Tag Archives: retirement

When Will I Be Ready to Shift into Shrink?

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My husband was in one of his “move everything around” moods, so I had to clear some shelving in the master bedroom. He was moving it into his man-cave. I can’t believe at 79 I’m married to a man-cave sort of man. I thought that was a younger generation affliction.

I also couldn’t believe all the things I’d stashed away in that shelving unit. Besides two shelves of cookbooks, there were assorted threads with needles, several sanding sponges, knitting needles and yarn, workout descriptions ripped from magazines (which I’ve never done), two cameras, charging cords for whatever—I won’t bore you with the rest of the list. Take my word for it, I’ve used that shelving as an “out of sight, out of mind” receptacle.

Having no where to go with the junk, I moved it into my office, thinking I could transfer it to the shelving there—which, when I apprised it, was already full. This wasn’t going to be an easy relocation chore. And I haven’t read—nor do I want to—Marie Kondo’s The Life-changing Magic of Tidying Up. Unlike Karen Rose, who has downsized and confronted clutter twice in the last decade, my moves did not require ditching anything more significant than a dining room table that was too large for our current house.

THIS has to go. . . . . . . . . .
HERE

Just as I was looking for another place to stash my junk—rather than dealing with it—what showed up on Facebook but an article by Ann Patchett called “How to Practice,” which is about clearing out her stuff in response to contemplating death. Was the universe trying to tell me something? I sat down to write this blog—anything to avoid dealing with the mess on my office floor.

*****

After taking a break, I came back to the mess. What could I possibly get rid of to make room for the things I want to keep? And what are the things I actually want to keep, surely not all those sanding sponges? Then I remembered my Aunt Selma (she was a reluctant step-grandmother who preferred to be an aunt). Selma and her husband, Uncle Earl, had a tiny duplex in my hometown of Racine. They lived on the main floor in a fortress of mahogany furniture trimmed in brass. Two pictures I loved adorned the living room walls, peacocks made from feathers in different poses. Their son, Don, my stepfather brought them from Japan after WWII.

As I grew up and as an adult, I watched Earl and Selma age. First they moved to a smaller apartment—gone was the mahogany dining room set. Earl died from Parkinson’s, and Selma moved to another small apartment. She gave my husband and me the mahogany bedroom set. She eventually landed in a Lutheran Home (for the elderly) with only those two pictures, a bed, and a couch. When she died at 99, she had a bed in a nursing home with one of the peacock pictures hanging over the head of the bed. Selma’s life kept shrinking. She knew it, she’d rationalize it, telling me that she no longer liked caring for a house.

So here I was, wondering what to get rid of and whether my life was also shrinking. When do we shift to reverse and instead of accumulating, start donating? When is it time to start shrinking our lives?  I pondered the stuff on my office floor; I noted how crowded my office is, and the books I no longer read (mostly about Piaget or other child development theories – along with and the various – previous and sometimes forgotten — crises in education).

Then I perused the stuff on my shelves. Among them, a replica of the Anne Frank house, which I bought on my first trip to Europe; the clock my colleagues at Lehigh University gave me when I moved back to the Twin Cities; a crystal bird I won for scoring a birdie in the golf league I belonged to as a stay-at-home-mom; a framed card about death that I found in the last book my husband Gary read before he died (It was about J. Edgar Hoover. I kept telling him to read something more uplifting.); and a cut crystal cat that belonged to my mother, my children and I picked it out together for her. These items weren’t just stuff!  They were symbols, memories of life stages, places, and relationships—these were the stuff of love

How could I possibly let any of these items go? Karen’s life in stuff! I thought about our last blog—which apparently didn’t inspire our readers all that much—about legacy. These were part of my story, my legacy, and I wasn’t ready to let go.  Well, maybe I could ditch some of the books and a couple of the sanding sponges.

