The Summer Diaries: July

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Where have all the Julys gone?

I live seasonally. My life and all its ups and downs have always been driven by the rhythms of the changing seasons. And as a person who lives seasonally, I look forward to enjoying the unique delights of each season. No matter how uncertain the times have been, even considering the overwhelming nature of contemporary politics, the seasons have not skimped on those delights - those joys, the centerpiece in the best of times, or a distraction in the worst of times, don’t usually let me down.

So full disclosure. As much as I look forward to fall (I am in Vermont, after all) I absolutely love summer. Perhaps it’s time to qualify: historically, I have loved summer. But the last few summers have hit differently. Summer is precious. It is a very short season in Vermont. June, July, and August are followed by a short, but spectacular autumn, and then let’s face it, the rest of the year is winter. There is a brief period that contains a few days resembling spring, but every Vermonter knows, there is still a chance of snow.

June this year, which should have been labeled as the true Part One of the Summer Diaries, was as magical as it always is. And I am grateful that hasn’t changed. By August, which will be chronicled in The Summer Diaries: August next month, I will be torn between living in the moment of some splendid beach days (which August is known for in our household) and making my fall bucket list as the light of late August starts to change.

But July? What has happened to you? As the calendar ushered in the first full week of the month, I was beginning to feel lost, stuck, and directionless. The Fourth was not celebrated in our household this year. Restless and unsettled, I worried that July would slip away without being fully immersed in its formerly glorious, but rapidly shortening number of days. At this age, I am keenly aware of the lightning speed passage of time. Mid-July already? Last week of July in the date book so soon? Summer’s end often sneaks up on me, so while there is a teeny-tiny bit of July still left, I am trying to figure some things out about my changing relationship with summer. Not a moment to lose.

I am not ungrateful. I love my life. But when something bothers me, now I allow myself to really feel it…to be curious about it. Retirement gives you grace. Although time no longer feels infinite (because it’s anything but!), you do have the time and space to figure out — hopes, regrets, unsettled emotions— things that in the past you might have just pushed away or pretended not to feel. In my late sixties, I am through with surrendering to complacency at best, or giving in to misery at worst. Experiencing July felt like wearing summer like someone else’s too small clothes. I immersed myself in some deep reflection and self-searching to try to figure out why, although coming to a crescendo this summer, the last few “mid-summers” had seemed to feel so different. Was I falling out of love with summer thanks to July?

Before diving deeply and analytically inward, I started, as I usually do, by running this whole “is it me or is it summer?” thing by my husband. I got a bit teary telling him how frustrated I was that I wasn’t “experiencing” the heart of summer in my usual way, and that my summer experience had been going downhill the last few years. “You mean since you retired,” he said. Ugh, I am loathe to put all concerns, emotions, and changes down to retirement or aging. It just feels too convenient, but I will come back to that. It was indeed a fact that my changing relationship with summer coincided with my first full year of retirement, but it actually had begun to shift in the summer of 2020. But I was more interested in getting at the root causes of my summer longing. Why was I “just not feeling it” when I’ve had a seasonal love affair with summer as far back as I could remember, especially July? I had to dig deeper. To do that, my first archaeological stop was my past journals.

I paged through the same summer July days from 2021, 2022, 2023, and 2024 to the present. There were a few things that stood out. And yes, as my husband noted, one of those was obvious: I was no longer working! But for me, personally, that actually meant I was no longer living a school calendar. Having been in the education world for 40+ years right on the heels of being a student for 16+ years, and being the child of a teacher, summer had a unique place in my life. It was the big warm sunny reward at the end of a school year. It was the time when my mother was home and more relaxed. And when I was a teacher, mid-June to mid August felt a lot like it did during my own school days: sleeping in, days of adventures, relaxing, enjoying the sun, puttering around, and then happily anticipating a new school year when August rolled around. Even during the 17 or so years when I was a year-round administrator, evening meals outside full of candle light, cocktails in the steamer chairs, evening concerts, weekends on the deck listening to baseball, vacation get-aways, and lounging in the sun with a book were summer luxuries I counted on and counted down the days to. And July? July was the heart and soul of my summer.

So, in no particular order, here are some of the reasons I have temporarily lost my “heart of summer” mojo, causing me to lament, 🎶“Where have all the Julys gone…”🎶

Subtly Losing the Light…
Recently, I have been seeing posts on Instagram about the light we are losing as the summer progresses onward from the solstice. I start feeling this hard in July. It’s funny, in winter when my husband is reminding me of the increasing light, it’s imperceptible to me — pretty much I’m not buying it. But after the summer solstice? Watching those sunset times come earlier and earlier elicits tiny screams inside me. I do love the light, and I feel the darkening evenings chasing me down in July.

Rosacea…
And speaking of loving the light, this skin condition has put a damper on my summer fun. Guilty confession, I have always been a sun worshipper. As I aged, I became much more careful, of course. But I do love to sit in a lounge chair and read a good book. No beach required, right in my backyard is fine. On my July vacations from work that didn’t involve travel, I looked forward to reading in the sun, carefully choosing a stack of books. Heaven. But with rosacea, both the sun and the heat (the July double whammy) set it off. The medication is no match for the tandem trigger of a bright July sun and 90°.

The Heat, Hard Rain, and Canadian Wildfire Smoke…
And speaking of HEAT! I should probably label this section climate change, because that’s what’s going on here. We may get just short of two weeks of 90° plus days once the July closes out. That is extreme to me. Then, we added the unhealthy smoke of the Canadian wildfires. On top of that, for the third year in a row, Vermont experienced a deluge of rain on July 10, flooding some communities once again. If anyone came looking for reasons not to like July, these three alone would suffice.

Lack of Novelty…
I’ve written about my love of routine in retirement. But I’ve come to realize it doesn’t work for me in the summer. I’ve found the routine days much less satisfying. June is magical to me, and nothing feels ordinary. August is our beach month, and there are lots of picnics and day trips and even some pleasurable anticipation of fall. In the past few years, July has seemed to bring on a summer fatigue for me, and I feel rather lazy. I find myself lethargic and wanting to nap a lot. Before I know it, the day is shot, and the only things I’ve interacted with are the AC, television controls, and the refrigerator handle. Ugh. So for this last week of July, I’m going to get out there and bust the routine. My introvert self says no, my July self says yes, yes you must. It’s just a few days.

The Passing of Time…
To not have felt joy and connection to an entire month of my life at this stage feels almost like sacrilege. In these final decades I may have, it seems like a sin to rush time, to wish it away. But that’s the way I’ve felt about July. Wishing it to be over. Oh, I might feel that way about January, but I still try to make the most of its 1,377 days. I guess I will need to muster up the same fortitude for July in the future. January and other long winter months have the cozy thing going for them. Cozy makes it all bearable. But what does July have? It is without a doubt the peak of summer, but I need to figure out a way to give it heart. The health of one of our pets has made travel difficult this year, and maybe having a summer trip would’ve helped, but in this heat? So I’ll have to give this a lot more thought. At least I have some friend-centered experiences coming up this week to ratchet up the joy and make every one of the last days count.

Missing John and Suzyn (IYKYK)…
Okay, you may not get this one, but it’s been the clearest July absence of them all, and an important reason the month has felt off. My husband and I are big baseball fans, and my team is the New York Yankees. For as long as I can remember, listening to Yankee baseball on the radio has been part of my life. When I met my husband, one of our great summer joys was sitting in the steamer chairs on a July Saturday or Sunday, listening to John Sterling and Suzyn Waldman on a old-timey AM radio station, WIRY. Well last summer, John retired, and at the end of April this year, WIRY went off the air. No more baseball games over the radio. Oh, we have access to a lot of games on television, but it’s not the same. I remarked to my husband that we haven’t sat out in the steamer chairs all summer. “The heat,” he said. Nope. The end of an era. Another part of my life that has become nostalgia.

Corey Sipkin/New York Daily News

I’ll end by coming back to my comment about putting everything down to retirement and aging. Those are facts in my life. I love my retirement and I am actually enjoying the aging experience — well, most of it anyway. Put it this way, it doesn’t depress me, and it serves as a little wake up call, in a good way, for times like these. Being reflective at this time in my life helps to give me clarity, direction, and a deeper sense of agency over my life. Relegating experiences simply to being “older” or being “retired” serves no purpose in continuing to grow as a person and acknowledge the value of my life. Digging into the meaning of July in my life reminds me once again of the seasons, and in particular the seasons of my life. I guess I feel bit displaced from summer as I fully embrace my own “September Song.” Maybe like the animals who hibernate in the winter and estivate in the summer, I need the “lazy, hazy” days of July to rest. I think I’m good with that. If you’ve made it all the way here, thank you for hanging in there with me as I Sherlock Holmes my way through The Precious Days.

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Journey to Joy

On a recent Wednesday afternoon, I found myself, once again, marveling at the little squares of energy, experience, and honed skillsets that smiled back at me from my computer screen. Usually just five of us, but only four today. As women, we are eager to share, to lift each other up, and to chart a course to travel together.

I’ve reached a stage in my life where a “meet-up” like this no longer loads me with self-doubt. Did I say too much? Was my body language off? Did I listen enough? Do I even deserve to be here? I just let myself presume welcome and soak up the good intentions. 

We climb an orderly ladder of age, close on the rungs, I assume, except for one that lags a bit behind—but almost a grandmother. After discussing possible projects, the conversation turns to other topics as we close. A comment jumps out at me: “8:00 o’clock at night? That's when I am ready to head to bed with my cup of tea and a good book.” I smile as my heart swells in a kindred joy. 

Since I have retired, almost every Friday evening at 8:00 I head up to bed, cup of tea in hand, tune in to Ray Vega’s Friday Night Jazz Party on my local public radio station, and settle into bed with a book that has called my name all day. The complex rhythms form the soundtrack to the plot. Sometimes I might turn down the sound to concentrate on a character’s actions or to capture a quote on a post-it. Other times I might rest the book on the bed and lounge in the pure cool of Chet Baker’s trumpet or John Coltrane’s sax. That Friday ritual? That is joy. 

As I wind down the decade of my sixties, joy has become an amalgam of happiness, awe, delight, pleasure, gratitude, connection, and comfort. What brings me joy has significantly evolved over time. It’s actually been a lifelong journey to get to joy. 

When I was younger, I don’t know if I even could recognize what I experience now as joy. When I was very young, it was fun that I chased. As I grew and matured, I sought happiness. But mostly what I remember from childhood were many things that were not fun. And as I became an adult, I remember saying through the decades that, well, I just wasn’t happy. Gosh, why would I be? Most of my relationships were strained by trauma and fraught with dysfunction. I could barely recognize any joy that crept into my own life. But I sure could recognize people whose function was to suck the air out of it if it dared appear. It seems I often invited people into my life who could expertly deflate an already flagging balloon with one withering look.  

Throwing myself into my work was my answer to anything uncomfortable. Maybe happiness was highly overrated, at least I tried to convince myself it was. But achievement? Productivity? Accomplishment? Maybe those things didn’t inspire the poets, but they hooked me. What I could feel definitely was not joy, but it still packed thrill. It was a victory of self. It was pure adrenaline.

One time I remember I’d run a week of inservice training for a group of teachers who did not want a lot of what was on the agenda. I managed to pull it off and win most of the staff over just in time to hurry off to a weekend wedding. A fellow administrator was one of the guests, and I could see the shock register on his face when he saw that I was the wedding officiant. “Is there anything you can’t do?” he said to me after the ceremony. And there it was again. Not joy, but that rush of adrenaline. “I am what I do.” 

I am nothing if not eternally grateful to have met my husband at fifty. It was the catalyst for breaking those cycles of chasing recognition as self-worth and its not an understatement to say it turned my life around. With him, I began to experience safety, unconditional love and worth, more laughter and fun than I’d even known, true happiness, and most importantly, the prelude to the joy I now know each day. 

In my sixties I have moved from “I am what I do” to “a state of being”: enjoyment. The verb enjoy, thanks to its prefix, literally means “to be in joy.” That’s mostly how I feel now. Oh there are still stressors, problems, and worries – some so big they could crush joy into despair. But they don’t. If the problems are bigger, so are the strategies to cope with them as you age. You have a lifetime of navigation tools and instruments that finally come together to serve the journey into aging–and you have the patience and wisdom to use them to transcend the killjoys, the buzz kills, and the contemporary robber-barons. Of course there is sadness and suffering, in our country and the world, right in your own peer group, perhaps in your own life. But there is also an expansively gentle and wise understanding that all you have loved in a lifetime cannot be negated by the specter of potential loss.  In your sixties and beyond, the waning of time marries the waxing of space. In this abbreviated time of life, there is ample room for what brings you joy. 

So, here’s the proclamation for aging women in their sixties and beyond. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is joy. Here are your instructions: Lose yourself in your joy. Let joy resonate deeply into your bones. And be aware at this time in life, joy will come softly, just as the poets said it would. It will come with the muted crunch of gravel under your shoes as you walk along your favorite path in the afternoon. It will come near dusk as the cattails bloom softly. It will come in a sudden cacophony of the red-winged blackbirds’ nasal notes, the raspy squawks of a plague of grackles, and the deep croaking of frogs near the marshy patch in a field. It will come with the coolness of damp green grass against the back of your head as you gaze up at a meteor shower against the backdrop of a vast night sky in August. It will come in the garden as you notice a long-lost hollyhock crowding its way back between a stand of Carolina bushpeas and a tower of summer phlox.  It will come during that first meditative cup of morning coffee, sipped in solitude outside in the warm sun. It will come through a nod and a smile across a room from someone you dearly love. It will come within the scent of the mock orange wafting over your shoulder as the urgent scrawl of a fast-moving pen fills the lines of your journal. It will come on the lips of a heartfelt and relieved thank you from a friend. It will come in the company of some wise, later-life-ladies. Oh yes, and one more. It will most definitely come on a Friday night, with a cup of tea, a good book, and a lullaby of some smooth jazz. 

It will come. Joy will come.

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Fierce Realities - The Meows and Roars of Growing Older

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Recently, I found myself rereading a chapter from The Lioness in Winter - Writing an Old Woman’s Life by Ann Burack-Weiss. The chapter, “Fierce with Reality,” was the inspiration for this post. The chapter was rich with ideas to reflect on. Two of the quotes, one by Doris Grumbach, “death arrives in installments,” and one by Alice Walker, "sit with the thought of erasing yourself" led to pages of journal notes. Journal reflections, glimpses into my recent life, and looking back over my own life in relation to where I am now, in The Precious Days, distilled into this piece. I hope you find something to reflect on, too.

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Last month, my husband and I spent three appointments with a lawyer and more than a few agonizing hours of back and forth at home stressing over the biggest decision of our marriage. No, we’re not getting a divorce. We were planning our wills. 

To say I squirmed in my seat at every appointment would be an understatement. I didn’t want to be there. It felt almost ghoulish. And every time I tried to silence all of the noise about heirs and assets pounding in my head, I would hear the Emily Dickinson verse, “Because I could not stop for Death –  He kindly stopped for me –.”

Our lawyer didn’t want to accept my constant offering of “To Be Determined" as an answer to every question. Bank accounts, stocks, property all had to be itemized. An Executor and Power of Attorney designee had to be named. Who gets into the will, who is shut out. But as the days passed, the answers revealed themselves. 

The final task to complete was the Advance Directive. Talk about being a document that is truly “fierce with reality.” What would my “end of life” wishes be? I envisioned myself strapped to a hospital bed, loaded down with tubes, or in the road with limbs crushed or severed in an accident, or in my basement suffering from a brain bleed after a fall from the treadmill. In these scenarios I saw myself as I am right now. None of my nightmare scenarios involved me at age 100, sitting in the lounge of the assisted living home, solicitous attendants making sure every visitor had enough information about me to marvel at my accomplishment. Here I am at 67 years old and I seldom envision myself as nearing-death-old. What’s that all about? Clearly, old is my future, but I guess I never thought that the death that would come with it was meant to be my destiny.

