Tales of an Overachieving Retiree
(Article 4)
A series of articles about the challenges of bringing overachievement into retirement and finding pleasure in the process
By Peter
Primary English Teacher / Curriculum Advisor
Retired 2009
In my last article, I mentioned that my wife, Danielle, and I arranged to go on a vacation to Cuba, drawn by its isolated island beaches. My time on those beaches turned out to be more – and less – than anticipated. I was there to stop and to learn. And I did both. I deepened my understanding about two kinds of stopping.
What I learned about stopovers and stillpoints
By choosing an all-inclusive resort, on an island off an island, with little to do but wander from breakfast, to a café con leche, to the beach, we were in what David Kundtz[1] calls a ‘stopover.’ We sat and read, snorkelled with fish, and traipsed through the lapping waves along the extensive beaches until sundown beckoned us to our room to get ready for supper. A stopover.
In his book on stopping, Kundtz, distinguishes between stillpoints, stopovers, and grinding halts. Stillpoints are rapid stops to do nothing for a brief moment – frequent but momentary halts throughout the day. They take advantage of unfilled moments, such as waiting for the coffee machine or the traffic lights. They also help during stressful moments, such as when I’m rushing to be on time, or during a flare-up of anger. They are deliberately chosen pauses, to let go, breathe in and be aware of what I feel and where I am. I re-centre my awareness on the present moment and make the going more vivid, richer and more refined. I have been getting used to using stillpoints to ground myself in the beauty of the day, to lead me away from niggling about the past and fretting about the future, and to embrace the process. For example, while writing this article, I bundled up and invited the computer to join me outside in the sun and still-cool spring air. I don’t know about the computer, but it was doubly refreshing for me.
Getting to the beach
On my vacation beach, I chose to read about stopping, noticing that I opted to take many stillpoints while I read. At times, it was just to enjoy the wind, watch the kiteboarders skim the surface, wrinkle the sand with my toes, and soak in the sun. At other times, it was important for me to pause and just soak in what I read. I didn’t overachieve reading Kundtz. In fact I immersed myself in the book and only finished it the week I got back.
Getting to the beach was a vacation. Yet, in terms of a stopover, I was on a vacation for the soul. According to Kundtz, that is what a stopover is – a short getaway for an hour, a day, a weekend, a few days,that ends up ensuring that my life, for the next little stint, is going my way. It’s like getting off the train of my life for a leisurely look around, breathing in the scenery and getting back aboard, refreshed and aware that I’m on track, heading in the right direction.
Nonetheless, the first important thing I learned was about stillpoints, and how to let them enlighten me. I learned about using the pause to listen to my needs and to answer them, not putting them off or trying to ignore them. On the beach I realized that I’m not a truly beach person. Eight or nine days in, I noticed that I was unsatisfied. I had adopted a routine that didn’t completely suit me. I needed to get off the beach chair and explore. Not to perform, but to get in touch with the nature that was around me. I wasn’t satisfied with just lazing in the sun, the carousel of conversations with changing beach companions, or the organized tour – even though they were all interesting and informative. I stopped to see what was going on. Why was I complaining, inside, even at times allowing a comment to slide out the side of my face? I saw that I needed to get off the beach, to create, and immerse. I needed to act, change the stopped-down routine, to momentarily stop in another way.
Stopping by my beach
I could have done it with Danielle, but she had a brief afternoon encounter with an unstable stomach. With her encouragement, I packed my camera and my drawing kit and headed – guess where? – back to the beach. My beach, past the beach chairs and the palapas, up the dune and into the scrub, climbing trees to get a better view and wandering the dried up floor of the lagoon, taking pictures. I shot whatever I saw that was new to me, that was beautiful, that intrigued me, whether it was multi-coloured leaves, a little lizard, bird tracks in the sand, mangrove roots that looked like a horse, a dead crab, pearly bits of shell, or, my favourite, a washed up piece of coral fan that, once I plunked it upright in the sand, made like a wizened wooden raft with a tattered sail stretched to the sun. I was having fun. I even conjured up and filmed a video documentary on the day in the life of a small trickle of water that the shallow waves were feeding back towards the lagoon.