Taking stock of all I’ve accumulated reminded me of the many conversations my husband and I have about moving some place smaller—I’d have to deal with these things. That brought me back to Aunt Selma and the shrinking life. My life would and will shrink. These thoughts led inevitably to death, knowing that I, too, will die, and it’s coming sooner than I expected when I was in my 40’s and 50’s. I used to tell my grandchildren that someone has to be the first person to live forever, why not me? But I’ve stopped saying that.

For a brief minute I pictured my children sitting around cleaning out my office after I die.

 “Why do you suppose she saved this?” they would wonder, holding the Lehigh clock that no longer works or the cheap crystal birdie. I don’t know what they’d say about the sanding sponges. Maybe I should put a little label under each item describing its importance—might help me, too, if I go senile.

I thought of something Karen Rose’s husband says, “if it is smaller than a brick and has sentimental value, keep it. Otherwise, seriously consider giving it away.” Whew, I was off the hook. Most of my mementoes are smaller than a brick, although the embodied meanings are more than sentimental. I’m not ready to let go. For the time being, I won’t do anything until I get tired of walking around the mess on my office floor. I’m not dying yet, which leaves me wondering how long will it take until I reckon with death and move one more iota towards acceptance? For now, I’ll continue to treasure my artifacts of memories. I’m just not ready to shift into shrink.

Used by permission of the white board it was posted on.

Milestones: Just for the Young?

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June is the month of milestones, weddings and graduations in particular. I had the joy of seeing a granddaughter graduate from high school, and a grandson finish college and start his first job. Equally exciting, a good friend in her late 40’s, who’d forever longed to be married, tied the knot!  Adding to the joy, I partied with family and friends, old and new. At the time, though, there was a tiny tinge to the events—if only for me. Maybe it was a negativity in me after having COVID in April, in spite of two years of taking every precaution, or maybe it was the general mood of the country with shootings and Roe v. Wade at stake. I had the sense of being a spectator to others’ joys, and I wondered, what are the milestones left in my life?

At the time, and with the support of the dictionary, I assigned a milestone as a tangible event that marks “a significant point in development.” A study at Stanford University buttressed my understanding with its list of common milestones in life up to age 74, including a getting a full-time job, starting to save for retirement, getting married, buying a home, and starting a family. It was clearly a truncated list, and worst of all, it ended at age 74, making me again question what milestones are left for my life, given that I’m 78.

My ironic inner self took over and I found myself saying things like—going into assisted living? Or memory care? In the meantime, I traded my beloved, powder blue, Bianchi bicycle for a “step-through” bike, since it hurts my hip to swing my leg over the seat. Was that a milestone—learning to make do so I can keep doing the things I love? That led to a list of “learning to live with things” like medications, cortisone shots for arthritis, support socks, bodies that are starting to give out. I was still in my bleak mood, I guess.

Then one evening I went to a bar where my son’s band, the Strolling Clones was playing—they only play Rolling Stones music, hence the name. Friends and family were there, and when we could hear each other, we somehow managed to ask Henrik, my 20 year old grandson what it was like to graduate the year COVID began and not have a graduation or open house and then to not go to college. He had missed one of those big milestones.

He told us, “At the time, it was horrible. But now I realize I didn’t miss anything. I did something different.” Henrik chose to go to a folk school inside the Arctic Circle in Norway, where he majored in Norwegian language and history and survival. Survival was the challenge, long camping trips into the mountains involving both canoeing and skiing with heavy backpacks to campsites.  Then there were the solo camping trips, dropped somewhere in the middle of nowhere and having to survive. When his year was finished, he decided to enroll in college in California, telling us he’d had enough of being cold and wet and eating boiled fish.

We all remarked that since being back, he’s a different person. Before COVID and Norway, he played video games ad infinitum, and now he seems willing and enthused even if you ask him to cut the lawn or help you move something. He’s more curious and just out there in the world. So “what happened?” we asked him. He replied, “Sitting alone at a campsite in winter, climbing mountains, swimming in icy water—it was all scary stuff, and I did it. I learned that if I just keep going I can get to that light at the end of the tunnel. And being alive is everything!”