Remember in the blush of youth when death felt abstract and romantic? “Live fast, love hard, die young” we wrote in high school yearbooks, thinking it was cool. We had no clue about death. About the kind of death that comes from living a life out to its last days, organs shutting down, and the body giving out because, well, it’s just done. We thought we’d die tragically in our twenties because somehow that seemed, what? Better? More exciting? More rebelliously glamorous than imagining living to our 30s, 40s, 50s, or god-forbid, to the age of  “positively ancient”? I remember when I was maybe 9 years old, we learned about measures of time like decades, centuries, and millenniums. I remember calculating that in the year 2057 I’d be 100 years old. That seemed impossible. Me? An old lady with white hair in a house dress and sensible shoes flying around in a jetpack? Intriguing to think of living like the Jetsons, but mostly silly. Childhood me rejected the space-age sounding year, its sci-fi trappings, and any possibility of my living to be a centenarian. Yes. Impossible.

Now, the impossible has kind of become my goal - minus the jet packs, and minus the tubes and severed limbs. I welcome the idea of an assisted living community room, planting myself next to the cheese plate, glass of wine in hand, jewelry jangling. Life of the party. 

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Now, winding down my 67th year, the daily reality is different. Most of the time I don’t feel old. I feel like I am just getting started on this aging journey. I’m on the installment plan for aging. Since retirement, every year has offered dividends. There are the slow mornings of coffee and lost-in-thought gazing at flowers, clouds, crimson leaves or falling snow. There is the space and time to read, to write, to enjoy time with my husband and friends, and to volunteer. The expectations placed on me are mine alone, and the clanging stress of the hustle and grind is an increasingly distant din. But there have also been a few penalties for withdrawal from decades in the work world and sanctions have been placed on my once youthful body. Now there is a struggle with a sense of purpose and relevance, wondering where the sexy went, and watching my skin sag - a time lapse with each reflection in the mirror. And there is an accelerated frequency of these “I’m not as young as I used to be" moments. They happen when I catch a full body glimpse of myself. Or when I decide I can do something by myself if I just put a little extra muscle into it. Or when I am with a group of younger women, and none of them seem to put much weight in my opinion. Neither side of the age ledger is cryptic or obscure, making it hard to ignore. Entries made are vibrant and affirming on one side and stark and foreboding on the other. 

That ledger can feel like a harsh “book of life” at times. I vow not to erase anything on my record prematurely. “Aging” is one of the most important transactions with life I have ever experienced.  Besides, there are plenty of others ready to do that erasing for me. As you grow old, younger people and society in general do a superb job of it for you ... blowing away the eraser dust of your aging personhood like some untidy inconvenience, as if your inevitable erasure, perhaps even your death were a shared goal.

So, yes, there is indeed a fierce reality in aging. You are increasingly ghosted by your past selves, while being thoroughly spooked and hounded by the specters of your future.  

So I am not going to rush it. I am going to grow old. But … I will treat the word “old” in that pronouncement as a noun, rather than an adjective. I will grow old as one grows wisdom, nurtures a relationship, builds a practice, cultivates a garden, or develops a flexible framework. A flexible framework. Because the standard blueprint for living, at some point, ceases to yield fruit and the container breaks, as Florida Scott-Maxwell observed. So whether from the seedlings of my past or a petri dish filled with the quickening cells of the future (a future that perhaps I can still only imagine), and by taking tutelage from wiser women, I am going to grow a bespoke “old” that is uniquely suited to me…both fierce with reality and the gentle dreams of a future centenarian.

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“Oh, the uncertainty of it all…”

It’s been a while since I have posted on the blog. You may be thinking, “Uh, oh. She’s been struggling (air quotes) again.” And, you’d be right. So let’s get that out of the way right off. I know many of you subscribe to blogs for uplifting, positive messages. You may find a smidge of that in this post. But typically, I don’t write my blog as an escape. I vowed when I started I would show up here authentically, and although I try not to be overly negative, reality isn’t always positive. The current “struggling” I am experiencing has been a part of my life since my late twenties. I am sure it’s always been a part of me, but it wasn’t until that time of moving from my twenties into my thirties that I was diagnosed with depression. Like millions of people, therapy and medication helped. I need neither now, thankfully, and I’ve learned to use some great therapeutic strategies to keep things manageable. In my fifties, my depression subsided, but I started have increasing anxiety, leading to a few panic attacks, lots of avoidance, intrusive thoughts, and fear and dread. Again, with coping strategies and increased self-awareness, I have managed to keep that at bay, too. Yes, I had been managing depression and anxiety. But folks, the turn of events that kicked into high gear in January have been “doing me head in” as the British say.

The relatively carefree days of retirement I had been enjoying haven’t been completely co-opted, but they have been sullied by the awfulness this administration is causing. There is so much to worry about, and an overload of uncertainty about the future. As you get older and the reality of a clipped future looms, you get pretty possessive over the days. And when you look at a world of younger people who have an expansive future ahead, you worry for them even more.

The enormous uncertainty in this country and the weight of it has been crushing at times. Uncertainty is a huge trigger for depression and anxiety, so I know there are many folks out there going through what I am. And they are probably looking to dig themselves out, too. It’s important for all of us to understand the impact of month after month of uncertainty. Collectively, we had a sobering taste of it during COVID. Back then, I put my trust and faith in science to help us dig our way out, and largely that is what happened for those of us fortunate enough to make it through. It’s not like that now. Many of the institutions we put our trust in are hobbled, under threat, or already gone. Of course, uncertainty has been a part of life through the ages. But this is different. This is a state of uncertainty by design.

Uncertainty affects our emotions, our brains, and our body. The current level of uncertainty is having a global effect. That’s another blog post. For this post, I am going to focus on what all this uncertainty can do to us, based on an article from Dr. Claire Brandon’s “Whole Body Psychiatry.” Dr. Brandon defines uncertainty as: “…the state of being unsure or lacking complete knowledge about an outcome or circumstance…. This lack of certainty can be especially unpleasant when it comes to areas of critical importance, such as health, financial stability, or personal relationships.” (And I might add, the future of our democracy.) In sum, “Uncertainty can lead to increased stress, which may result in physical symptoms such as muscle tension, digestive issues, sleep disturbances, and a weakened immune system. Over time, chronic uncertainty can contribute to mental health conditions like anxiety and depression.” That’s not the way I want to spend The Precious Days, if I can help it.

The Emotional Toll of Uncertainty

• Fear - it’s really hard not to imagine the worst outcomes, especially when you are blasted by their specter on the news and all over social media.

• Anxiety - feeling unsettled as you go about your days, like something is hanging over your head.

• Doubt - questioning plans about the future or the desire to set goals that look forward.

• Frustration - feeling that what you do won’t make a difference.

This is Your Brain on Uncertainty

• The amygdala, which processes emotions, goes into overdrive.

• Flight or fight responses are triggered.

• Too much cortisol and adrenaline can be released.

• The prefrontal cortex wants to make decisions, but uncertainty is interpreted as risk. Judgment can be affected by the increased anxiety.

The Effects of Uncertainty on the Body

• Muscle tension (yes, uncertainty can be a literal pain in the neck)

• Digestive issues (in spades for me!)

• Sleep issues (head on the pillow means over-thinking in overdrive, and the sandman of “Cheer up, it may never happen” has taken a hike…)

Overall Impacts on Mental Health

• Increased stress and anxiety

• Burnout

• Depression

• Moodiness

• Lack of Motivation

So here is where the smidge of uplifting and positive comes in….

I am not a psychologist (although I do have a degree in psychology). I am NOT trying to dispense mental health advice. I just want to share how Dr. Brandon’s suggestions are playing out for me and helping me deal with 5 solid months of uncertainty. I find it empowering to review some things we can do in our everyday lives to address uncertainty and its effects. It’s my hope that sharing how I am putting them into practice for me might be helpful. Personally, I have been dragging around this dull spirit for too long. It’s time for me to shed some of the weight of uncertainty and reclaim The Precious Days.

Dr. Brandon’s Recommendations for Coping with Uncertainty and How I Am Using Them

• Mindfulness and Meditation: These are pretty self-explanatory. I have been trying to focus on one task at a time, and not rush ahead to the next hour, the next day, etc. This is very hard for me. One thing that helps is putting devices and other distractions outside of the room I am in. Sometimes I literally have to tell myself not to move from a certain place until I am finished. I know how easy it is for me to chase a distraction and let my monkey mind run wild. Grounding self-talk can be really helpful for me. I am still not meditating. I am not sure why. But I have found listening to jazz has become a form of mediation for me. I do feel it lowers my anxiety and stress.

• Physical Activity: Again, not a shocker. But I realized in the last few months I had gotten away from my solitary walks outdoors. Returning to them has made a huge difference. When I walk alone, I find I can work through issues and come out with a more positive outlook. I also know when I go to my exercise class regularly, I am less stressed. Making those routines a priority is helping me to relieve stress and being active outside always puts me in a much better mood.

• Journaling: I had been struggling with my Morning Pages over the past several months. I would write my three pages, but they were full of superficial inner chit-chat, and I was avoiding my feelings. I have made a renewed effort to really dump everything out onto those three pages so I can cleanse myself of emotional stuff and embrace a less encumbered perspective to start the day.

• Reaching Out Socially: Times of uncertainty are overwhelming, which may cause people to pull away and isolate even more. I know that’s what I tend to do. But just being with others doing anything really can be reassuring in uncertain times. Shopping or lunching with a friend, talking on the phone or on Zoom or in-person instead of a text can be so uplifting. I have joined an in-person book group which is new for me. Sharing good times along with my concerns about the state of my country with like-minded friends helps me to feel less of the isolation that can come with uncertainty.

• Limiting Exposure to Stressors: I have set time limits on my IG account to curtail the doom scrolling. It’s just enough time to keep me informed of the big stuff and still see some accounts that make me happy. My husband and I used to watch two hours of a certain news show we liked, but I’ve been pulling back from that a bit, focusing more on local news. I’m not missing anything (if I am, my husband will tell me), and it has been helping my mental health.

Finally, Dr. Brandon urges anyone seek professional help if in need of more effective tools than ones like these. I am a big supporter of therapy, and now you can receive support in person or online.

Here are a Few More of My Own Coping Strategies…

• Reading: I don’t know what I would do without books. I am adding more non-fiction to my TBRs (nothing political), and thoroughly enjoying the mix. Books save my life every day, and I’d be completely lost without reading. Find the thing you’d be completely lost without, and do more of it. Prioritize it.

• Using a Timer: In times of uncertainty, I can let things go until they become completely overwhelming. So, for those things (cleaning, paperwork tasks, clearing clutter, etc.), I set a timer for 20 or 30 minutes, and then do 15 minutes of something I like, then return to the timer and the task. Pretty soon it’s done. Silly, but when I am overwhelmed, I can’t easily get out from under it.

• Doing Something to Address Root Causes: I had gotten away from donating and letter writing to express my opinions and address the concerns I have about the current state of our country. Returning to it has given me a greater feelings of efficacy, and I need to make that part of a regular routine once again. My husband is my inspiration. He has attended every Saturday protest, written many opinion pieces that have been published in newspapers across the state, and has compiled them into a soon-to-be available book titled, Distorted Alliance.

• Consulting the Uncertainty Matrix: This tool, also explained by Dr. Brandon, “classifies uncertainties based on two criteria: the degree of control you have over them and their possible impact on your life.” The strategies I’ve listed above are all within my control, allow me to focus, and to feel more present and satisfied with my life.

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The Uncertainty Matrix: A Tool for Dealing With Uncertainty

The Uncertainty Matrix is an effective tool for organizing and managing the different uncertainties in life. It classifies uncertainties based on two criteria: the degree of control you have over them and their possible impact on your life. The matrix organizes your problems into four separate quadrants, allowing you to prioritize your efforts and make more informed decisions about where to direct your energy and resources.

1. High Control, High Impact: These are uncertainties where you have significant control, and they have a big impact on your life. Focus on these areas first, as your actions here can make a meaningful difference.

2. High Control, Low Impact: These uncertainties are within your control but have a smaller impact. Address them after dealing with high-impact uncertainties.

3. Low Control, High Impact: These uncertainties are impactful but largely beyond your control. Accepting and finding ways to cope with these uncertainties is key, as trying to control them can lead to frustration.

4. Low Control, Low Impact: These uncertainties have little impact and are beyond your control. It’s best to let these go and not waste energy worrying about them.

Claire Brandon, M.D.

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Regardless of the source of your experiences with uncertainty, if you found any of this helpful, or have some of your own strategies to share, please drop a Comment below.

The Making of a Moment

I’ve written about the healing and inspirational power of my Women Rowing North writing group on the blog before, and what a critical sense of purpose and meaning being a part of these groups brings to my retirement years, to my “elderhood,” to The Precious Days. Helen, a trained Guided Autobiography facilitator, coaxes the ideas and experiences of aging women, by using themes, quotes, and prompts. In turn, we weave them into the written words of our life stories. For our last session, together with these wise women, I explored how showing up in my own life, being attentive to what’s in the moment, remains familiar even as it evolves over time.

I never thought I was much of a “here and now” person. I’m highly distractible and impatient. There are many ways to express those periods of my life I feared I missed or may still be missing — a present moment, a moment in time, a passing moment. So many ways to wonder if I have been showing up in my own life as much as I could.

As I age, I am more concerned with being present for moments. In my younger days, there were times, of course, I gave my entranced attention to the moment — it was a portal to an experience, and I was all in (telling my parents back in the day: “I lost track of time” … “Sorry I forgot to call”…”I didn’t know it was so late.” Sound familiar?).

What follows is my essay recalling a few “moments” as a very young woman. There were those times when, indeed, I lived fully present. I also write a bit about being fully present now in The Precious Days. And I can’t tell you how grateful I am to still have a chance to show up.

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It’s a school night in 1972, and I’m sitting on my hard bedroom floor on a pink rag rug, back against the bed frame, pillow stuffed behind me. My 15 year old vibe is full of electric charges and the bedroom is littered with my proof of life: a pile of too-tight tops in anticipation of  a weekend party, Led Zeppelin's “Immigrant Song” blasting from the stereo, a bottle of Pepsi, and a menthol cigarette’s curl of smoke in a amber colored glass ashtray. There are Ingenue magazines spread out on the floor next to a jumble of dog-eared textbooks, binders, and blue Bic pens, the pointed tails of their caps chewed to a sinewy thread. The room is redolent of patchouli. It’s time to stub out my cigarette and switch off the stereo. I adjust my pillow and sit cross-legged, lotus style, back straight. I reach for my nearby portable radio and turn on Montreal’s CHOM-FM to tune into a show called “Be Here Now” featuring Baba Ram Dass. 

That fall over 50 years ago, I was a teenager alone in my bedroom surrounded by a force of energy, creativity, longing, and pure exhilaration that I was yet to know, in those moments, was not destined to endure daily or even yearly, but would return again and again in different forms. There I sat on a precipice disguised as a hard linoleum floor, experiencing a moment in time tightly wrapped in a universal moment, with the 70’s guru of present moments.

When Ram Dass wrote his book, Be Here Now, in 1971, it quickly became a talisman for the 70’s Boomers.  Yoga, meditation, and a spiritual redefining were the counterculture intrigues of a 15 year old living in small town Vermont. 

Stacks of record albums on the stereo– always Bob Dylan, along with Emerson Lake and Palmer, Yes, and even my beloved Toronto-based Edward Bear–were my cultural soundtrack,  and piles of floral-covered journals, poetry notebooks, and mass market paperbacks like Bury My Heart and Wounded Knee, I’m Okay, You’re Okay, and Jonathan Livingston Seagull were the intellectual backdrop to so many of these teenage “bedroom moments,” my present moments from the early 70’s.

