When Bad Things happen to Good Dreams or “Now what?” 3

Tales of Retirement

Rose Morley
Elementary School Teacher
Retired June 2013

Whenever I start something new, I have to make a book of it.  And I do mean ‘of’ rather than ‘about.’  Some carefully chosen blank journal or notebook in which to record observations, instructions, inspirations, and epiphanies about whatever I have decided to undertake.  An Accounting, which for some people would be enough to put them off the activity but somehow for me, strangely necessary and satisfying.

Many years ago I became enamoured of the sound of a harp.  When it became clear to me that I would be saving my pennies to purchase one, I began to keep a notebook that contained everything from financial projections as to how long it would take me to save the money to photos of hands on the strings – images being essential to keeping the dream alive.  Accordingly, when other obsessions developed, there were other books –  the Viola book, the Early Morning Writing notebook for the wee hours as recommended by the writing guru Julia Cameron, the Lettercase Art Project (unfinished) book, the Great Canadian Novel book, and the Daily Exercise book (that one written in fits and starts).

My silent blue notebook

Which brings me to a tidy little navy notebook resembling a small dictionary.  It contains scribbled pages of Spanish words and their English equivalents, conjugations, grammar rules, common phrases.  Haphazardly arranged because they followed the order of the online DuoLingo lessons, precious time was spent riffling through the pages in search of the Spanish word for pig.  Porcino (damn, forgot to add whether it was el or la).

It has fallen silent, this little blue book, because I no longer have the need or desire (for now) to learn Spanish.  Because of the death of a dream.

I’d written previously about following my brother-in-law’s lead to go to Arequipa, Peru to teach English.  It took me two years to finally take the plunge and finish a 100-hour Teaching English as a Second Language course.  My brother-in-law was our ‘in.’  Contracts were sent via email to both me and my husband.  The administrator who ran the course welcomed us warmly.  My brother-in-law began searching for a two-bedroom apartment the three of us could share.  Our sweet next-door neighbour agreed to do cat duty for the three months that we would be away.  My husband and I had begun studying Spanish in the summer and were fairly eating up the lessons by fall.  Both of us became quite adept at tossing off statements such as “el mono no bebe leche” (the monkey does not drink milk).

But “something” came up.  Due to non-life-threatening but pesky health concerns, we decided we couldn’t/shouldn’t go.  A decision not made lightly but heavy with regret and, for me, a feeling of being gutted.

Careening into the work of my life

Upon retiring, I felt disoriented for a very long time as I became accustomed to realizing that time really does belong to me, for possibly the first time in my life.  When I was teaching, I could only look ahead to the rest of the week – did I have my lessons planned?  What was I going to do about that student who needed to be handled gingerly?  And what about those overdue long-range plans to hand in to administration?  In the last few years of my work life, I actively nurtured visions of my eventual freedom in the form of lists and stashes. The freedom finally did come and, quite unexpectedly, I found myself stumbling around, trying this and that, some things sticking, some not.

But for the first time in a long time, I had an adventure to embrace, dream of, and prepare for: Peru.  The last time I was so excited about an upcoming change in my life was our move to a new city after over thirty years living in my husband’s hometown.  That was almost three years ago.

I was long overdue.   As the poet Mary Oliver said, “I wanted to hurry into the work of my life.”

And then the work vanished.

The art of recovery

What happens when plans are derailed?  And why does this derailment feel so different in retirement?

I suddenly have to come up with a new vision, while mourning the lost possibility.  I am ever so aware that time is of the essence.  I suspect that is the most urgent reason for the keen disappointment.  If not now, when? (I don’t have 10,000 hours – a now well-worn litany I have adopted). Instead of time slowing down to allow me to “smell the roses” in retirement, time is actually careening.  There’s an undeniable hurry-upness about much of what I wish to accomplish.

What quality must I possess to be able to ride the flotsam and jetsam of life as well as its deep troughs and rocky waves?  I am beginning to believe that derailments are about reassessing my goals, testing my ability to be flexible, to pick up and go from here.  I don’t know why it has taken me so long to come to this conclusion; maybe I have finally exhausted the other alternatives.

It doesn’t always mean I have to have a Plan B, but rather knowing that I am able to come up with one.  Initially, I thought I had three months of my life beautifully set in Peru – an adventure of temporary resettlement, learning that much more about the burgeoning world, meeting new people and coming to know a new culture.   So along comes the cloud and according to well-known lore, it also comes with the thing called the Silver Lining, something no one ever thinks about initially – sort of like insurance or boot liners.

Embracing resurrection

Ever since I retired, I had visions of attaining the state of ‘flow’ – true absorption in creative pursuits.   I had hopes that I would have no idea what time of day it was and that I could live by the enthusiasm of my adventure, something that gave more meaning than my work life offered.  Maybe it is a harkening back to childhood when I could play for hours in the world where, as Stuart Little suggested, anyone could be the chairman.  Children invent as they play, making sense of the world as they follow the turns of their thoughts.  I want that, please.

As a retiree, I welcome that sense of flow.  I want to go forward, not settle back.  Retiring is not receding; I may no longer be in the thick of things in my field but I want to be in the thick of other things.  The very word retirement is a misnomer.   This time of life should be called resurrection.  Even when I actively pursue my dreams, I want to be surprised and exhilarated by the turns and newness.  So I ask myself: Who do I have to be or what do I have to do in order to embrace and be embraced by something new?  How do I reinvent who I am, to myself and to others? And might I also have to give up my preconceived notions of success and accomplishment?

How does my garden grow?

I find myself thinking less of goals and more of experiences (which can be very challenging for a former teacher).  Dare I mention the J-word?  Or the P-word?  Whether I call it a journey or a process, it seems to be a matter of peeling the onion, one layer of self-knowledge at a time.

My husband has an altered version of a nursery rhyme about the quite contrary Mary who is asked how her garden grows.  “With silver bells and cockle shells/and one big fucking onion.”  This aptly describes how life works.

So, now what?

Hello, Big Fucking Onion.  As we all know, onions bring tears, but they also bring all kinds of flavour.  In getting past the tears and looking for the flavours, I have a new adventure.  It’s called cello lessons.  And yes, there’s a book of it.