That, and a little coaching from my Boulder, Colorado coach, led me to realize that milestones always come with challenges. Off to college away from home for the first time can be tough; that first job is not easy; and marriage—well, many of us all been there, and if you stick with it, it’s a lifelong challenge. The insights we get from these experiences are what really count.

Adapting, getting on with it, as Karen Rose wrote about in Yes! is what comes after that milestone party. Henrik didn’t get a graduation, but he crossed a social/emotional milestone, he experienced an understanding about life that changed him and moved him forward in his development, learning that he can get through the hard stuff.

Now I had a new insight of my own—a milestone, if you will. I realized that many of the milestones we celebrate and take for granted, like graduations and marriage, are socially defined, built into our culture, but, other than retirement, we don’t have such obvious ones as we age. But maybe they aren’t needed, either. We get something bigger from the accretion of milestones throughout our lives, knowledge of ourselves and living, for example. The lack of social markers doesn’t mean there are no milestones as we age. I’ll bet all of us can identify experiences that moved us forward in our development.

I love two of Pema Chodron’s four truths—how really sweet and precious our lives are and impermanence. . . the essence of life is fleeting. Studies show that older people are happier than younger—both people in their 20’s and 30’s and the middle-aged. Maybe it’s because of the social/emotional learning that enables older people to accept what is—which is also a cornerstone of emotional well-being—and to see what is as both precious and impermanent. I like to think I have milestones ahead of me, though I know they won’t be college or starting a new job or having a family. I like to think they will be deeper, inside me, as I get better at this precious thing called life.

Possibilities

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I Dwell in Possibility

Emily Dickinson 

Joachim Trier’s movie, Worst Person in the World, is about a young woman exploring the possibilities in her life looking for that one true passion. It’s a universal story line—the quest–yet as my friend and I walked to our cars after the movie, all I could think about was the line “I no longer have a future” (spoken by one of the other characters). “It’s exactly how I sometimes feel about getting old.” I told my friend. “Like I no longer have a future.” She agreed that that line had stood out to her, too.  We walked around the corner to our car, parked on a street of lovely old mansions near Lake Michigan in Milwaukee. The early spring sun brightened the landscaped lawns and melting snow. 

“Take these gorgeous homes,” I said. “I’m never going to own or live in one. Twenty years ago, I would have walked by them and daydreamed about living in one. But that’s never going to happen.”

My friend noted that one of the harder realities about getting older is the realization that the range of possibilities is shrinking, if only because we’re running out of time—not to mention that most of us have more money going out than coming in. 

A few weeks later, I visited a college with my daughter and granddaughter. I heard my daughter say, “Gosh, I wish I could go back and do college all over at a place like this.” Her wishful thinking reminded me that there’s a universality to dreaming about what might have been or what might yet happen. The fact is, however, we get only one life. She is through college, and I’m never going to own a mansion in Milwaukee. But does that mean that I have no future?

I could still move somewhere new. . . or maybe travel. Is this why we older people like to travel? We have time and we’re looking for novelty? For my husband, the fun is in the planning. He gets to run through all the possibilities. For days before we go somewhere he changes the itinerary. When I saw Frances McDormand in Nomadland, it struck me that though she didn’t have any money, she traveled and was open to possibilities, too. 

This morning I asked myself what I like best about being retired. The first answer that popped up was having the time to contemplate and work on myself (a blog will soon follow on this). Richard Rohr in Falling Upward: A Spirituality for the Two Halves of Life, argues that in the first half of our life, we build and identify with a persona—I’m an educator, I’m a mother. Others are policemen, teachers, professors, plumbers, community activists—however we see ourselves. We work hard to create and maintain this persona, but underneath is an authentic person. In the second half of life, however, we have time and inclination to turn inward and explore that person, who we are at our core. That’s a powerful and challenging possibility.