In subsequent decades the artists and authors would change, but written words and especially music would continue to enhance the kind of moments that would stop me in my tracks as I whispered to myself, “This is so cool. This is just how I imagined my life.” The early 1980’s soundtrack included various British rock bands, Kate Bush, Bob Marley, and Joan Armatrading. And one of those “goosebumps” present moments actually included Joan Armatrading. 

It’s a winter night and my friend Helene and I are sitting on folding chairs in Patrick Gym at my former college, waiting for the opening concert act. We surveyed the sparse crowd, when Chris de Burgh, the opening act, took the stage. The only song I knew of his was “Spanish Train.” It would still be years before he would have his biggest hit, “The Lady in Red.” After his opening set, he came and sat a few chairs down from us. I saw him glancing at Helene, which didn’t surprise me. Helene was beautiful, self-assured, and seemed to court fairy dust wherever she went. She had an easy way with people. I nodded to the left so Helene could see who was sitting a few chairs down. Without hesitation, she strolled up to him, said a few words, and pretty soon he was sitting with us. De Burgh moaned a bit about being an opening act to an audience of pretty much “no one.” Geeze, Chris. I noticed as I turned to look away that a lot of people were starting to come in, chairs were being moved, and there was still an opening in front of the stage. I motioned to Helene that we needed to move just as the lights were dimmed and the spotlight hit Joan Armatrading. Oh, that night. So many emotionally expressive songs, Helene and I arm and arm swaying and singing along to our favorite “Willow,” so close to the stage that we could see the Joan Armatrading smiling down at us. What a beautiful, pure moment with my friend.

Several years later, when Chris de Burgh released “The Lady in Red,” a song which always makes me think of Helene, she would be dead from cancer at 29. I have such a grateful heart for the “prayer of absolute attention” I gave to that evening, the feeling of closeness to my dear friend, the magic she cast, and the warm wonder of having shown up, fully present, for a moment that would become a cherished memory. 

Throughout the decades there have been “a thousand little daily wonders to marvel at and rejoice in,” to quote Edith Wharton. My Bank Street apartment. Sunday morning snow swirling outside the window, Christian Science Monitor and Sunday New York Times spread all over the kitchen table mixing with muffin crumbs, second and third cups of thick espresso brewed in a beat up Cuban pot. I close my eyes to sink into the memory, and I’m back in the moment, marvelling, rejoicing. 

Mindscape travel brings me to yet another moment. Back once again at my old college, this time to hear my guru of the 90’s, Thich Nhat Hanh. I am concentrating hard on the images of Plum Village, willing mindfulness into every cell of my body, as he talks about the ideas contained in the book I hold in my hand, Present Moment Wonderful Moment. Yet suddenly, all I can see are the colors of everyone’s backs in the bleacher rows in front of me: rainbow plaids, furry burgundies, denim blues, hot pinks. Twenty years after my high school bedroom moment, I was again sitting on a precipice disguised as a hard bleacher seat, experiencing a moment in time tightly wrapped in a universal moment, with the 90’s guru of present moments.

“Today’s nostalgia retreats are made up of yesterday’s present moments. ”

It’s a wonder I have held onto any of these moments. Living in the moment and attending to the here and now have always been a colossal struggle for me. But I have come to understand that I’ve been doing a better job than I realized. Now, well into my sixties, I have voluminous pages of memories…memories made of moments in which I was present and attentive. Often, my senses took the lead, and emotion swelled. Today’s nostalgia retreats are made up of yesterday’s present moments. 

In my youth, I had my teenage bedroom moments. This morning with my husband, I had a deck moment: one of the first, sunny spring days that was warm enough to have coffee and breakfast outside. I am reminded that no matter how mindful we are of a moment in the present, that moment holds the mind’s DNA of the past and the future. The visceral memory of the past winter’s gray cold, like the coarse grains of a final patch of snow, is brushed away by the spring morning sun. The future of a summer backyard saturated with color and heady fragrance is glimpsed as a chorus of returning migratory songbirds provides the soundtrack. As I appreciate living these present moments of early spring, it’s with an understanding that was lost on me at age 15: these moments will return again and again as memories. This morning, I have time to be present, to remember, to love what is growing as much as what has gone to seed. “Here come the hostas,” my husband intones with a smile. And I whisper to myself, “This is so cool. This is just how I imagined my life.” 

“These moments will return again and again as memories.”

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Everyday Offerings

“But to be human is to be constantly in tension between attempting to control the world around us and to avoid being crushed by it.”

— Dr. Skye Cleary, philosopher and writer

“Too dark.” “Not enough hope and optimism.” “Too much negativity and not enough positivity.” These are the implied, perhaps imagined (I don’t think so) sentiments underlying requests I receive to “unsubscribe me from the blog.” I get it. I respect it. I haven’t exactly been Mary Sunshine on this blog since late fall. It’s hard to know how to show up here and talk about the daily joys of retirement considering the state of things. I’m still trying to figure out who I am in these unprecedented times, and this blog is a space where I can work through some of the uncertainty, the fear, and yes, the hopes, too. But I totally understand that’s not for everyone. This isn’t how I thought I’d be chronicling The Precious Days of my retirement either, but here I am.

Enter Poetry Month. If there were ever a passion in my life that was sent to save me from the world, and more frequently from myself, it’s poetry. When I am filled with joy, there’s a poem that puts the feeling into words. When I am scared or in the depths of despair, a poet has found the words for that, too. I have my go-to poets to keep me company in sorrow and joy, and poets I seek out when my feelings are too complicated, just too overwhelming.

A few years ago, I came across the poetry of Ellen Bass. She doesn’t know it, but we immediately clicked. She is the poet I turn to most often when life is confusing, messy, uncontrollable, and uncertain. In an interview in Poetry Northwest, Bass talks about the roots of her poetry writing and her relationship with her poems: “Poetry is really where my heart is. It’s my way of life, and my way of grappling with my experience and my way of paying attention, my way of giving thanks, my way of being outraged—my way of living in the world. It’s a process of finding out things that I don’t already know—an experience of discovery.”

As my own way of “grappling with my experience” and finding something that would give voice to my own fear, sadness, and yes, outrage, I began to explore more of her poems and came across, The Thing Is, from Mules of Love (2002). I read it, then I read it again and again. Over a period of many cloudy early spring mornings, as I re-read Bass’s words I thought about how they described the visceral stomach-turn I felt with each disturbing news story, which seemed to be coming at me at breakneck speed. But more importantly, her words also captured the longing I had to love, to honor the everyday offerings of small joys, quietly beautiful things, in my personal day, in society, in the world. Deconstructing The Thing Is as an exercise in processing and reflecting on my own feelings provided an emotional outlet that has been sorely needed. Let’s begin with the poem as a whole.

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The Thing Is by Ellen Bass

to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you’ve held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.

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“to love life, to love it even when you have no stomach for it”
Wondering how to show up for joy in my life, even to allow it show up for me, had been troubling me since January. Just thinking about joy smacked of privilege to me with so many awful things happening to vulnerable people and to critical institutions of democracy that were built upon a foundation of what I believed had been shared American values. So I started to do a little research. I read a few articles on Black Joy and the concept of “joy as an act of resistance,” which brought me back to yet again, another poet. The phrase “joy as an act of resistance” may have first popped up in in a poem by Toi Derricotte. I was first introduced to her poetry when I was reading and studying the poet Ruth Stone. In Derricotte’s poem, From “The Telly Cycle,” the first line is “Joy is an act of resistance.” That one line gave so many people so much hope. I think it gave people not just permission, but almost a mandate to be joyful in the face of awfulness. Although the poem’s line consolidated it, the sentiment has been around for a long, long time. Its concept seems universal, appearing throughout historical periods of challenging conflicts, despair, and of course, much worse. I feel like I am treading on thin ice here, and I want to be respectful and careful. But the idea of not being robbed of joy, especially in dark times, seems pretty instructive, if not vital to humanity. Sorrow and joy make us human.

And empathy makes us human, too. I recently read a book that explored empathy between its characters, along with that theme again— joy as a form of resistance. The book, Kate and Frida, by Kim Fay, is a wonderful epistolary novel (remember those?) between two twenty-somethings in the early 1990’s. The last of the days with no ubiquitous internet, no emails, no 24/7 news alerts buzzing on your phone. The two characters, Kate and Frida are literally a world apart when their correspondence begins: Kate in Seattle and Frida in Paris. Frida wants to became a female war journalist, and has her sights set on The Bosnian War. She meets a correspondent who offers to take her to Sarajevo, where she is hit smack in the face with the realities of her “goal.” She meets Lejla in Sarajevo, who helps her both navigate the ravaged city (via a library) and understand the war. Lejla eventually ends up in Paris with Frida, who has returned there. Lejla brings some flowered curtains to Frida to hang in the hotel room, and Frida comments that the gift makes the room feel like a sanctuary — but to have a warm and safe feeling is wrong when there are so many suffering in Bosnia. Lejla actually bristles at that sentiment, calling it self-indulgent. She says, “We owe it to the people who are suffering to savor everything good and beautiful in our lives. Not that we should deny bad things or turn our backs on them…. We don’t help someone who’s miserable by being miserable— we only add to the world’s misery.” So Lejla does one beautiful thing each day, just to show the “bad guys” they are not beating her. Everyday offerings.

Lejla is just a story character of course, but what she says makes so much sense. So much so that one of Kate’s favorite author’s, Madeleine L’Engle, has actually put the sentiment into pretty powerful words. The character Kate shares them as a quote in the book (side note: This is the perfect book for book lovers, writers, friendship stans, and early nineties culture): “It is the tiny, particular acts of love and joy which are going to swing the balance.”

“and everything you’ve held dear crumbles like burnt paper in your hands”
It’s feels hard to know how to be me in my everyday life. Things that used to make me happy, things I might look forward to just aren’t cutting it right now. They feel mechanical, superficial. Being retired, I wonder if it would be different if I were caught up in work everyday. But my profession was rooted in public education, so I doubt it. The Department of Education is being decimated, and along with, it student rights and resources. These are things dedicated people fought for years to put in place. Ridiculous executive orders are sending state agencies into tailspins. No, that would all be very present in my workday. Sometimes I think about people who voted for this, who say “I didn’t vote for this”…but come on. How could you not know? So much that good people have worked for, dedicated their careers to … dismantled in a day. So, I’ll look to Lejla from Kate and Frida to remind me to savor something beautiful that hasn’t crumbled. There will be spring flowers on my kitchen table. Morning coffee will be the day’s first taste of joy. Stacks of books will call out a friendly welcome. The sun peeking through will invite me on a solitary walk. My husband will make me laugh with his terrible impersonation of a local weatherman. Our tiny adopted tabby will curl up closer and closer to us both on the couch. Our long-haired dachshund will do her prancing dinner dance. And soon enough it will be time again for three hours of jazz on my local public radio station on a Friday night. Not everything I hold dear has crumbled. Not the everyday offerings.

“when grief weights you like your own flesh only more of it, an obesity of grief, you think, How can a body withstand this?”
“Politics has clogged the air of my life,” the late Donald Hall, poet and essayist from New Hampshire noted in one of his essays on aging. It’s true. Sometimes it feels like it is the only air in my life. The weight of grief right now is political grief. Political grief is a real thing. The collective losses to our democracy pile up every day: people disappearing, Congressional assaults on voting rights aimed at people of color and women, the gutting of democratic institutions, a crashing economy, corruption and grift at the highest levels, and a looming oligarchy. These daily cuts into our democracy do create “an obesity of grief.” Psychology Today says political grief, “…can shatter our assumptions around safety, justice, meaning, and identity.” Further, “Political grief can occur when we experience a loss of safety, trust, or hope for the future because of government practices and/or backlash to enacted policies.” We all have expectations about how the world should work, and when those are shattered by politics, “there is no going back; the way the world made sense before and the expectations and beliefs that were deeply held about oneself and others are no longer salient.” Sheesh, no wonder some of us no longer feel safe. The co-author, Darcy Harris, urges readers experiencing political grief to focus on common humanity and critical reflection to address some of the polarization we feel. And the hardest part of all, focus on connection. Well, as the Chicks said in their song, “I’m not ready to make nice; I’m not ready to back down; I’m mad as hell….” I guess I’ll be sitting with this for a while as I continue to unpack the PT article.

“Then you hold life like a face between your palms…”
There is such tenderness in this line and what follows it in Bass’s poem. I think it’s one of the most beautiful lines of poetry I have ever come across. In her New York Times opinion essay Tenderness as an Act of Resistance (a must-read), author Ruth Renkl states, “Fury is a powerful motivator of resistance, but there is only so much rage a person can harbor without nurturing something cold and still and hard in the place where a warm, living heart once beat.” She goes onto comment on how exhausting this is, and we are barely into the shock and awe that is, after-all, the plan. Rage wears us down. They are counting on it. Despite her own fury, Renkl is working hard to keep her heart soft. She goes on to say, “A tender heart feels the fury and the fear, the sorrow and suffering, the beauty and the bravery alike. In the years ahead, we will need them all.” This is how tenderness is a radical act. A radical act can be defined as something that takes us out of complacency, out of our “comfort zone.” I need to figure out how to make a “tender heart” part of my own radical acts of resistance. Honestly, right now it feels like an uphill battle. Everyday offerings of a tender heart?

Along with tenderness, gratitude can be another “radical act” of resistance. In Gratitude: A Radical Approach to Life, Kristi Nelson writes, “Cultivating, practicing, and sustaining gratefulness as an approach to life is radical – because it flies in the face of internal and external forces….” Right now for me those forces include guilt for going about my everyday life, having the resolve to bear witness to the breaking of our democratic institutions, having the energy to fight back, and keeping my heart tender and open to beauty and humanity. Wow, that’s a lot to layer my life in and still have time to prioritize gratitude. Again — that’s what makes it a radical act. I never fully understood that phrase, “radical act,” before. I guess I was never called upon to actually live it. For so many years, I and many others have lived in a comfortable bubble of privilege, politics as usual, and the ups and downs of daily life. We reassured ourselves that the hungry were being fed, wars were being avoided, smart people were looking out for our economic interests, and we were a leader on the world stage. That reassurance is gone. There is a mountain of circumstance to inhibit gratitude right now. Many of us are at a moment in time in our country of losing what we love about it. But it’s not all gone, not by any means. I am so grateful for the millions of people protesting, writing letters to elected leaders, working to get leaders elected at every level who will defend democratic values and speak truth to power, reaching out to their neighbors with kind words and support. I am grateful to be among them. I am truly grateful for so much, but am aware that much of what I am grateful for affects only me — my comfort, my safety, etc. The radical act is to be grateful for the collective work to safeguard, preserve, and rebuild the institutions, the laws, and a humanity that wants to guarantee support and safety for everyone.

“yes, I will take you I will love you, again.”
So at the end of the day … well, we love. That’s what we do, isn’t it? When we are out of our depths, when we are out of our minds with worry, when we are out of ways to resist, to show up…we love inspite of it, and start to grow whole and strong once again. I comfort myself with the belief that it will not always be like this. That’s my greatest everyday offering right now: to allow myself to still feel a little hope.

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Sigh. This has been a rambling post for me to wade through some feelings and, as Ellen Bass said, “find out things I don’t already know.” If you are still with me, thank you. I’m going to wrap up this post with the words of yet another poet, one I know that many of my readers love, too. Mary Oliver is a poet I turn to when I need to reconnect with the everyday offerings of sudden awe and joy. Her words can sing the song of things I want to love again and again. In my opinion, no other poet can put words together about finding beauty in some god-awful, man-made ugliness like she did. And because of these times we are living in, because of the processing and reflection inspired by poets and authors, I am more keenly aware than ever before that “joy is not made to be a crumb.” These are still The Precious Days.

“If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, be very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.”