Then, when no one was looking, because there was no one, it was my turn to plunk myself down onto the sand. I pulled out my pencil and pad and sketched the curve of the beach and the trees leading into the lagoon. I continued to enjoy myself until the slow incoming tide suggested that there would soon be no beach. I wandered back to supper still popping my shutter. I came away with a sketch that makes me cringe, videos with more wind in the microphone and quiver in the zooms than I care to admit, and a very stunning photo of the coral fan, all of which I was eager to share with Danielle. I felt fulfilled because I had found a way to respond to the voice inside that I hadn’t been listening to. And that was all I needed. The next day I was back on the beach chair, talking to whomever and wandering down with Danielle to check out trinkets and T-shirts at the Plaza los Turistas.
So my stopover during a stopover, like an island off an island, allowed me to enjoy something new and return refreshed to something familiar. I had let one of my stillpoints enlighten me. When the routine, the duties, and obligations are so upfront that they cloud the moment, I now know that inner path. I learned that I need to look after myself, to be creative, at least a little bit, in order not to be frustrated, and to be able also to accept the other duties. Taking my camera and sketchpad for a walk, even if it was only for three hours, completely changed my outlook. I was satisfied, lightened, and quite capable of returning to what I had been doing.
Getting home from the beach
The reality of getting back from the beach can also be frosty. At least it was for us. The day we returned from two weeks of 32oC in the sun was the last day old man winter came up with the brilliant idea of 15 cm of snow, – 5oC and ice covered roads half the way home, along with having to get the car battery boosted in the airport parking lot. This rude awakening to reality is similar to the return to my reality of semi-retirement. I have to prevent myself from becoming entrenched in a routine of deadlines, calendars, appointments, and to-do list.
To get to the point, my stillpoints will be essential to giving me feedback if I’m not enjoying what’s happening. A couple of weeks ago, I promised myself that I would take a walk in the woods that afternoon with my video equipment. The promise wasn’t quite realistic because there was a lot on the go, so I calmly gave myself the benefit of the doubt and postponed. However, six days later, I still was not in the woods. And the inner voice was into more serious tongue clucking. So I stopped … breathed in the woods, touched on what was missing and went for it. Just as on the beach, I had to let the inherent need surface and reprioritize. I had the late afternoon free, except for the to-do’s that were still not done.
It took longer than I anticipated to gather my gear, batteries and a shock mount for one of the mics, install the shoulder brace on the camera and the wireless mic on me and balance the inputs before heading off. Running shoes in an early spring woods, with my eye glued to the viewfinder, aren’t the best apparel to avoid soakers. My sound equipment helped me to understand why I scared off four or five deer. I never heard so much noise as those leaves crackling and twigs breaking as I tried to move in on them, but then again I hadn’t yet walked the woods with all my gear. I learned that it’s very hard to stabilize a shoulder-held camera while walking over mounds and waterholes you don’t see. I also learned that walking the video camera is not as soothing to the soul as I thought. I wasn’t immersed in nature as much as I had anticipated. However, I was gaining knowledge about microphones bouncing in their shock mounts and about panning and zooming very, very slowly even if the subject is slithering out of view. It wasn’t really relaxing or communing with nature, but I was acquiring a skill and engaging with my tools. My video clips rate the same critical acclaim as my beach-side sketch. Nevertheless, I felt enriched afterwards because I had taken the time to play and experiment and enjoy the moment. I am grateful that taking my stillpoint helped me to stop the flow of discontent long enough to touch on my so far unheeded need to do what I wanted to do creatively.
I’m making another promise to myself … to continue to protect my inner and inherent needs through my stillpoints.
[1] Kundtz, D. (1998) Stopping: How to Be Still When You Have to Keep Going.Boston: Conari Press.