of my life may as well be someone pointing at my stomach asking, are you pregnant?   If I want to be kind to myself, I analyze that they figure I am not a professional artist and therefore must be retired to indulge in painting. If I want to rattle myself, I wonder if cosmetic surgery is a something to consider. 

Though I’ve never heard a disparaging word, I recognize that I use an internal smart ass to react to my imagination of visitor’s internal judgment.  My current self-confidence requires people seeing only finished products, yet, I choose to paint in public. Ridiculous thinking, but my current ridiculous thinking. I plan to rise above it. I figure visitors want to engage, maybe encourage me. It’s a nice gesture but it is confusing. I like to encourage people too, but I am now thinking about the best way to do so. It might be kinder to ask a question rather than make a statement. Where are you heading with that? What perspective are you working on? Or, how will you know when it’s done? I suppose the question could be an intrusion and require a conversation. For my process, that might feel more apt. I am going to try it next time I am tempted to interrupt someone. 

My bladder finally got to a point I needed to pull up stakes. It was a good day to paint. It was a good day to learn. 

Light and Dark - Spiraling into the Next Phase - My Intentional Life Change

I think I must have come through something. Maybe it's the sun. Maybe it's the air, still cold, but there's a damp that shoves the smells of musk and blooms up from the earth. It might be me, living out the myths of Persephone in the underworld, coming from the dark into the light. Ok, maybe it's just a case of seasonal affective disorder healing itself. No matter, I feel different. I sense light. And I didn't realize I was dark or depressed. It's Spring.

I picture a spiral. If I was asked to choose a symbol of some kind to illustrate my life, it would be a spiral. It conveys a sense movement... it may be up or down and always coming around. There's a near side,  the side I show, like the man in the moon, and a far side that only Sputnik sees, transmitting shaded glimpses back for study. As I spiral, I see the same sights, I go over the same territory but maybe with some movement... from a passage in a book, a conversation over wine, a Tweet, a poem, a fragment overheard from the stall in the Ladies...  something that swirls around  on the bright side and the dark and changes my view.

Ever since August, when I spontaneously offered to cut a day of work and agreed to take a 20% cut in pay and benefits, I've dwelt on this change. I organized it, named it,  monetized it to show value. I've refinanced my mortgage, reorganized my finances and done my taxes. I call my Fridays, my Serial Sabbatical. I schedule something to learn, experience or see on those days off.  I've spent time with friends in Spain and continue to renew my Spanish with Duolingo. I've made time to paint plein air, planned a vacation in Maine to learn about color and began an online sketching course.

With pressures for space at work, I gave up my office, moved into a cube and now work, most weeks, two days from home. I put in cabinets, bought a fancy bungee desk chair,  cleaned out two closets, made three trips to Salvation Army to do so. It's brought me an unexpected sense of expanded time at home, by myself and with a luxury of un-hurry.

All the while, I've stewed about these changes as a gateway to retirement. I equate these changes with the next phase of work or non work or different work as time will reveal. I'm living with a cut in salary. I have a day each week to fill. I'm searching to find meaning and purpose and organization in my life. And,  I wonder about how I'll live, where I'll live, will I live with someone,  and how well I live.

Last Saturday night, my friend... my friend with boundless patience agreed that I'd been spiraling round the same topics for quite some time. She reminded me that I already knew what to do. She'd seen this before, from another perspective... when I talked (and talked) about divorce... And knew all along I knew exactly what to do.

My spirals repeat the topic sometimes and they repeat a process. Even when I know the truth, my truth, I sometimes don't like it, and ask the question again like a Magic 8 Ball, hoping for a different answer. My 8 Ball is consistent, I'm just not ready to do what's best for me. Fear, inertia and fatigue block my momentum. I know that in the meantime, I continue to spiral, like I got pg and the baby's going to come whether I want it or not... (well that's exactly) what happened twenty nine years ago. This birth into a new life will be on my schedule and my sense of readiness whether I like it or not.

So, I think I came through something that I didn’t realize I traversed. This morning I felt a lightness that may be a sign of SAD lifting or maybe a sign that I can stop fretting. I have more of an understanding of my process. I have pieces of a plan, some of the what, some of the how, a sense of the when and now, I'll use my Fridays to discern more of each and always learning about the who.