— Mary Oliver “Don’t Hesitate” from Swan: Poems and Prose Poems

These days…

March 11, 2025 marked the fifth year anniversary of the World Health Organization’s declaration of COVID-19 as a pandemic. I actually wrote this piece a year ago on the fourth anniversary. I don’t think I will ever shake the vigilance that the pandemic instilled in me. The political climate in my country these days has given rise to many of those same feelings of uncertainty, protection, survival, and fear for others. I’ve reworked the piece a bit to acknowledge this fifth anniversary.

I still spend some of my lost-in-thought time thinking about the pandemic. It’s baked into my recent past, my present, and it continues to loom large. I am drawn to pandemic-themed literature, its own new genre. Living through the worst (let’s hope) of a pandemic is one of my own life stories, always present, both in memory and impact. Just as my mother could never shake the scarcity thinking as a child of The Great Depression, I will probably be waiting for the next pandemic well into my eighties, or sooner. Ironically, the leadership now is the same as it was then, only more awful and more destructive than we ever thought possible.  

Apocalyptic, dystopian storylines have always fascinated me. But I never thought in my lifetime, in the United States of America (that feeling of American exceptionalism used to be hard to shake–not anymore), I would be living one of those storylines. Despite my fascination with post-catastrophe, Orwellian drama, I was no better prepared for the realities of a pandemic than I was for living out the novel 1984. When I replay the last days of December 2019 to the present, they are recalled in sped-up black and white moments of  30 second video snippets, blurring together. But they slam to a cold stop in March in 2020. In March, the images are in sepia-toned slow motion, simultaneously real, surreal, and frightening. 

In the winter months leading up to March, the mysterious virus originating in China was just a quick sound bite on the news. I scarcely remember even discussing it. Christmas came and went and 2019, which had been one of the worst years of my life, finally came to a close. I had wanted that year to end so much.  Be careful what you wish for. 

Work resumed in January with the usual colds and flu in the office. At home, life was books and hot chocolate, cocktails on the weekends, dinners out, texting friends to make plans, shopping, and waiting for snow days – the typical ways to pass the winter months as we looked for signs of spring. The news stories continued through January and February. Were we still ignoring them?  Many of us didn’t trust the president (with good reason), so what should we think? Wait for facts from the experts, yes, that’s the plan.  And then it was March. That first week of March I went out to dinner with some women administrator friends. There were a few nervous jokes, several “you don’t really think” questions, but dinner seemed unremarkable that night. But looking back… looking back can change every thought, every action, can’t it? It can turn a benign pleasant occasion into an unthinkable turning point. 

As we were leaving the restaurant, I waved my friends away having seen some of my former students, now grown women, dining in a booth. Leslie, who was now a teacher, invited me to sit. I squeezed into their booth to chat for a few minutes. As I was getting up to leave, we made a joke about fist bumping a good-bye. Instead, impulsively I gave her a hug. Other than my husband, she would be the last person I hugged for a long, long time. 

During the next two weeks, things began to spiral. On March 11, 2020, the World Health Organization declared the virus a pandemic. In the next few days, the world shifted tectonically under my feet. My government had ignored the slippery pebbles of warning underfoot and the avalanche had begun. A whole new vocabulary invaded our daily communications: quarantine, isolation, community spread, and the scariest word of all, ventilator. Our governor ordered schools to close no later than March 18. On Sunday, March 15, our district leadership team met for the day to figure out how to communicate an unprecedented closing to our students and their parents, provide regular online education through engaging lessons in K-12, distribute a laptop to every home and troubleshoot their wifi access, and feed children at least two meals a day through pick up and delivery 5 days a week. The team met online every day. Google Meet and Zoom became our “office” and our lifelines. The return date was extended over and over, and by April we knew we would not be coming back. 

Of course there were our own lives to prepare for, too. How do you prepare for something you couldn't even imagine? It seemed like each day things got scarier and more confusing. An acquaintance's father, who had attended a UVM basketball game on March 10, contracted COVID at what became Vermont’s first “superspreader event.” He died by the end of the month, along with several other elderly fans. On Thursday, March 19, I went to all of our district’s schools to help pass out lunches and laptops to the queues of families in the parking lots. I brought homemade chocolate chip cookies to the custodians who had been working almost round-the-clock to disinfect everything before the buildings closed. On Friday the 20th, my husband and I gassed up our cars, loaded up on groceries and necessities, and stood in lines rivaled only by the day before Thanksgiving or Christmas. I edged my scarf up over my mouth and nose. Trust was as scarce as certainty as we prepared to hunker down. The images on the news were horrifying. 

Time moved us on as it does.  It took us a few weeks, then months, and finally years before we accepted this virus wasn’t going away. Life as we’d known it for so long would most likely never return. 

As we mark the fifth year anniversary of the declaration of the pandemic, the “pandemic” may be over, this virus thing is not.  It’s part of life now. Yet I still struggle to describe it as normal or even “the new normal.” I will mask again in crowded spaces, test regularly if necessary, and get vaccine boosters (fingers-crossed) when recommended for my age group, but I’m not sure if I ever want to feel that’s normal. That March in 2020 propelled us into stages of shared grief for what was and what might no longer be. Elizabeth Kubler Ross describes those stages as a framework for learning to live with “the one we lost.” The pandemic laid bare layers of complex grief that I will reflect on for years to come. As I peel back those layers, I know that the “one I lost,” to use Ross’s words, wasn’t a person (for which I am infinitely grateful).  What I lost was my naive, preemptive approach to that “one wild and precious life” Mary Oliver gives a name to in her poem, “The Summer Day.” The poem’s urgent “what is it you plan to do” with that life remains not only the ultimate question, it is the story, the lesson, and perhaps the vigilant rallying cry for the collective survivors of the pandemic.

“I’ll Have What She’s Having”

To mark a big important idea like International Women’s Day today, I will take this opportunity to honor it in a very personal way by celebrating my friend of over 40 years, Maddie. As we age, our women friends become even more central to the joy in our lives, and the appreciation we have for them seems to soar. Last fall, our Women Rowing North leader, Helen, gave our alumni group the writing topic,“Who is that Older Woman?” I knew when I read one of the prompts, “Is there someone older than you who makes growing older inspiring? Who is your aging idol and why?” that I would write about my dear friend, Maddie. The idea of having an “aging idol” as we move into our elder woman years (thank you writing group fellow, Jennifer, for such a beautiful turn of a phrase) is just plain smart. Having aging inspiration can help to keep this last major life journey both positive and forward-focused. While many women may feel their best years are behind them, an aging role model can show you something very different.

In her Medium post, Who Are Your Role Models For Successful Aging?, M. Elizabeth Blair sites research from Blue Zones at bluezones.com that suggests that having aging role models with certain attributes can positively affect your own views on aging. My friend Maddie’s positive attributes are very aligned with the “Blue Zone’s Power 9.” Most importantly, Maddie has always been such a powerful role model for me as an elder because she has long possessed characteristics that focus on good health, a strong sense of moral purpose, and a loving friendship community of women. I have learned from her modeling for over 40 years now, and happily, I’m still learning.

You may remember the scene from When Harry Met Sally where the woman in the deli, after watching a stellar performance by Sally, tells the server, “I’ll have what she’s having.” I thought I’d borrow the line as the title for my essay, and use it in a different context. 😉 If aging is what my friend Maddie has been doing—getting more fabulous and wonderful with each year—then yes, “I’ll have what she’s having.”

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I’ll Have What She’s Having

At 67 years old, my mornings are both comfortably familiar and pointedly uncertain. Happy as I am to simply wake up, it’s not long before the bumpy migration of cells in my aging body commands my attention. Pain over here; spasm over there. I have arrived at that space in life that reminds me I’ve lost valuable time in caring for my body, and now must play a frantic game of “beat the clock.” One glance in a mirror, and I am quickly reminded that increasing amounts of wrinkling, sagging skin is slowly mummifying me in flesh-colored crepe paper. 

Mercifully, a morning text distracts me from an unhealthy relationship with the bathroom magnifying mirror. It’s Maddie from Philly. Now there is someone with gorgeous skin. In the past I treated my skin like the interior of a car, a generous swipe of an Armor All-like wipe was just  fine. Since we met about 40 years ago, Maddie practiced an impressive self–care routine, long before it was its own industry. Maddie is on my mind so often as I stumble through this aging journey. She makes me think about the many aspects of life that bring me a sense of joy and purpose as I age, that were inspired by the example of women friends, like Maddie.

At 82, Maddie is still one of my most beautiful friends. Hair styled in an edgy cut, her lovely Greek/Armenian features are still sharp and distinctive against that smooth, wrinkle-free skin. I am in awe of her timeless beauty, generous spirit, mental sharpness, and unflagging resilience. A few years ago, Maddie lost her daughter unexpectedly. It is something that could have broken her as she approached 80. But she graciously accepted our love and support; she let us in. It would have been so easy to shut the world out during such heartbreak. That experience with her taught me how important it is to open up my world to others as the years collect. So I nurture my friendships now, and I cling to moments connecting with Maddie during what could be the final phase of our friendship. 

Fifteen years older than me, I cannot remember a time when Maddie wasn’t a role model in my life. When we worked together in the 80’s and 90’s, snatches of time in her crow’s nest office were filled with discussions about our students: sharing observations, celebrating achievements, and sometimes sobbing over failures and planning to address looming fears.  From Maddie, I received the sage advice my younger self desperately needed, along with an introduction to the ethics of care and how to live a purpose-driven life as an educator. Admiration and inspiration characterized those seminal years of friendship. We also spent countless hours just talking while sharing meals, cups of tea, and glasses of wine. Our ups and downs were chalked up to growth experiences, and Maddie was quick to forgive whenever I needed it. And there was laughter–so much laughter and joy. 

Now, about once a month, I see Maddie over Zoom during our book group and catch-ups. My dear friend does show some signs of aging, but remarkably few. I don’t really see them. As I listen, my mind wanders to a continuous loop of memories from our shared past. Each frame in time is awash with hues of irresistibly vibrant colors. Rich amethyst-toned purples, brilliant azure blues, vivid fuchsias, lemony yellows, and coral pinks. Maddie always dressed in striking, saturated colors, full of energy – she simply radiated. I remember in my thirties shrouding myself in mostly black clothes, thinking how sophisticated and thin I must look. Part of me envied Maddie’s colorful silks and bold rainbow of natural cottons. I remember asking her about her love of color. She said, “When you get to a certain age, you’ll love colors.” Recently I purchased a bright periwinkle cotton sweater and thought, “Maddie would love this.” From her wild hair to her artisan earrings, Maddie was teaching me hippie-chic before boho even became “a thing.”  So despite the difference in our ages, Maddie was always my coolest friend, and now, the coolest octogenarian I know. 

Being with Maddie has been an intellectual field trip–the best liberal arts education I could have had. Through our friendship she shared provocative ideas, progressive ideals, and a love of good books, all giving me so much to aspire to. Ann Patchett wrote, “Some of us have lives that revolve around the humanities the way the planets circle the sun.” Maddie shared such a life with me. It was a glorious time to be young and have an older, more knowledgeable and worldly friend to pester to tell me everything about how she knew what she knew.  

On Maddie’s fiftieth birthday, she was a bit blue. Still in my thirties, the arrival of my own half century mark seemed far away. “You’re 50 Maddie,” I said, “just like Linda McCartney. Two of the coolest women in the world are 50, and YOU are one of them!” I knew if that was 50, I had a lot to look forward to.  Maddie sailed through her sixtieth birthday, and I remember thinking if that’s 60, sign me up. In her sixties, my forties, we went to plays together, lectures at the university, and shared a love of poems and quotes through sending arty, “no occasion cards” to each other. 

Around Maddie’s seventieth birthday, another friend and I visited her at the school she was still working at as a guidance counselor. My friend asked her if her colleagues had made a big deal about her seventieth birthday, which had just passed. “When you're seventy and still working, you don’t call attention to your septuagenarian birthdays,” she smirked. Made perfect sense to me. 

I look at Maddie now, in her eighties, and realize I look up to her and need her as much as I ever did, perhaps more. Thanks to Maddie, I am navigating this time of my life full of resolve to care for my health, cultivate a headspace full of rich and engaging thoughts and ideas, read voraciously, to cherish my friends, and finally welcome some color into my life. Connecting with Maddie makes me realize the memories of a shared past were the groundwork for a fulfilling present. Gratitude doesn’t seem adequate. Lives I thought would be forever entwined with mine through lovingly bound threads of shared experience are starting to unravel with time. I know time is not the friend of people my age, and it is even more fickle when you are the age of my dear friend, Maddie. But there is time enough to acknowledge how deeply I appreciate all that Maddie has added and continues to add to my life. Reliving the joys of decades of friendship with Maddie, and all she has inspired in me, is one of the best parts of having her in my life. Now, we can finally age together.  

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Do you have an “aging idol” ? Share in the Comments.

Struggling to Move Forward

One month into 2025 and I’m still struggling to let go of 2024….

I know, I know. I am very late for a 2024 wrap up and a look ahead into 2025. Seems a bit out of whack, but doesn’t everything these days seem more than a bit off? I guess I am giving myself a wide berth. 2025 will not likely kick in for me until February.

Where to begin in reflecting back on 2024… To paraphrase Linus, “I never thought it was such a bad little year.” 2024 tried its best to move along full of hope and promise …and then we hit November. For me, the bottom dropped out of 2024 on the morning of November 6. It was not what I expected, and that would have to be reckoned with in 2025.

But before I get ahead of myself, let’s take a look at some highlights of 2024 (pre-election)— life take-aways from my third full year of retirement.

Winter 2024 (January and February):
Leaving the early winter of any December and ringing in a New Year often finds me at loose ends. It can take me almost all of January to emerge from the deep funk of: 1) the big holiday letdown, and 2) the darkness of winter. No, I don’t suffer the transition from the holidays to bleak winter well. January hurts. I don’t know any other way to say it.

In 2024 I had a goal of working internally to address my anxiety and depression. For the most part I was pretty successful with that, and I knew I had to begin the work in the tough winter months. Eventually, January and February began to feel like hibernation and that felt right. In the first months of 2024 I enjoyed a multitude of solitude and reflection. In 2023, I had made an effort to take solitary winter walks, bundled up against the elements. By 2024, I enthusiastically looked forward to them. January and February were filled with those walks. There was also lots of reading, including books with my little online Book Group — just three old friends who go back almost 40 years, who get together over Zoom to catch up and talk books. Most of these two first months of 2024 were devoted to the indoor pursuit of writing (this blog, Morning Pages, and our Women Rowing North writing group essays). My friend, Lauren, was still traveling to Vermont for work, so there was at least one dinner out together to brighten the winter. And as in every winter since I’ve retired, my trips to Phoenix Books in Essex saved my life during the depths of the darker months.

I do a lot more non-fiction reading in the winter and usually have a little routine (maybe I’ll write about in another blog post). Since I have retired, each February I undertake a “poet study” that I try to finish in April (Poetry Month). The first year after I retired, the featured poet of study was May Sarton. Reading her poetry and especially her journals, in which she chronicled the decades into her eighties, was such an education in aging women, the strength of the creative process, and the battle between craving solitude and feeling abandoned by the personal world you’ve inhabited for so long (now haltingly out of step with the your current reality). My Sarton study took two years. She was such a prolific writer, and there was so much to discover about her and her work the more I researched. Getting back to 2024, in February I became interested in Donald Hall after a trip to a bookstore. I noticed that he wrote essays on aging similar to Sarton’s. I let those life essays lead me to his poetry on his terms. He also led me back to the poetry of his wife, Jane Kenyon, whom I loved in the eighties. I read as much as I could find on her, and will probably continue to study her life and poetry in 2025, as some new-to-me books were acquired in the spring of 2024.

I feel I did my best to get through January and find things to love about February.