In a recent podcast of No Stupid Questions on NPR with Stephen Dubnar (Freakonomics) and Angela Duckworth (professor at U Penn, well known for her work on grit) take on the question of What’s so Great About Retirement? There are many good reasons to listen to this podcast (or read the transcript), but the one that stood out to me was Duckworth’s emphasis on goals or purpose:

She describes her father, a retired chemist, who upon retirement announced that he didn’t want to do anything, and he proceeded to get up in the morning, have his coffee and his breakfast, shuffle over to the love seat, sit down, take the remote control, and turn on the Weather Channel. She believes that his choice to spend his retirement this way made him profoundly unhappy (Both Karen R. and I believe she should have looked closer instead of judging him). Duckworth notes:

I have a theory of happiness, which is very simple. I think people pursue goals spontaneously at every age. Whether you’re 4 or 84, you have goals. You have things that you want to accomplish. I think, actually, the greatest unhappiness there is, is not to have goals at all. 

As soon as I heard this, I knew I was back at my favorite rabbit hole—purpose. Maybe having purpose is the way we counter the perception that we have no future other than aging. Maybe I need to stop raging about it and look more closely. Purpose, in the second half of life, may be drawn from an inner imperative. That requires the very inner work that Rohr writes about, and it doesn’t have to result in a big world changing purpose/imperative. Instead, it can be a commitment to the little p’s in front of us daily. 

Two of my little p’s, as you’ve heard me say before, are tutoring and rosemaling. On the surface they seem like time fillers, but I made these choices after self-examination, not because I needed a job, or wanted to pursue a career, or whatever. Tutoring reflects my joy in teaching children, of being in schools, and in observing that fascinating process called learning. Rosemaling reflects a search for my identity as part Norwegian and my love of making things. While perhaps not soul work, these two choices came from an exploration of who I am and what I love doing. And finding them screams “You do have a future right in front of you, Karen!” Maybe it’s not a mansion on Lake Michigan, but the fruits of inner work from where I stand today, are every bit as rewarding as building a career was when I was younger. It’s true, I won’t get another life, but meanwhile, having found some little p’s, I wake up most days engaged in the one I have.

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How to Retire During a Pandemic. . . or Any Other Time

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Rolling Stones, 2018

Karen Rose and I promised not to give advice, so don’t think of this as advice, rather encouragement.

First of all, why not retire? There’s nothing that says you shouldn’t. It’s completely your own decision. Retirement right now could make you part of the Great Resignation—and who doesn’t want to be a trend-setter? So, in the spirit of all the self-help gurus who have gone before me, here’s my list of how-to’s.

  1. Tell your friends, family, and colleagues how you want to celebrate.  You could have a bonfire or even a Zoom meeting (I’m kidding). Restaurants and bars are starting to open. It’s not impossible anymore. I like cake, so that’d be my go-to, a Danish layer cake from a bakery in Racine, my hometown, or if not available, a big white cake with white frosting from Whole Foods with vanilla flavor—you might be trying a lot of new foods when you retire, that’s one way to pass time—eat. 

If you retire in summer, you can always have an outdoor party. In fact I went to a couple last summer, and the retirees didn’t seem intimidated by the pandemic at all. And there was lots to eat—even cake.

There’s always the person that wants to go quietly. The one who rather slides into retirement; some even take it year by year, never really announcing it until they’ve completely left the playing field (E.g., KRS?) It’s not a bad way during a pandemic, or during any hard times, as everyone is busy watching CNN, the CDC, NBC, OSHA, SCOTUS, ETC.

  1. Let those feelings come forward. Maybe you’ll be relieved—you’ve had enough of working for a lifetime. You might be discombobulated—I certainly was. That first Monday morning after my drinks at the bar party—no, I didn’t get cake—left me unmoored. Should I wear jeans?  Jeans are for weekends. What time should I have breakfast? Lunch? What am I going to work on? Does my spouse have to be near me all the time? I can hear him rattling around the house. Is he always like this? When do I get to “quit” for the day—oh, I never started.  