Count Up: My Intentional Life Change - Status Report

As it turns out, the theme of my first quarter of the rest of my life is about money. Now into April and the second quarter of the year, I can see that I accomplished several things with my financial future in best stead. I refinanced my home moving from a 30-year mortgage to a 15-year. With the better rate, my monthly out lay is only a few dollars more but I have gained two big benefits. First, I am now nearly tripling the amount of equity. Instead of $150 per month, I gain $450. And, I no longer am escrowing, I am simply saving the amount to pay my taxes myself. When I retire and move to a more or less fixed income, but with this change, I will have less of a monthly nut. I will still save to pay for the property tax or I will use my savings then to pay it. For me, that is a big burden removed that gives me more money oxygen to breathe. 

I also changed my financial advisor. I chose one who is less incented to sell me stuff. The last one at Morgan Stanley kept pushing “alternatives”. This is the year 2015, but I kept picturing Enron or

Bernie Madoff. I don’t have a great memory for specifics, but I do remember the reaction to these two scandals from 2001 and 2008. I wanted something much more simple to understand and concrete, even if that is the miracle drug for what may ail my portfolio.

Of course, this quarter is IRS taxes too. I guess fortunately, I got a refund. I am hesitant because it was sizable and clearly I am not doing things right. I’d rather have the money in my pocket. It did go to paying off a lagging credit card, instead of a trip or something more fun. No, come to think of it, the remnants on the card were from my trip to Spain in February. All is well.

Yesterday, I received a report that shows the amount I will receive from my pension, monthly for the rest of my life, once I retire.  It’s not a lot, but I am grateful, that there is a constant source of income from outside my savings and Social Security. My next financial hurdle is to determine whether to stay, rent out or sell my current home. I like the idea of a rental property. I like the idea of renting-out where I live now because I see evidence that they rent quickly. Mine is larger with three bedrooms and two baths where most have 1½ baths, so I should be able to rent it and create some income. The question is, when do I do that? Now while I am working? If I wait, I don’t know how the banks will look at my credit once I retire… especially since I took a 20% pay cut with only working 4 days each week. My friend Karen pointed out that my talking about it feels like when I was deciding to get a divorce. I talked and talked about it, till I got it completely rationalized, event though I knew from the beginning exactly what I wanted. I know I want to move and rent my place. (As long as I don’t have to go through a move.)

I will continue to look at other revenue sources… coaching and consulting for example, over the next few months to learn what that could yield and what resources a launch would take.

In addition, I want to figure out one major volunteer project to align with during retirement. I want to find an issue that I can throw myself into and maybe make a difference. While others are working, I can keep the passions alive to get things going. I am leaning toward saving the planet. Is that big enough? I also think about joining the Peace Corps once  I stop working. I like the idea of a complete adventure for a month or three. I’m interested in looking into that and similar volunteer experiences. I like the idea of moving to a small place which I can lock up and leave for a couple months at a time… maybe with a lake view.

One theme for the next quarter will be where will I live and another theme of the next quarter is how will I live? The report I mentioned earlier had a date late in November for my potential retirement. I found that unnerving. The date is too soon. I will likely work longer to build up all coffers, but then again, if I can put everything into place, I will walk away from work without fear and with confidence that all will be well, to quote the saints! 

Nostalgia - You Are What You Were When and What You Choose to Be Now

I just got an email that has cute pictures and in poetic form tells all the things they miss about the nineteen-fifties, then asks me to send it to someone else who'd appreciate the memories.

I realized in reading it, I don't like those memories.

Those cliche' views leave out that women were relegated to staying home or could only get secretarial, teaching or nursing jobs, and African Americans had to sit in the back, couldn't eat in most restaurants, and feared being lynched. One couldn't marry someone of the same sex let alone show them affection. Education wasn't valued, men knew best, white people were all powerful and the United States was proud it dropped nuclear bombs. And, pedophilia, depression and anything else mental was seen as a personal fault not an illness.

I get the idea that we are who we were when, but I would relate to nostalgia better if it acknowledged the "and then... this evolved into that." I'd appreciate it if it noted that in time, change doesn't stop. Are they still wearing saddle shoes and wearing a pageboy or duck's ass? I mean everything they listed as contemporary will be just as old and past in twenty years anyway. I don't really like revering a time unless you can learn from it. We may rail against things not made as well now, but I'd rather have a cataract removed now than then... An hour in a chair in out patient suite vs three days in sand bags in a hospital... give me the good ole days... NOT.