Spring 2024 (March, April, and May):
In 2024, I started looking at the seasons through the Meteorological vs. the Astronomical lens, and I have to say, it changed my perspective on the year. One of my goals in 2024 was to be able to shift my perspective to be more optimistic (Reader, you already know how that turned out). This simple shift did help me to get my brain into spring mode regardless of what the thermometer or The Weather Channel said. I will always love the pull of the moon, but breaking each season into three neat and tidy months has somehow helped me to enjoy and appreciate them more.

In March and April I acted on a blog idea that brought me so much joy! I went back and examined my reading life over the decades in a four part series. It was such a fun trip down memory lane, and I learned so much about the goals and dreams of my present self by looking through “my back pages.” The series also gave me the opportunity to celebrate the one year anniversary of The Precious Days blog.

The highlight of the spring had to be the total eclipse of the sun. What a tremendous gift it was to be alive in April 2024 to witness such a phenomenon. I will be forever grateful that on the afternoon of April 8, 2024, I was in my backyard, on my own deck, and in the path of totality.

In April and May, walks with my best friend since age 7, Brenda, occurred almost daily. It was so good to process the world in the fresh air. We made sure to do at least three miles with each walk. In early May we started a Bone Builders class together—a good thing for me with my osteoporosis. I also started volunteering at my local library in May. I have to say, looking back at 2024, this was definitely a highpoint, and I continue to look forward to my morning at the library each week.

By the end of May, spring began to feel like summer. We put out all the outdoor furniture and the garden Buddhas, set up my reading hut, and spruced up the backyard with annuals that complemented our gorgeous perennial gardens (thank you, husband). I was more than ready to greet another Vermont summer. But at the same time, political uneasiness was digging in as it became clear that the man who inspired the violence on January 6, 2021 was once again the choice of far too many people in this country to be the next president. I was losing hope.

Summer 2024 (June, July, and August):
Looking back, my intentions for 2024 to be more patient, more optimistic, and more relaxed would finally be given some space in the summer months. I began June full of optimism, but once again, the politics of the US knocked the rose colored stuffing out of me. So, I tried to go back to church after a decades-long absence. My childhood church had a contemporary reputation of being inclusive and accepting, so for the summer I attended every Sunday. But I didn’t find what I was searching for. There was kindness, but no feeling of authenticity or connection for me. That’s a topic for another time, and probably not for the blog.

My husband and I took lots of day trips to local beaches, some Vermont independent bookstores, and listened to Bluegrass in the evenings at Shelburne Vineyard at least once a month. Those are the kind of summer staples that fuel the soul.

Then on the July anniversary of the 2023 floods in Vermont, our beautiful state was once again inundated by flood waters in Addison, Orleans, Washington, Caledonia, Chittenden, Lamoille, and Essex counties. Then at the end of the month, some counties were hit yet again with flooding. Despite these tragedies for my state, by the end of July, hope for the country was once again in sight. I could feel the optimism surge. I felt joy.

But August knocked me down again — the remnants of Hurricane Debby brought horrendous winds to much of Vermont — we lost power for 26 hours, and we were among the “lucky” ones. Many lost power for days. Downed tree limbs wreaked havoc. The effects of climate change had seriously impacted the summer in Vermont with extreme weather for the second year in a row.

Despite what I remember as a hot, humid August and the extremes of the summer, I ended my summer of 2024 feeling there was so much to look forward to.

Fall 2024: (September, October, November):
In September, I went back to work—just a tiny venture. I just had a few guest hosting responsibilities for a professional development organization over the next three months, but it was so much fun and I really looked forward to it. In many ways, it was a glorious fall. In September and October my husband and I took lots of day trips to explore more independent bookstores, new restaurants, and the foliage in Vermont and beyond. I had lots of coffee dates with friends on gorgeous autumn mornings. My friend and I retraced childhood memories through the neighborhoods, kicking the leaves on afternoon walks. It was a beautiful fall — full of color and so much happiness. Then in November, it all fell apart.

And about December, 2024…
Thanksgiving was tough, and it rolled itself into an even rougher December. Without the familiar distractions of celebrating the Christmas season, the spiraling fear that comes from such profound uncertainty would have been even worse. Looking forward to the New Year…well, it just didn’t happen. In November, dread took up residency in my life and made it clear it wasn’t going anywhere any time soon.

And 2025?
I have small intentions. I will do my poet study this year on Anne Sexton. I am determined to finally learn to write a passable book review. I will push myself as a writer with some experimental things I feel ready to tackle. I will continue to work at connecting with people— I can let myself get too isolated.

Mostly, I will just keep moving my small world forward, incrementally. I am grateful for books, for writing (especially my WRN friends), for my close friends, who with me, mourn what might have been. They worry with me, support me, and drag me out of myself for walks, lunches, coffee, and life. Day by day, I intend to work at growing my joy and optimism, to push out the dread. And taking it one day at a time with me is my husband, my anchor. He helps me to see the everyday beauty in the world during ugliest of times. He pulls me forward into The Precious Days with loving kindness. And that, Readers, is all I could wish for in another new year, isn’t it?

Reclaiming the Light

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My husband and I are getting ready to celebrate another winter solstice together outdoors. We’ll celebrate on Friday instead of Saturday due to the predicted (unbearable!) wind chill. Even Friday will be a very cold one this year, but we can bear it. I am hoping for a little snow to set both the scene and make the mood more festive. I’ll bundle up and head out to greet my husband, who will have the fire roaring. This year our special warm drink, a solstice tradition, will be Kahlúa hot chocolate. We’ll settle into our camp chairs in front of the crackling fire, snack on some saffron buns my husband made for Saint Lucy’s Day, and enjoy the idea of the light returning as the fire and the Kahlúa warm us.

Last year I wrote about a solstice ritual. I carry slips of paper in my pocket, ready to toss into the fire. One side of the slip will say what I am happy to be leaving behind, and the other side will say what I am looking forward to bringing into my life. It feels particularly hard this year. Based on my last post and the constant cycle of disturbing news, you can probably imagine what will be written on the side of the ledger I’d like to leave behind — plenty of monsters in the dark. If only it were that simple to erase the darkness. So this year, I am putting extra thought into what I will bring into my life to illuminate the dark times for me, and maybe for others. What can I do to create light? To be a force of light?

“Darkness will always give you an opportunity to create your own light.”

— Iain Thomas, “I Wrote This For You” (2011)

In an article shared on LinkedIn by Chris Cook titled Shine Your Light. I’ll Shine Mine. Together We’ll See Our Way Through, licensed clinical social worker Allan Weisbard offers some ideas on how to be the light during dark times. Although the piece was written in response to COVID, several of his suggestions struck a chord with me in these trying times, too.

I know, for my own mental health, and to support others, I can’t carry a light that is constantly overshadowed by pessimism. Yet I cannot deny the reality of the state of things. The only optimism I can muster right now will have to be enough. According to Weisbard, it can be enough to say “we’ll get through this” as a sign of healthy optimism. I can do that. That will be the light side of my current dark mantra: “We’re doomed.” I’m ready to try that.

He suggests to “hold integrity to your boundaries.” That is so important to me. I can’t sit back if others are being hurt by political decisions. Being the light means being a bit of an activist at times. In my last post I indicated I’ve let some friendships go because I believe their decisions will hurt people I care about.

To strengthen and maintain your light force, he recommends you “curate exposure to the news and social media.” That’s important for me. I need to pause scrolling the doom reality feed and make time for the stories that reflect the goodness of humanity. Then I need to share that good news: “Hey did you see what this woman in such-in-such-ville is doing to support the homeless? Could we get that going here?” You get the idea.

Another of his suggestions is to “seek a sense of awe.” I love that. To focus on what is beautiful, especially in the natural world, is vital to letting bright light into the world. From winter birds at the feeder to the laughter of the neighbor’s small child playing outside to a few feet of fresh snow on a quiet, cozy “snow day” — there is so much that is wonder-filled, comforting, and inspiring. If that’s a focus, the light will get in.

A woman in our writing group talked about a retirement goal of working on being the best friend she could be to her friends. What a way to bring light to the lives of people you care about. Weisbard also suggests we remember the power of kindness to shine a light in the dark. He writes: “Think positive thoughts toward everyone you see and choose to be kind every day. See all the little things people do for you each day and thank them.”

One final suggestion he had that really resonates is to “imagine positive, joyful outcomes.” Oh that’s a tough one. I can’t pretend not to know what I know. But I can find joy in the small moments. I can find small things to look forward to with my husband and my dear friends, and truly enjoy them and show my gratitude for that joy.

“Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.”

— Martin Luther King Jr., “Strength to Love” (1963)

In A Small World for an Unsolved Heart I wrote about what it meant to make my world smaller. I think these suggestions will help to bring light into this small world that can still feel quite dark. Another way I intend to fight the darkness in the new year is to not turn on the television on January 20, 2025. On that day I will be dedicating my time to service in my community in some capacity. My focus will be on the teachings of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and showing my community some love and light. I look forward to making that plan. I have some ideas, but would welcome your suggestions in the Comments. My community has many needs.

The winter solstice inspires me and brings me hope. I cannot remember a time in my life when I have ever felt I needed that more. Magically, it’s by looking outward on a cold, dark December night that I can find light inside me …enough light to illuminate a way forward.

A Small World for an Unsolved Heart

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A little over two weeks has passed since I started the draft of this blog post. I am still not sure how to write about this. At first, I felt lost and there was something akin to a constant, disconcerting noise that exhausted me as I tried to both block out and listen carefully. There is still so much to say, but I am feeling the words that need to be said have already been said or are becoming lost…lost in uncertainty, daily shock waves, and trying to find my way….and sometimes lost, once again, in an eddy of disbelief, sadness, and grief.

There is, of course, much to I worry about. I worry for so many people. “You’ll be fine,” someone says. “You are missing the point,” I counter. I don’t look for leadership that ensures I will be fine. I look for leaders who will make sure EVERYONE is fine. I was telling a friend, as women, we want to shield and protect the vulnerable. Empower them to be safe by walking with them — but there is so much I can never know about the pain and suffering of others. Holding space to listen, to not let voices be “othered,” and to remind myself of the futility of “just my opinion” weren’t enough. Intellectually, I knew my vote was not a personal savior, but it never occurred to me that the majority of our votes wouldn’t be a collective one. I am moving from gob-smacked and numb to formulating a plan. I am making my way forward by groping around, trying on what it might feel like to be alert and curious, and rethinking “community.”

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I am making my world smaller. I take lots of solitary walks. Tons of poetry and fiction that take me far away from the post-mortem are my sacred texts. Coffee on the deck bundled up by a fire watching the morning mist burn off in the backyard under pink skies at sunrise—that’s my sacred space right now. My circle of friends has become a bit smaller. Our conversations have been anxious, and we prioritize our availability to each other. Slowly, I am moving from fear and anger to feeling a greater sense of efficacy. I am fortunate to live in a state that feels safe and responsive. The leaders here listen, they connect with people. We know them all by their first names, and we don’t hesitate to reach out. One of the first actions I took was to write the Governor’s Office, sharing my fears and asking for him to share a plan. And the office responded. I will do a lot of letter writing and making phone calls to state leaders. At the national level, I especially trust and have faith in my representative to the House, Becca Balint and our long-time Senator Bernie Sanders. Both have shown themselves to be leaders who will do what is in the best interest of all Vermonters and all Americans. My husband and I are discussing ways to be more involved in our small community. We are being very intentional about where we spend our money, trying to keep as much of it as possible very local. Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front by Wendell Berry is my guidebook for my small world. We care deeply about our neighbors, and try to make sure they know it — that they can count on us. There is so much that is out of my control right now. What can I influence to protect others? What can I control to protect my peace? Those are my essential questions.

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“We must refrain from going on the attack only for attack’s sake. We must engage in spoken and written discourse always on the supposition that a genuine attempt to understand another’s views is the prerequisite for critique and judgment of those views. The ideal end of moral conversation is to reach a point of mutually acceptable agreement, no matter how thin, instead of aiming for an intellectual knockout. Absent this agreement, all moral conversationalists must be able to leave the dialogue, at the very least, with dignity and integrity fully intact.”

— Robert J. Nash

I have always had a robust relationship with my moral outrage. As I have aged, I have tried to channel such conviction into knowing and verifying facts and understanding data and evidence. A dear friend’s husband, Professor Robert Nash, taught his students at the University of Vermont “to find the error in what you espouse and the truth in what you oppose.” This is how he succinctly described the moral conversation. The best I can muster up is to commit to not being dispassionate, and a bit more patient with myself. What does that look like? What follows is how Rilke described it. And later on in this blog, a Native American story reveals another kind of internal moral conversation….

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“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.”

— Rainer Maria Rilke

There are so many questions. Too many questions means too much uncertainty, which has always been excruciatingly hard for me. I am a “make it happen” kind of person…definitely not the “wait and see, time will tell” type. Although I don’t think I am ready to embrace uncertainty, none of the answer scenarios I am coming up with is helping. So I will live the questions, “What will bring me peace today? What self-reflection might soothe my unsolved heart?” Enter the blank page.

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“Anyone who writes is a seeker. You look at a blank page and you’re seeking. The role is assigned to us and never removed. I think this is an unbelievable blessing. ”

— Louise Glück, The Art of Poetry No. 115, The Paris Review

Writing is how I find my way. Bearing witness and pausing for reflection through writing is an important part of how I live each day. Since the election, three Morning Pages, religiously every day, haven’t been nearly enough. I find myself picking up journals, notebooks, and random scraps of paper in various rooms to capture words that express thoughts and feelings as I try to make sense of things. Processing through both writing and important conversations with my husband and my very small circle of friends leads to more reflective writing, and in turn, uncovered blessings.

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“If you feed them right, they both win. You see, if I only choose to feed the Light wolf, the Dark wolf will be hiding around every corner waiting for me to become distracted or weak and jump to get the attention he craves. He will always be angry and will always fight the Light wolf. But if I acknowledge him, he is happy and the Light wolf is happy and we all win. For the Dark wolf has many qualities — tenacity, courage, fearlessness, strong-willed and great strategic thinking–that I have need of at times. These are the very things the Light wolf lacks. But the Light wolf has compassion, caring, strength and the ability to recognize what is in the best interest of all. You see, son, the Light wolf needs the Dark wolf at his side. To feed only one would starve the other and they will become uncontrollable. To feed and care for both means they will serve you well and do nothing that is not a part of something greater, something good, something of life. Feed them both and there will be no more internal struggle for your attention. And when there is no battle inside, you can listen to the voices of deeper knowing that will guide you in choosing what is right in every circumstance. Peace, my son, is the Cherokee mission in life. A man or a woman who has peace inside has everything. A man or a woman who is pulled apart by the war inside him or her has nothing. How you choose to interact with the opposing forces within you will determine your life. Starve one or the other or guide them both.”

— As quoted in "The Two Wolves Within" by Michelle Weimer

According to plan, one of celebration, one of consolation, Louise Penny’s newest book, The Grey Wolf was waiting to be opened by me the day after the election. Returning to the world of Three Pines and the gentle and fierce wisdom of Chief Inspector Armand Gamache could not have come at a better time. Without risking any spoilers, aspects of this newest story bring us back to Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups Monastery, a setting and characters we were introduced to in her book A Beautiful Mystery. Once again, we hear the Native American story of the two wolves. Whether you have read the books or not, you may be familiar with the story, which usually ends with the question “Which wolf will win?” and the corollary answer, “The one that you feed.” But a little research reveals there is more to the story, which I have referenced above. As I read the story, and did some additional research, I was struck by how the election had brought out the two wolves in me. I was indeed feeling “pulled apart by the war inside me.” Living in a small world means living with peace inside, feeding and understanding both wolves. My small world must still be the real world, and living in that world needs to be guided by both compassion and courage.