You will have feelings. I promise!  Let them all hang out!

  1. If you live with someone, warn them. They may have had the house all to themselves, but that’s changing. Someone new will be sitting on the couch reading the morning paper, playing the stereo during the day, making lunch right when they like to make lunch. Maybe you’ll start to clean closets, throwing things out. Someone else might not be ready for this.  And are you ready?  Your close relationships will change, hopefully for the better.
  1. Don’t sweat having a purpose. This is a biggie!  I know, you’ve read all those books about the importance of having a purpose when you retire, Something to Live For, Retirement Reinvention, Purposeful Retirement, and Encore Adulthood—among the many—but I’m here to tell you retirement is all about the unknown, and that’s what makes it both interesting and challenging. In the world of work, you needed goals. The idea was to get ahead, to strive (more about this from Karen Rose), to seek, to find. . .  to make a name for yourself, do better than meeting quotas, etc. You are done with all that. New paradigm coming your way! And you get to create it.

The Purpose experts argue that having a purpose is linked with better outcomes for aging, living longer, etc. But you’re not an outcome, a statistic. You are you, and if you don’t have a purpose, that’s just fine.  I’ve written about Big P and Little p, arguing that Big Purpose is a male oriented way to live and that there are lots of Little purposes in our daily lives—relationships, family, great books, helping out in the community, that can evolve daily. By letting go of the need to find some big, all encompassing Purpose, you can let the day’s own offerings be sufficient—and you’ll be more inclined to show up for them, because you won’t be busy searching for that big Purpose. 

If you have a big Purpose for your retirement, by all means, go for it. My take is because so many of us love our lives but probably can’t identify some big Purpose in how we live them. But then living a moral and kind life is rather a big Purpose.

Instead of worrying about purpose, resolve to be CURIOUS–like the Torstein Hagen advertising for Viking Cruise Ships. When the pandemic first hit, and we were all scared, staying home, isolating, I started daily walks—like everyone else—around the little lake by our house. After several of these walks, I noticed stumps, which had been cut off in the prime of life, had branches growing out of them; they were putting out shoots of hopefulness. I photographed these stumps and shoots and followed them throughout the spring. I saw them turn green and produce leaves. Later a friend told me about something called coppicing, a process used to manage forests by taking advantage of these persistent trees. What astonished me about this discovery was how I’d walked by it most of my life! (https://karensdescant.com/2020/04/20/condition-provisional/0)

So be easy on yourself about purpose. Maybe you’ll find one, maybe you won’t, but retirement allows you time to be with the unknown, to pay attention to the details, or, as a friend once advised me—to smell the roses.

  1. Let go of expectations! I absolutely believe that we would all live happier lives if we could let go of expectations. In the dictionary, 1) expectation is defined as the state of looking forward to or waiting for something. 2) A belief that someone will or should achieve something. Until the pandemic, retirements were full of expectations—“I’m going to travel.” “I plan on spending more time volunteering.” “Maybe I’ll take some classes.” All worthwhile endeavors, but this pandemic has certainly put us on pause.

So what recourse do we have? We could approach our new retirement lives without those expectations, instead curious and willing to engage with what shows up. You now have time to explore who you are inside and act from within rather than without, based on expectations set by others, the society, and eventually by ourselves. 

If you’re planning on retiring, go ahead. You will have a chance to approach life with curiosity, seeing what unfolds, and maybe, with that curiosity, learn more about yourself and the world around you. I wouldn’t normally turn to the Rolling Stones to talk about retirement, but their song, No Expectations perfectly sums up my idea for approaching retirement:

Take me to the station
And put me on a train
I’ve got no expectations
To pass through here again.

A retired Keith Richards