Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Learning to do nothing: Part Three.
Two months into retirement.
My youngest child's 23th birthday coming up soon. I miss him; I miss all of them and their families. They seem in a hurry everytime we call.
We rush through conversations; we talk about the same stuff.
I'm writing this journal as I sit facing the water, looking up often, catching various movements, the water current, the flight of ducks and birds. What a far cry from any vacation when we glimpsed at the world and never saw much.
I'm noticing the different birds, the curl of their tail, the coloring of the bill, the expanse of the wing. I'm trying to understand why I ignored all of this for so many years. There is a tiny squirrel that visits on the deck, constantly scurrying off at the slightest noise, looking all stressed, all the time.
There is a constant sense of longing, and regret, like a smell of clothes after a work-out that you need to shed soon. It's a longing for the days when you felt on top of the world, when your presence and your ideas were valued and appreciated. Nobody asks you what you do anymore. Nobody wants to know. Yet, everything about you is connected to the work you did. I miss my work, the routine, the excitement.
I watch too much television. I believe I am making up for the times when I was too tired to watch television or read a book. Television is a perfect distractor.
The chores around the house seem to be all mine. I have noticed that there are two of us eating and two of us messing the place. Yet, I'm the one cleaning and cooking. Hubby is too contented to notice that I'm annoyed.
I must confront him.
The rain has returned. Between storms, there are hours of calm and sunshine when I go on a walk, meet and talk to people. I have a pattern for each day: Monday to Paradise Point, Tuesday to Agate Beach, Wedsnday to the Port, Thursday Battle Rock, Friday The Headlands. On Saturday and Sunday we drive to places like Cape Blanco or down to the Rogue River.