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The Peace of Wild Things
by Wendell Berry

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

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A few days after the election I found myself at the dentist. Looking out the large window into the wooded outdoor area as I waited for the dentist, I saw a pileated woodpecker circling round the tree closest to the window. I suddenly felt flooded with a calmness and sense of peace that I had not felt in many, many days. I have a fondness for the woodpecker family, and I have always felt there was a spiritual significance to their visits. It turns out I may have been right. In her blog post entitled “Spiritual Meaning Of Seeing A Woodpecker - What Does The Woodpecker symbolize?” Kristin Smith of Whispering Wing Healings, explains the potential significance of my encounter that afternoon:

“If you happen to see a Woodpecker at any time of the year and also happen to be going through a time where you are feeling less supported than you would like, take heart. Spirit is indeed sending you a Spiritual Friend, if you will, to encourage you to continue on through the struggles and to help you feel less alone. The Woodpecker can be seen as a placeholder of sorts, promising a time when you will again connect with those who are aligned with your being. Many times you will mend fences with those who became unaligned with your journey at some juncture. At other times these endings will be permanent. Either way, the underlying meaning of your interaction with the Woodpecker could be to comfort you. You may be being reminded that this time of heartache or any loneliness is just temporary.”

The pileated woodpecker is my wood drake. It’s telling me, “This time of heartache is just temporary.”

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In my still-forming small world, I am grateful to have occupied the dystopian space of these past few weeks with philosophers, poets, authors, and storytellers. They have not failed me in these tumultuous and fraught times. Each one has brought me peace, comfort, and much-needed distraction. They have reminded me to listen, to try to critically understand a deeply flawed world, live the questions, pause with patience, find what I am seeking in a blank page, to feed and guide both wolves…and to “rest in the grace of the world.”

Retirement Micro-Adventures

Ahhh…retirement. Finally, it’s time to update your passport, grab your carry-on, and see the world. Many of my retired friends are jetting off to adventures across the seven continents. I wish them well, cheer them on, and enjoy their tales upon their return. I even worry about my women friends who are seasoned solo travelers. But, most likely, I won’t be among any of them. I prefer the retirement life of a micro-adventurer.

Micro-adventure is the term coined by British adventurer, Alastair Humphreys. Humphreys defines a micro-adventure as “an adventure that is short, simple, local, cheap – yet still fun, exciting, challenging, refreshing and rewarding.” I live in the perfect spot for micro-adventures. I’m in a small state, close to the Canadian border, that is home to lots of mountains, beautiful lakes, quaint villages, back roads, and plenty of rural farmland. No need to fly anywhere, I just hop in the car with my wonderful husband, some vague directions and a sketch of a plan, and off we go. As Humphreys says, “Adventure is only a state of mind.”

Humphreys further defines two types of travel fun:

Type-1 fun is a good description for anything in life that you do that is simply fun, like eating cheese, or drinking gin, or whatever you enjoy.
Type-2 fun is doing stuff that is miserable, painful, uncomfortable, horrible, and people who’ve done, say, long-distance hiking challenges or marathons will be familiar with this. You’re doing something painful purely in the hope that at some unknown point in an unknowable future this will somehow, retrospectively, make you happy. That’s type-2 fun.

Like Tracy Smyth from Travel Bug Tonic, I’m neither all Type 1 nor Type 2. Whereas she falls somewhere in the middle, I’d define my micro-adventure fun spirit as Type 3 fun: a good old-fashioned day trip. Yup, this retired traveller is a Day Tripper.

As noted, I live in the perfect spot for it: a small, gorgeous state, that is filled with the best nature has to offer along with some fantastic stops for food, sightseeing, and of course, independent bookstores! Fall is the perfect time for my husband and I to combine the best Vermont has to offer with some day trips. But, in case you thought I turned this topic into a bait-and-switch, let me tell you how we turn our ordinary “day trips” into bonafide micro-adventures. This fall, we set out on a north-central Vermont Fall Foliage and Gap and Orchard micro-adventure. Our plan was to drive over the rural Gaps to view the beautiful color, enjoy lunch at a restaurant, check out an orchard, and of course…find a bookstore! Just your everyday adventure in scenic Vermont.

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Trip#1:
Lincoln Gap.This trip took us through Richmond, Jonesville, Duxbury, Waitsfield, and Warren. Then over the gap and back home. The stops: Tempest Bookstore, Lawson’s Finest Liquids for lunch, and the Warren Store for some fantastic bread to bring home.
Foliage: Hadn’t quite gotten started.
Trip #2:
Peck’s Orchard. Nestled in the rolling pastures and hills of East Montpelier, this orchard treated us to a picturesque “apple walk” through rows and rows of apple varieties. We sipped sparkling cider from wine glasses as we listened to the bluegrass stylings of Banjo Dan’s Bluegrass Pioneers. On our way home, we stopped for an early dinner at Sarducci’s in Montpelier, but were unfortunately too late for a trip to Bear Pond Books.
Foliage: Very summer-like fall day, and really was all about the apples and bluegrass.
Trip #3:
Willoughby Bound - North Jay Peak, Lake Willoughby, Burke, and Hazen’s Notch. This trip took us through North Jay, Troy, Coventry, Barton, and into Lake Willoughby. The lake is massive and beautiful, and the beach area was PACKED with tourists from all over Vermont, the country, and the world. From Westmore we headed to Burke, got our lunch at Northeast Kingdom Country Store, and ate outside.We travelled some scenic back roads to Lyndonville, then Orleans, Irasburg, and Lowell, where we headed over Hazen’s Notch into Montgomery. Montgomery is one of my favorite villages for a little micro-adventure, and we made plans to have dinner at these two restaurants in the near future: The INN and The Black Lantern Inn.
Foliage: Early peak colors — lots of oranges. Unfortunately, no bookstores on this trip.
Trip #4:
Appalachian Gap and Yates Family Orchard.
Another orchard destination was the bonus feature of this gap drive. First to Waterbury, then Waitsfield, where we travelled Route 17 west through the Appalachian Gap over Stark Mountain. Beautiful scenery as we drove up and down the gap into Buell’s Gore. Then we were off to Monkton Ridge, headed to the Yates Family Orchard in Hinesburg. There we were joined by lots of other orchard-goers, standing in line for the famous Apple Pie Dreamee. After a walk through the orchards, snacking on the complimentary apple (that’s a thing, right?), I opted for a cider creemee, and we picked up some fresh cider and still-warm cider donuts, too.
Foliage: Almost peak…beautiful orange and yellow fall colors, now including the emerging reds.
Trip #5:
Brandon Gap and Rochester Gap.
Our final gap drive of October took us through some brilliant peak foliage in the Champlain Valley. We headed south on Route 7. Our first stop before the Brandon Gap was The Bookstore in Brandon. What a great independent bookstore, full of so many great titles to expand your horizons. From there we went to have a delicious lunch at The River Pub and Grill. Then we were fully fueled to cross the Brandon Gap and take in the view from Goshen Mountain. We rode along to the very “Vermonty” village of Rochester, stopping at Sandy’s Books and Bakery to have a look around before getting a milkshake from the vintage soda fountain at the Rochester Cafe & Country Store. Next we headed over the Rochester Gap and Rochester Mountain. This was one of our best trips — two gaps and two bookstores! We wound down our adventure, continuing on to Montpelier via Route 12. We stopped at our favorite co-op, Hunger Mountain, to pick up a few groceries before heading home.
Foliage: Champlain Valley at its most gorgeous. Driving through Addison County was spectacular.

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But the gorgeous October weather begged for one more day trip. This one was a true micro-adventure to the land of the fictional Three Pines from author Louise Penny’s Chief Inspector Gamache series, the newest of which arrived this week! We lunched at “Oliver’s Bistro,” a.k.a. Bistro Le Relais. We took a luxuriously slow browse at “Myrna’s Bookstore,” a.k.a. Brome Lake Books. We walked around the village, enjoying the sites and purchasing cheese and baguette (of course). Unfortunately, I didn’t plan well, so we will be heading back soon to Sutton to visit the fictional “Sarah’s Boulangerie,” which is modeled after La Rumuer Affamee. And finally, we'll need to stop at “Monsieur Beliveau’s General Store” (J.B. LeBaron General Store in North Hatley,) and there may be some backtracking is this “to be continued” micro-adventure.

There is, of course, a psychology to loving these micro-adventures during the retirement years. Psychologist, Mike Travers, explains in Forbes my penchant for day trips rather than world-travel in my retirement years. It turns out, it’s all about the highly desired phenomenon, especially as we age, to slow down time. “…random micro-adventures are a far more realistic way to spice up our daily lives. These seemingly insignificant acts also act as anchors in our memory, allowing us to recollect our days better.” Travers suggests, “Embracing micro-adventures can reconnect us with a childlike perspective, where the experience, not just the clock, shapes our sense of time,” and that “the mindset of finding extraordinary moments in an ordinary life can slow down our experience of time. By basking in simple pleasures, engaging in micro-adventures and appreciating the variety in everyday experiences, we not only “make” time but also make memories that enrich our lives with depth and meaning.”  Isn’t that what most of us are hoping for, looking for in retirement? Enrichment, depth, and meaning. I am, and the micro-adventures of October 2024 haven’t disappointed. Peak foliage, peak experiences, and piqued curiosity is fueling my desire to grab my husband to set out on the micro-adventures of November.

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I would be remiss if I did not give a HUGE shout out to Erin Torres. Her account on Instagram is filled with inspiration for Vermont micro-adventures. And if you don’t live in or near Vermont, her travel ideas might motivate you take some day trips of your own wherever you live. Check out her account @travelikealocalvt.

More great ideas for micro-adventures:
61 Microadventures That Can Make Any Day Extraordinary
10 "Microadventures" You Can Take When You Need a Quick Happiness Boost
Vermont Bookstore Tour
In Search of Three Pines: A Fascinating Tour of Louise Penny’s Inspirations

Thank you, Grasshopper

"You have learned well, Grasshopper."

When I retired a little over three years ago, I finally had the time I had longed for since my 30’s to write. But where to begin? I knew I wanted to start a blog, maybe even write a memoir. Grand ambitions. About the same time, I was fortunate to stumble upon the book Dear Universe, I Get it Now. The book is centered around the intriguing question, “What would you ask the Universe?” It's a memoir, not of a life in entirety, but of a life shaped by youthful consciousness and the unique and impactful experiences of a child, teen, and twenty and thirty-something woman.            

The book just happened to be written by one of my former students, Alyssa Berthiaume. As her language arts teacher, I was not the least bit surprised that this bright-eyed, curious, witty, and sometimes pensive former 11 year old student, who sat in my classroom, raising her hand, laughing with her friends, making up dances, and advocating for a range of sixth grade causes had become an accomplished writer. As a student, she read and wrote voraciously. And she questioned, observed, and led her classmates. 

In her book, Ally reflects upon, examines, and both joyfully and painfully responds to another timeless question, “So what am I supposed to learn from this?” Well, reading along as she ponders, responds, and moves through her own life experiences, I learned a great deal about life’s parallel pathways. This precocious and inquisitive student who lived in my classroom for 6 plus hours each school day for two years had been shaping a life and making sense of her world all along, and long before she entered my classroom. Some of the chapters of the book tell the stories of that time in her life – the time when she was my student. And suddenly, as an educator, I was given this precious gift of looking into the aspects of the life, perspectives, and thoughts of one of my students–both in and out of the classroom.  As I read, I got to watch her navigate relationships with friends and loved ones, and make sense of the people and the events around her.  As I read her stories from childhood to adulthood, I cried, laughed, gasped, and cheered for the 11 year old I knew. How remarkable to read the grown-up words of a former student, the life stories that shaped this strong, funny, confident, intelligent woman who, in the first year of my retirement, I came to  know as my writing teacher in “The Writing Bar” workshops. 

And because this was a true “You are There!” (remember those?) reading experience for me, I got to learn more about myself as a 30-something teacher back in the day, and how that former self continues to sprinkle crumbs of long ago passions and regrets into my current life. Feminist author, memoirist, and teacher, Nancy Miller, summed this phenomenon up so well in her book, But Enough About Me: Why We Read Other People’s Lives (Columbia University Press, 2002 via The Lioness in Winter by Ann Burack-Weiss, p.26), “Thanks to other people’s memoirs, you can time travel to a former self, though there are no guarantees that you will like what you find.”

Me, on the left (of course), the Amazing Alyssa, second from the right. 🙂

And in reading Ally’s book, I was humbled. All those classroom projects on the trade books, quizzes on the parts of speech, or weekly vocabulary matching – those weren’t where the learning was happening. Ally was deep into the life experiences that would both develop and test her character. In high school and college, her long term projects weren’t only research, but “me” search, and her notes were populated by the stories generated not by her girlhood imagination, but by her own creative, imperfect, and brilliant life. What a gift to read those stories as her former teacher. And what a privilege to have my former student, the author of Dear Universe, actually become my writing teacher. Thank you, Grasshopper. 

“Let yourself be shaped according to your true nature.”

— Master Po...From the so not politically correct early 1970’s TV series, “Kung Fu.” (IYKYK)

I am so grateful to Ally. Sitting in her Writing Bar workshops a few years ago and diving into her lessons on memoir writing, I felt like the 30-something teacher who had wanted so desperately to be a writer had been called home. And with Ally’s encouragement over the next year, I started my blog and never looked back. The nudge and expertise of Ally, coupled with the continuing support, wisdom, and guidance of Helen’s  Women Rowing North Workshops, have given The Precious Days of my retirement purpose, meaning, and joy.  

For the month of September, I was honored to be asked to share a guest blog post on Ally’s website. The theme was “bravery,” and she asked some great questions about my own writing journey. Yes, it is brave to put yourself out there, to tell stories that are yours, stories that someone else may say you have no right to tell. The bravest thing we can do is to own our life stories, and then tell them.

Here a link to the guest blog post: LINK

Here is a link to Ally on Linkedin: LINK

Here is a link to Ally on Facebook: LINK

Here is the link to Ally’s website: LINK

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Doing Nothing

The end-of-summer vibe

Warm, late August afternoons spent at the lake with a cold drink and a good book, soaking up the last rays of summer sun while looking across the sparkling water to an out-of-focus horizon has become a metaphor for what is to come in the days ahead. A cormorant, neck bent, head held high takes flight, soaring across my field of vision. I read once that the bird can be seen as a bad omen, a sign of storms to come. And indeed, that’s the other face of late August, a drop in temperature, a moody sky bringing cold drops of rain in the late morning that turn into a deluge by the afternoon. Time to put on a sweatshirt, make a cup of tea, and pull out the same book that kept me company on a lazy summer afternoon at the beach just a few days before. 

The end of summer and the transition into fall can be somewhat of a polarizing time for me. I want to spend as much time enjoying the last days of summer as I possibly can: coffee on the deck in the morning, beach trips, picnics, long walks around the neighborhoods, dinners outside, strolls around the garden soaking up color along with the afternoon warmth, a glass of wine at the picnic table. How sweet it is to do nothing much at all on a summer day except enjoy it. It’s hard to see that end. 

As much as I love to live “in season,” those late days of August that start with a chill and the sounds of neighborhood kids going back to school pull at a muscle memory that was in the making for decades for me in my profession: let’s get going! The end of summer was my “new year” as an educator. Those crisp days signaled brand new possibilities and projects and ushered in the unparalleled season of autumn with its brilliant foliage, apple orchards, pumpkin patches, and so many delights. The lazy days of summer serve as an almost spa-like recovery from long winters and dark days. In the summer, it’s okay to “just be”…but when fall rolls around, I want to “just do.”

How sweet it is…or is it?

That is kind of my ongoing dilemma in retirement. I worked really hard to be able to have time in my life to do nothing. Now I don’t mean that in a bad way. Just writing it makes me immediately self-critical. Doing nothing? Shameful. What I am talking about is something other cultures, cultures not so hung up on a Puritan work ethic, actually have names for that sound much more elegant than “doing nothing.”