I don't like nostalgia. Personally, I have no interest in making any of those times anything more than that... a place in time. I'd rather use my energy to make peace with today... to embrace all the things that have changed and live with integrity among them, to bring myself to understand the present, maybe try to make it better from the lessons that I learned from when I grew up. I'm so dismayed at seeing the fundamentalism that's trying to turn back time like in Indiana and around the world.

I still don't get why I feel different now that I am 60 from when I was 40. Ha! Sure, I can't get pregnant but I still have my whole life ahead of me to birth new things. I have to remind myself that it's okay to start things... even a business. I just may need a sooner than later succession plan. Thank goodness there's an app for that... probably.

There are years ahead. My watercolor painting reminds me daily that if I am at all normal, then I'll look back on the junk I'm doing now as the time I had to put in to get to where I will be then. My brother just bought something that requires classes and learning to be safe and to get good at it. That's inspiring. It's good to start something new. When my friends retired they picked up and moved to France. They started over... even language. That's more and more inspiring the closer I get to that time.

I find myself placing meaning on retirement that means shut down; that makes it seem to coincide with diminishment, but I don't know if or how that's going to happen... There's no sense in acting like it is inevitable or it's total incapacitation.

So, I’ve beat to death the idea that I really don't like nostalgia. The reality is, I do like to tell stories. So, my learning today is that I don’t want to be nostalgic for the sake of remembering. I want to remember so that the present and the future is worth remembering. 

I Don't Work Fridays - An intentional decision to change my life balance

This posted in January 9, 2015. 

“Today is the first day of the rest of your life.” (American Proverb) I remember seeing this saying on a poster in college, profound for me as Never Trust Anyone Over Thirty. And today, I begin a new day, knowing that I didn’t know a lot back then about the future… like I might turn thirty some day… but at least today, I know that I don’t know what ten years from now looks like. I only know that I have more time in my weeks to use well. Today is my first free Friday in my four-day work week.

It sounds great, right? For now, and with intention, I no longer work a traditional five-day work week. I find it a bit daunting now that it finally arrived. 

I don’t remember seeing this T. S. Eliot saying on a poster, but it speaks to me: “What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from.” (First, I like that the poet ends his sentence in a preposition. More importantly, I like the idea he ends up with.) Since my first meeting on Monday morning of this past week, when It took three reminders to my colleagues that I work a 4 day week, I created a mantra   to cement this new fact of my work life, “I don’t work Fridays.” It turns out that I needed to use the saying every single day when looking at calendars to schedule meetings and calls. Reactions were for the most part positive. They spanned from a smile and congratulations, to encouragement and reminders to protect it. There were challenges too. That same person who told me to protect it, told me I should attend a meeting because it was important. I don’t work Fridays, was all I said.  A while later another person who'd heard me say it asked me in an email, after I declined an e-invitation to a meeting for today. I am pretty sure she was yanking my chain. I responded with, I don’t work Fridays.

Reality set in as this week unfolded, by Wednesday afternoon, I realized that it would be difficult to get all my tasks checked off my list. In the olden days, (last week), I might finish projects in the evening or on the weekend. Now that I am intentionally working a four-day work week, I realize that my intention isn't about jamming in a five day work week into four. My objective now is to focus on exactly what I need to do to be considered successful in my work. Today, the first day of the rest of my life, I declare that I am no longer ambitious for growth in my career. I am leaving behind fears of being passed over, settling and complacency. I am embracing being relevant and highly valuable today in my job. This is hugely freeing. It may be the key to allowing me to be everything I have wanted all along.

The plan began August 2014 while developing strategy and budgets for 2015. I offered up 20% of my salary to make ends meet... though it may have sounded precipitous, it wasn't without thought. A catalyst for this decision began much earlier as I wanted more time to explore  what I am meant to do in life. I feel it… a flow… a moment of peace, maybe success, a full deep breath. I am driven to know that more. I like what the French painter/sculptor, Jean Dubuffet* said,  “Unless one says goodbye to what one loves, and unless one travels to completely new territories, one can expect merely a long wearing away of oneself and an eventual extinction.” So this morning, I have no intention of wearing away myself, though I do expect extinction. Instead, I’d like to wear myself… to fully express myself. On the first day of the rest of my life I am booking a trip to Spain… talking to a friend about an investment, breaking a loaf of bread, taking lunch to someone shut in after a work out, and working on a painting. Tomorrow is the weekend, when, ok, I’ll admit it, I might sneak a peek at my emails, because, I don’t work Fridays. 

It's a beginning.

*Sculpture at the State of Illinois building, Randolph and Dearborn, Chicago