October Becomes November…
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October has ended, and November has begun. The clocks are turned back, but there is little chance of turning back to summer now. The gift of those 70 degree days at the end of October didn’t materialize this year. The month of fiery colors ended on a drab and soggy note.
How does it all happen so fast? How could a year that’s been wincingly painful in so many ways have simply marched on like nothing extraordinary was happening? What does it say about our relationship with time, about the value of our own time when we wish for better days? I’ll be the first to admit, it’s been hard to live in the moment when my head is crowded with worrying about the future. But then a lone, flaming orange leaf will swirl past the window as I look up from the book I’m reading, or the faint sound of geese honking in formation will seep into the kitchen while I’m standing at the sink washing dishes, or when gazing out the back door I can barely take in the electric crimson of the sprawling winged euonymus….
That’s when I’m reminded again of just how precious these fleeting and sometimes painful days are. The days of my life aren’t measured in sweeping accomplishments, personal breakthroughs, or monumental decisions — especially at this point in time. They are measured by glimpses of nature’s beauty, a laugh with a friend, holding hands with my husband, and games of chase with the cat. If that sounds sad, then you have yet to experience the riches of ordinary days. They’ll be there when you’re ready, no matter how broken other parts of life may be.
I get asked a lot if I am happy being retired. That question is usually followed up by “So what have you been doing?” I’m not particularly fond of either of those questions. At this stage of my life I find myself happy just to be here. To be reasonably healthy. Am I healthy? I worry about that. I have been trying to focus on my health more (a focus of my Personal Curriculum), getting some important numbers down, getting off at least one medication (and hoping it won’t be replaced by another). So happy? Definitely not unhappy.
What do I do? Well, I have decided that living each day is my purpose, that’s what I do. That involves listening to music, lots of reading, volunteering, walking, meeting up with friends, and writing — along with the daily tasks most of us share (they don’t go away when you retire and you have plenty of time to do them). Writing is always present each day, whether it’s my Morning Pages, responding to the prompts in The Book of Alchemy, or working on one of the essays on aging for my women’s writing group. But I haven’t yet gotten to the point where writing plays a prominent role in defining my purpose. Why is that? I have wanted to be a writer for as long as I can remember. I thought that blogging might give me that clearer sense of purpose, but that has proved to be a struggle at times.
Writing is something that I do that most often makes me happy — but blogging makes me anxious. Do I have anything to say that is worth reading? I think of my readers when I am creating content for the blog. Is this worth their time to read? Will this resonate? I am so grateful for subscribers who take the time to read and comment when something clicks for them. Yes, I admit, that makes me happy.
Well if you’ve made it this far in this rambling journal-like entry, know that it’s helped me sort some things out for myself. In Joan Didion’s essay, “Why I write,” she says, “I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means.” It’s an essay I return to often, and that quote resonates, especially with this post.
So here we are. I’m a bit clearer-headed now, ready to welcome and embrace November and re-read the Didion essay for good measure. And I think I’m ready to work on strengthening my relationship with writing once again. As October has turned into November, it’s time to reflect and plan on where I want this writing thing to go. Thanks for coming along with me.