The Italians call it "il dolce far niente." It translates to “the sweetness of doing nothing.” I first heard the phrase in an old episode of The Dick Van Dyke Show called “The Two Faces of Rob.” Rob Petrie calls his wife, Laura, puts on an Italian accent, calls himself Dr. Bellini, and tries to make a date with her. He shares the phrase, "il dolce far niente" with her, and she swoons. Spoiler alert, she knows it's him. But I remembered that phrase— poetic, seductive, beautiful. How sweet it would be to do nothing, the 9 to 5er thinks. And the Dutch also have a word for this concept of “doing nothing.” They call it “niksen.”  It, too, means to do nothing, but you actually can do many things you enjoy – you are just not doing them with “purpose.” You could  lounge around listening to music or drink a cup of tea while looking out the window – and for no reason at all except to just “be.”  The Japanese have a similar take with “boketto.” Whereas the Dutch would encourage the mind to wander, to daydream when doing nothing, the Japanese might describe the mind’s state as one of vacancy during boketto.

What all of these cultural concepts have in common is some very important “side effects.” They all reduce stress (with its many related benefits) and clear the mind, opening it up to greater opportunities for creativity and problem solving. Despite the benefits, the art of doing nothing is to actually not have a purpose in mind. It’s not about being productive – it’s about being. 

No Zero Days, meet my dear friend, Niksen

Whatever you choose to call “doing nothing,” being able to relax, to live a life of leisure to some extent, is what we dream will come with our retirement years. But just like I can’t turn off my “back to school” muscle memory as summer transitions into fall, I find it almost impossible to turn off the Western need to be productive, along with its kissin’ cousin, guilt. Recently after a 60 hour stretch of rain (yes, seriously) the art of doing nothing had completely overwhelmed me. Mercifully, I stumbled across a helpful Instagram post....scrolling isn’t a total waste of time. Catching up on posts from @goodcode, I came across his post on having no more Zero Days. I am probably really late to the party, but I had never heard of No Zero Days. He explained a zero day as a day when you don’t do anything toward a dream, a goal, or the things you value. Well, that’s not exactly “doing nothing.” Is it? 

Why does it have to be either/or (of course, it doesn’t). How could I possibly hold these opposites? I felt like I had hit upon a formula for an even happier retirement – integrating “doing nothing” with “no zero days.” That marriage could be quite the power couple if I could find a balance. And finding that balance might free me from the tentacles of this idea that I have to be productive or I’m lazy, and that if I am doing nothing too often, I am wasting time.  Now that’s about me, not any of you. I know many of you have made peace with “being AND doing,” but I tend to get tripped up on things like that. The IG guy points out that doing just one thing – yes even just one is “non zero.” Maybe I don't finish a blog post, but I write a few sentences or research one link. Maybe I don’t do a full workout, but I do a few minutes of stretching or pick up the weights for a while. Maybe I prep a cantaloupe so it's ready to go for breakfast the next day.  Maybe I text a friend, write out a card, or make a lunch date. Those little things bring me closer to the things I value, keep me from having a Zero Day, and leave room for “the sweetness of doing nothing.”  

I have to keep in mind that even with this integrated approach, my kryptonite is “overwhelm.” I can be as overwhelmed by my goals as I am by too much “down time.” But I think this could work – it’s not all or nothing. That’s a danger zone for me, too. This could help me avoid that. 

I’m not always in these odd states. They tend to happen during transitional times, which I struggle with. So I am always looking for solutions. Making space for “just being” – as an art– is just as important as feeling I’m spending my time “doing” the things that will honor my “three selves.” That’s another thing ABI Boumaida talks about in his IG post. We are the sum total of three selves: past self, present self, and future self, but we can honor them individually, too. Can’t do one thing for your present self? Then do it for your past self, who was working hard at forming a new habit. Got a lot on the plate coming up? Engage in “the sweetness of doing nothing” for a while for your future self. See, I think it could actually work, putting these two concepts of “doing nothing” and non-zero days together. That seems like a doable (be-able?) strategy for me to try that could enhance how I live The Precious Days. Because life is still full of transitions, the push-pull of the seasons, and relentlessness of time itself. A girl (especially this old girl) needs a plan.

I am aware I tend to overthink things (that’s a topic for another blog post). So what do you think? Have you found a satisfying balance between doing and being in your retirement life? Comment if you have some tips to share. 

To learn more about the art of doing nothing, here are three helpful links to explore:
IL DOLCE FAR NIENTE
NIKSEN
BOKETTO

To learn more about  NO ZERO DAYS, here are some interesting links to check out:
4 Rules that will Change your Life
No More Zero Days: A Productivity Framework for Achieving Goals

One Long Sunday Night

A Little Rainy Day Memoir of a Childhood August

When I was a student and throughout my years as an education professional, we used to refer to August as “one long Sunday night.” This morning as I was drinking my coffee, I watched rain we don’t need pour down on the backyard gardens, courtesy of the remnants of Hurricane Debby. The same melancholy “one long Sunday” feeling I’d get as a child on rainy August days returned. On a dark-skied, moody day like today, the rumbles of thunder seem to foreshadow just how little of summer is left. 

When I was a school-aged, a day like this was a reminder of what lay ahead: back to school, an earlier bedtime, and the same old family conflicts that a three month summer break helped to diffuse. Especially as a child, I felt that summer was too short. It may have only been the first week of August, but the mourning period was unleashed by that first dark, cooler, rainy day of the month. I could wait all day, looking out a window for the return of a brightened blue sky full of white cotton candy clouds. I’d dream about once again hearing the lapping of the lake against the shore at my cousins’ camp. That acrid smell of burning charcoal turning into a plate with a bunless hamburger and a hotdog shiny with mustard and a plop of ketchup on the side, with just enough room for a side of chips that came out of a waxed paper sleeve. And a half an hour after we ate, I’d be ready to storm into the shallow, rocky lake water, wearing the perennially damp bathing suit and a polka dotted dime store blow-up tube that lost its air as soon as I tugged it up to position it on my chubby waist. Oh, I wanted that sunny-July-day feeling to come back. 

But if the skies continued to hang onto their relentless rain and gray drear, I would have no choice but to shift my reverie to the things I loved about the first day of school. I’d imagine freshly sharpened new pencils and a blue plastic 6-inch ruler neatly organized in a red pencil case with one of those accordion openings. Maybe there’d be one of those square, tan erasers that looked so much like a hunk of peanut butter fudge that I would have to hold myself back from trying a bite. And then I would move on to the holy grail of rainy August daydreams: a first day of school outfit for Messenger Street School. I’d envision something I’d seen in the pages of a back-to-school catalog – maybe a plaid dress. Yes, it would be a plaid dress that I could wear with a bouffant-tulle slip, just right for twirling. And I’d have new shoes, but they’d be black patent leather Mary Janes, not the clunky, ugly Buster Browns I had to wear to correct my feet. I’d have those pristine white ankle socks, maybe the ones with the lace around the tops, not the baggy cotton ones I usually wore. A headband. I’d have a headband in an accent color from the plaid, but it would be a nice cloth one, not one of the plastic ones that snapped in half when pushed through my over-processed Toni. Oh, and I’d definitely need a little cardigan with pearl-like buttons. And the headband and the cardigan would be red, like my pencil case. Rapture.

Most likely, my rainy day daydreams would shift to the end of the month of August, and my birthday. In my mind, my birthday would be a gala, of course – the most fun of summer before school. Well, there weren’t any galas, really, but there was always homemade chocolate cake with my mother’s famous, marshmallowy Seven Minute Frosting, and lots of chocolate ice cream. And on one late August very dark and rainy day right before the start of school, there was a birthday party. And at that party, there was a little girl with lacy white socks peeking out of black patent leather shoes, in a flouncy party dress, with a pristine white cardigan trimmed with grosgrain ribbon along the button holes, hair curled and held back by a pearly headband. But that wasn’t me.

I was an overweight, messy youngster who was “hard on clothes.” That little princess was a girl named Cathy from down the street who had come to my first and only surprise party. Cathy set the standard for little girls. Seeing her at my front door under her father’s umbrella on that stormy afternoon produced a jolt of excitement and a sharp pain of contrast. Soon a few other children followed behind her. My neighbor friend, Cherry, was there with a present, along with the little boy from next door. And my brother was in attendance and in a suit. Raincoats, umbrellas, and red rubbers were left in our tiny front hallway. They were wet, but it was a party after all, and there would be cake.

The last thing I remember about that birthday party was my brother in his suit jacket leaving the front porch, umbrella in hand, to walk little Cathy down the street in the pouring rain. From our front window, I knelt on a chair and watched them all the way to her house. The other thing I remember about that birthday was at some point after it, just in time for the first day of school, I got the plaid dress of my dreams, a red cardigan with grosgrain ribbon along the button holes, and a tulle slip that my grandmother made me out of one of her old ones. I didn’t get the headband, but I got some new barrettes to hold back that unruly perm. 

And there’s the dress!

I guess August and birthdays have something in common. They are both bittersweet and provoke some mixed feelings.  As an adult, I still feel that desire in August, especially on a rainy day like this one, to hang on to those “let's eat corn on the cob and wade in the lake” summer days. But like my grade school self, the rainy day and the cooler temperatures cause a giddy anticipation for the crisp, color-drenched days of fall and a new notebook or two. And as for my August birthday? Well, I am happy to let that little, pudgy me know that when she’s an old lady, she’ll pretty much be living out all her dreams in The Precious Days.  

Where does your mind wander on rainy August days? Let me know in the Comments.

Letting Go

“What do women hold? The home and the family. And the children and the food. The friendships. The work. The work of the world. And the work of being human. The memories. And the troubles. And the sorrows and the triumphs. And the love.”

— Maira Kalman, "Women holding things"

If you are on Instagram or TikTok you have probably heard Maira Kalman’s voice reading from her art and poetry book, Women Holding Things (the video is linked at the end of this post). On her website, Kalman describes the book as “a love song to women and at times everyone (as exhausted as we all are from holding everything); it was born from a little booklet made during the pandemic and then expanded upon with 86 paintings, ruminations, and digressions, of course.” [Note: On her website, this is written as a poem, of course– you should see it. The art is beautiful.]

I don’t see the TikToks as frequently as I did last winter, when Kalman’s question, “What do women hold?” made me think of what my own hands had held and not held in my lifetime, literally and metaphorically.  As I round out my seventh decade on the planet, I think of the times I held bandaids to fasten on skinned knees, ribbons to retie loose ponytails, and bananas and pudding cups to open during my decades as a teacher. These hands held boys’ ties that needed straightening at school music concerts and girls’ hands to steady them as they buckled patent leather shoes. These hands of an English teacher held chalk that wrote miles and miles of sentences on real slate chalkboards and held books, turning thousands of pages as I read aloud to hundreds of eager listeners. But I never held my own children – it just wasn’t in the cards. And I can let that go.

So in June when Helen from Ageless Possibilities wrote a beautiful post called Old Hands Hold Memories, I was reminded of the sound of Kalman’s voice, once again. Her blog is a true companion in this bittersweet aging journey so many of us share, and in this post she waxes beautifully and evocatively on what her own hands have held. “Marvels,” she calls them. But this time, I was able to think differently as I read her list. I started to make my own mental list of the things I no longer want to hold – I started to think about the things that I can finally let go of in The Precious Days I’m living now. 

And who better than the 70 year old writer, Anne Lamott, to put the holding, the letting go, and the gratitude for ALL of it in perspective. In her recent opinion piece in the Washington Post entitled “Gentle is the joy that comes with age,”  she discusses the freedoms, the gifts, and the great sense of letting go that come with this “time of life.” As she ages, Lamott has noticed that “to a great degree, in older age, ambition falls away. Such a relief. Appreciation and surprise bloom many mornings: Yay — I like it here.” 

I also have found that by letting some things go (which is by no means easy), I like it more here, too – a lot more than I thought I would. That feeling of “appreciation and surprise” is right there to fill the dreaded voids when you no longer define your purpose by your career. 

And as Kalman acknowledges on her website, the things we hold can make us weary. So I made a preliminary list of what I can let go of now, things I no longer need to “hold.” As I jotted down some notes about each one, I found myself being appreciative of the ways those things helped to make me the person I am now. That feels freeing. 

Here are just a few things I came up with that I’m letting go:

• Having to say or contribute something “important” or “meaningful.” What a gift it is to finally just observe and listen.

• Taking on other people’s problems and drama…gosh, what a relief to let go of that. No more workplace drama and far less family drama (we’re all old).  Not taking on other people's “stuff” is a great liberator. 

• Being “really good” at whatever I do. Being an overachiever was exhausting, and before I would let myself enjoy any success, I’d be off to jump the next hurdle. It’s not easy getting completely comfortable with accepting some things as “good enough,” but I’m giving it a try. 

• Waiting for my “real life” to begin. That was a game I played with myself for too many years. It was never the right time for doing the things I felt really passionate about, I had to wait until this or that came first. Well, no more. I spent a lot of decades doing that, and I have very few left. NOW is the right time. 

• Stressing over EVERYTHING – the big stuff, the small stuff–I worried about it all. When I was working and younger, stress motivated me, and I think I actually liked it. But at this age, I know how bad stress is for my brain and my overall health. I like to think I am replacing my stress with excitement and anticipation of how I get to spend my days. 

• And finally, I am letting go of being so concerned about how I look to the outside world. I used to tell my teacher friends that I wouldn’t be caught dead in a pair of Birkenstocks. This year plantar fasciitis said, “Hold my beer.” I no longer cry over a bad haircut, and I don’t freak out if I can’t find the right earrings, necklace, or bracelet. Lamott, again, says it best: “I think a lot less about what other people think of me. Sure, I want to look good, and be charming. But it doesn’t mean that much in the bigger scheme of things. When I’m home alone, or with my husband or son, best friends, reading my book, watching TV, eating my snacks, being kind of a slob, who cares? I’ve arrived.”

God willing, I will continue to be able “to hold” many things that remind me of the past, excite me about the future, and fill my precious days with “appreciation and surprise.” And though my brief list is nowhere near complete, these things that I am letting go of after holding onto them for so many years, well, they’re “marvels,” too, in their own way. They are not regrets, they may have served a purpose in their time. They aren’t  relinquishments because I “can’t cut it” as I age. Quite simply, it’s just time. I’ve done the thing, I’ve paid my dues, and like Anne Lamott, “I’ve arrived.”

What are you ready to let go? Let me know in the Comments.

To show my appreciation for all my old, new, and future subscribers, it’s time for a
BOOK GIVEAWAY!

Women’s Voices

About a week ago I received an email from our Women Rowing North Alumni Writing Group facilitator, Helen. It outlines our writing pathway for the newest session that will begin in September and run until June. On Helen’s website, Ageless Possibilities, she explains that the framework of our sessions are “based on Guided Autobiography (GAB), an evidence-based method for helping people document their life stories. Women Rowing North: Writing Our Life Stories explores weekly themes and offers activities and writing prompts to help you write your life stories.”  That’s what we do. We write stories, women’s stories that spring from joy, pain, curiosity, uncertainty, and strength.

This time around I notice there are more familiar names on the participant list that Helen shared in the email. It seems a bit odd to call these women my “friends,” since I have never met any of them in person. But friends they are to me, nonetheless. Well, maybe more than friends – there is a kind of sisterhood that forms among women who write about their lives then read their stories aloud to each other openly, vulnerably, bravely. I cannot wait to reconvene in September. Twice a month as we gather, we transform from squares on a screen to a kindred community, joining together in the Keeping Room. 

You know what it’s like when something in your inbox feels like it came to save your life? I don’t think that email could’ve come at a better time. Since our last alumni session in June, I have been so lost without the writing routines with this group of women and the sound of their voices – voices with sonorous Canadian accents, voices as delicate as wind chimes, voices that sound like conversation over coffee. In our sessions, we chat and catch up, then we read our pieces out loud. The voices of these women are voices of strong conviction. They are voices that sometimes crack with sadness and pain and sometimes the emotion is just a whisper. These are also voices of triumph and joy. These voices provoke laughter and sometimes they unleash unexpected tears. These are women’s voices that speak their prose like poetry. Their voices are at times prayers of atonement and of thanksgiving, and sometimes celebrations of awe and wonder. Our story ideas come to us in different ways, yet they still bond us together as women. They may come while we’re watering the garden, putting a grandchild to bed, reading a novel, reliving painful memories before falling asleep, perusing old journals, listening to a podcast, painting a watercolor, having conversations over coffee or wine, or during an evening stroll when a breeze hits just the right way. 

These women I have come to know over time through their writing voices have found each other through Helen and via diverse pathways and even international routes. Some are still working, some are retired, some are world travelers, and some occupy the space of their backyard gardens or wander the forest. Some are artists, some are grandmothers, and all of them are my teachers in that I have learned so much from their stories.

When I first met some of these women a few years ago, I worried I wouldn’t fit in. Some of them were friends who had written together in some of Helen’s previous groups.  Perhaps some of them wrote together and then became friends; that was my hope. And that is what happened for me. Yes, I will call these women my friends. 

“When you write, you lay out a line of words.”

— Annie Dillard, The Writing Life

In her book, The Writing Life, Annie Dillard wrote, “When you write, you lay out a line of words.” When we are fortunate enough to write in a community of women’s voices, we lay down a lifeline. We write about ourselves in stories that begin with us as the mature female lead characters, examining varied experiences in our lives, reflecting, exploring the significance of certain events, and analyzing fleeting back pages. Sometimes we are stopped cold and confronted by buried emotions and blinding insights. The feelings are often bigger than we thought they’d be. Helen reminds us that “guided autobiography is not therapy, but it can feel therapeutic.”  It certainly has been for me, and I suspect for all the women in the group. 

The voices of the women who read aloud their deeply personal stories bring laughter, tears, questions, kudos, and often a silence that is understood by us all. Together, we welcome joy, endure pain, and look forward to a time in the future when we will once again hear each other’s voice. And ultimately, we will more deeply understand and appreciate the universality of women’s voices as they give testament to the immeasurable value of women’s life stories. 

June Mixtape

Recently I was watching Season 8 of Shetland on Britbox, when a scene revealed that a long-ago mixtape had become a symbol of endless love and unbreakable bonds. In the series subplot, DI Ruth Calder is reluctantly reunited with her teenage boyfriend, Cal Innes. Cal’s older brother, James Innes, gives Ruth a mixtape she had made for Cal on his birthday when they were teenagers. Now in their forties and reconnected by tragedy, James reveals that Cal played that mixtape every night.

A mixtape. I don’t think I’d thought about mixtapes since their heyday. Yes, long before Spotify playlists, MP3’s, and yadda, yadda, yadda, there were cassettes that contained a curation of youth-fueled emotion in the form of customized cassettes. The process of making a mixtape was labor intensive — selection, timing (start-stop fingers poised), and the voodoo of continuity—it could take hours to get them just right. In the 80’s I was by no means a teenager any longer, but I received my share of mixtapes from admirers, complete with liner notes (if someone really cared). We communicated a lot of feelings with our friends and current or potential romantic partners through the songs we chose to include. A glimpse into the heart and an ultra-personal worldview was revealed through song titles, lyrics, and the artists we let “sing our lives with their words.”

The old school mixtapes were all about the universal need for connection, much like writing a blog. I’d like to think of this week’s blog as an imaginary mixtape. It’s a conceptual collection of made-up songs and artists to tell the story of how I am spending my early summer days (some of my readers might remember from last year at this time how much I love the month of June). The timing of my day is by no means as critical as the timing of the mixtape. I don’t have to worry about cutting off my coffee too soon or missing the start of a flower’s bloom. My retirement-fueled dedication to slow living has taken care of that. My June imaginary mixtape is like the real mixtapes of old: it reveals my current attention and it communicates a desire for connection with you, readers. It’s my hope that you’ll have time to give a “listen” to my imaginary mixtape, my “songs” about loving the ordinary days to the start of summer. A warm, early summer morning or afternoon is just about perfect for the tracks on this June Mixtape.

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So here is my imaginary mixtape of June joy tracks, complete with liner notes. You won’t find any of these songs on Spotify — my "song tracks" are completely made up to serve as metaphors for how I am feeling and what I am paying attention to in June.

Track One: “Coffee on the Deck” by Blue Skies.
I chose this track to represent my start to the day. I start everyday with coffee, but there is nothing like sipping my coffee on the deck, under the blue skies of the early morning. It’s a quiet and contemplative time, with the most inspiring soundtrack of birdsong in the background from our crab apple trees. Wrens, robins, and cardinals sing away as together we welcome another day. I try to use my coffee time to stay in the moment and practice gratitude. That sounds cliche, but it’s something I do “on purpose” (thank you, Leanne).

Track Two: “Let it All Out” by The Morning Pages.
Playing this on repeat, as usual. It’s a brief track — three pages, no more, no less. I really don’t know how I would function without my Morning Pages. Writing them outside in the morning sun is a little slice of heaven. But what’s most important is getting my thoughts out at the beginning of the day to clear my head, so I will be ready to enjoy, or at least take on, whatever might be ahead.

Track Three: “Bloom for Me” by Perfect Garden.
It seems like each time I listen, I hear something new in the colorful lyrics of our garden flowers. Right now in this week of June is the fresh, perfumy scent-sations of the Mock Orange. Last week, it was the deep purples of the Siberian Iris, followed by what seems like 50 shades of pink peonies. And the flowers seem to bloom all for me (and June of course).

Track Four: “Eric” by The Dumetellas.
Nothing but affectionate annoyance for this track. There are so many of the catbird’s songs that I enjoy. Usually eminating from the tall, flowering bushes, lilac and spirea, next to our deck, the catbird has one song that had become a joke between my husband and I — the incessant calling of some phantom bird friend named “Eric” (or “airwick” as the catbird likes to say it). It’s the June novelty song on this mixtape, and it always makes us laugh when we hear it (which is too frequently).

Track Five: “Page after Page” by The Genres.
My June summer days are full of this track, chronicling the 10 to 20 pages of outdoor reading snatched here and there throughout the day and throughout the backyard. I read non-fiction books about writing in my little reading hut, highlighter and post-its in hand. Fiction might be read on the garden bench or while lounging in the steamer chairs with a glass of wine — as the music plays, the backyard dissolves as I am transported into whatever setting a current author has created for her characters (most frequently, it’s somewhere in England).

Track Six: “Check this Out” by Circulation Explorer.
Blasting this tune every Wednesday at my local library where I have been volunteering at the circulation desk. This is the library of my childhood, of my teenage years, and then off and on during my adult life. Now it’s the library of The Precious Days, and I am so happy to have these three hours in my life once a week.

Track Seven: “Flex It Boogie” by The Bone Babes.
This is a fun and upbeat track. Twice a week I get together with a large group of women, age 50 to 90, who come together in a Lilith Fair of osteoporosis prevention (I am hoping for reversal).

Track Eight: “Walk it off” by Complex Circuit.
This track gets my blood pumping for sure. As spring turns to early June summer, walking the circuit at the local sports complex is my walk of choice. Two loops, three miles, and I am ready to head home with a strong heart rate and a head full of ideas.

Track Nine: “Hit it Over the Wall” by The Boys of Summer.
Summer days wouldn’t be complete without a baseball track, right? I still love the crackle of an a.m. radio, sitting outside in a lawn chair with a cold drink on a June afternoon or next to the glow of citronella candles and a pre-solstice sky in the early evening on the deck. Although I am missing John Sterling’s end-of-game signature closing (“Thaaaaaaaaaahhhh Yankees, win!!!), my 2024 Yankees have been stepping up to the plate to do their thing (as Judge would say).

Track Ten: “The Poets of Prose” by Pathography.
This moody track may lead to its very own mixtape, or at least a blog post. I have been reading everything I can get my hands on by and about Donald Hall and Jane Kenyon. Recently a story I read by Joyce Carol Oates (Lovely, Dark, Deep) set in Middlebury College’s Bread Loaf right here in my home state, put my obsession into a bit of perspective. Oates has coined the term “pathography,” which made me wonder why I was becoming so compelled to know more and more about these now deceased husband and wife poets. The links are worth the read (read Oates’ linked short story first, then the linked article in Commonweal Magazine if you are looking for something to do on a June afternoon).

What are the imaginary songs of your June summer days? Give it a try in the Comments. Together we could make quite a mixtape of The Precious Days of summer!

The Thing Without Feathers

“Politics has clogged the air of my life.”

— Donald Hall, from A Carnival of Losses

About a month ago, our Women Rowing North writing group was given the topic “the seeds of hope” for our essay writing assignment. We would have two weeks to prepare. During the first week, I could think of nothing. I drafted an introduction, but I could not see how it was going to move me through 1200 coherent words. As I often do, I went to the poets for inspiration. I read one of my favorites, Emily Dickinson's “‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers.” I read Amanda Gorman’s “The Hill We Climb.”  But instead of being buoyed to sally forth, I found myself agreeing in the dark places and disagreeing with the light. 

I drafted a few more paragraphs, yet nothing propelled me in the direction of a hopeful and optimistic piece. By the second week, it was clear I still had nothing. Was I hopeless? My everyday life is full of things I love, and each week there are things I look forward to. But hope frames the future. No, at this time, I honestly don’t believe I know where there are any seeds for me to plant. 

During the second week, I stumbled upon a chance viewing of the 1974 Gene Wilder movie, “Rhinoceros” while scrolling through the channel guide. The movie is  based on Eugène Ionesco’s 1959 play about the pre-WWII rise of fascism. As I watched, all I could think was, “This is our life now.” And the final nail in the essay’s coffin was rereading the first chapter of The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood. 

Mercifully, I had a conflict with the writing class on the day we were supposed to read our essays. Although I was sorry to miss some genuinely hope-filled essays from this group of wise women, I knew I couldn’t just abandon all of the emotions associated with the process I had taken myself through in the previous weeks. So, I salvaged some phrases from an unformed and unfinished essay, sunk deeply into literary allusion and my own feelings, and drafted the poem that follows.

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Because I Could Not Write About the Seeds of Hope

I remember the moment  
when hope became 
the thing without feathers.
The thing “that perches in the soul”
was lulled into silence– 
a miner’s mute canary. 

November’s morning-after trauma.
The gravity of the office 
will triumph, they said.
I know more 
than the generals, he said. 
Day after day,
walking among rhinoceroses.
Not horns, torches.
The thing’s feathers singed.

Will there be enough warning 
to run to the border? Or will I 
sleep on a cot in a gymnasium 
next to Offred on 
feathers plucked?

A different November.
I drank champagne just after midnight,
Slivers of light the next morning.
But evil refused sleep.
Broken windows, shattered glass, 
Feathers torn.  

Still, the thing.

Battle fatigue, don’t plan 
anything beyond the slowness of a morning.
And then
what was ours was taken away;
And then
October horrors, months of unspeakable suffering.
And then, and then, and then.

I look away
from the thing without feathers. 
Do I hear them,
the little chirps, featherless and faint? 
In summer, leafy branches filter sunlight, it watches.
In fall, winds blow across the ground, it scatters.
In winter, snow and cold come, it rests.
In spring, violets push through the snow, it waits.

I hear them,
the little chirps, the soft trill. 

Still, the thing. 

We will keep our vigil, the molting thing and I.
I will say I have a seed to share, and the thing without feathers
will accept the lie.
Poor thing. 

No thing can soar to a summit on featherless wings.
Hope is a formidable hill. 
The fragile thing, flecked in callow down
can be carried.
So we will climb together. 

Reclaiming Sunday Morning Joy

There are many wonderful things about The Precious Days of retirement. There is finally time to luxuriate in both discovery and rediscovery of what brings me joy. Since I’ve lived more of my life than I have left to live, not in quality perhaps, but without question in quantity, I am becoming reacquainted with practices that were pushed aside by “not enough time” or trying to please others. But now is the time of life during which I can reclaim my time in ways that bring me lots of joy. 

One of those ways has been to reintroduce some Sunday morning routines back into my life. When you are retired, the days of the week can blur together when they are no longer distinguished by the classic work week and weekend. So it’s been very important to me that my routines on Saturdays and Sundays take on a unique character. For much of my single-gal-thirties, I spent every Sunday morning, usually after church, with the Sunday New York Times spread out over the table or sometimes on the living room floor. I’d pore through each section, scanning each story and big city ad, stopping periodically for a bite of flaky croissant, or to warm my coffee a few ounces at a time from a French Press, or to sip some freshly squeezed orange juice. I loved that feeling of luxuriating in a slow morning breakfast, sun beams throwing light on the scattered pages of the Arts and Leisure section, and greedily saving the Times Book Review for later in the morning when I would lounge on the couch with another cup of coffee. Sometimes I’d clip interesting opinion pieces, saving them to read later in the work week. I loved looking at what was playing at certain theaters, remembering past trips to the city and hoping more trips would be planned for the future. For those few hours on a Sunday morning, I wasn’t a lone woman in my apartment in rural Vermont, I was part of a huge international community perusing the columns of the Sunday New York Times.

I don’t know what made me suddenly long for that Sunday morning ritual that I abandoned during my first marriage. I assume it’s the amount of reminiscing I do in this blog that triggered the thought of warm croissants and smudges of newsprint on my hands. I had been working on getting up earlier in the morning to have a more energetic grasp on my days, so I decided a few Sundays ago that I would check out my local grocery store to see what they had for papers on a Sunday morning. Strolling in at around 8:00 a.m., there they were, a huge stack of the Sunday New York Times where they’d always been, stacked alongside the local papers and the Boston Globe. I grabbed the paper, two extra large cinnamon buns from the bakery aisle, checked out, and headed back home to make a pot of coffee.

I set out the breakfast treats for my husband and I, and with my cup of coffee I settled in to read the paper, section by section. Commenting on the headlines to him, I still felt that something was missing. It occurred to me that the decade of Sundays I had lounged with the paper came with a soundtrack. It was the familiar opening of CBS Sunday Morning, trumpeting out Gottfried Reiche’s, “Abblasen.” I always had that morning news show on in the background when I read the Sunday paper. Charles Kuralt and then Charles Osgood kept me company as I half read and half listened to stories that often crossed over from the fourth estate to the fifth, and back again. So I turned on our local CBS television station just in time to hear, once again, that iconic trumpet solo and to see the giant sun medallion that’s been around the news show stage for 40 years, now the backdrop for Jane Pauley.

CBS Official Site

I’ve kept up the re-tradition for each Sunday since my first excursion to find my Sunday paper joy. Sometimes I buy my husband bagels at Feldman’s. Sometimes I get us muffins instead of cinnamon buns, sometimes glazed donuts, or the occasional croissant. Doesn’t matter…that treat, along with the Sunday New York Times and CBS Sunday Morning, are once again making the end-of-the-weekend morning something extra special.

On Wednesday of this week, I was checking out a book for a patron at the local library where I have begun volunteering. The sixty-something gentleman commented on the author’s recent passing. “Oh, yes, I read that in the Sunday Times,” I said. He commented that he had read the same article, and we chatted a bit more about the author and his books. There we were, a community of two, joined together in book love because of the Sunday New York Times.

It turns out, we’re not so alone. “‘Many boomers prefer to read the news the old-fashioned way, holding a paper in their hands,’ said Kraig Kleeman, CDO of The New Workforce. ‘There’s just something about the tangible feeling of paper and the ritual of reading it that they love,’” wrote Maddie Duley in 7 Things Boomers Still Spend Money on That Millennials and Gen Z Don’t.  

There is, indeed, just something about it that I and many others of my generation love. There is comfort and joy in reading, thinking, musing, wondering, and knowing, all wrapped up in the sections of that once-a-week giant newspaper. And, of course, there is the nostalgia of it all, making it feel, even for just a morning, that I have been successful at slowing down time.

What are your Sunday morning rituals? I’d love to have you share them in the Comments.