“One can’t believe impossible things.”
'I daresay you haven’t had much practice,' said the Queen.
'When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour a day.
Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as
six impossible things before breakfast.'”
--Typically wacky yet wise words from one of my favorite books, Lewis Carroll's Through the Looking Glass. When I confront another deliciously unscheduled day in my retired life, I know now that I need to at least try a few different things per day. ("Impossible" would take much more effort!)
So I cook a new meal, write a new blog, hang an old picture in a new spot, unpack a delivered package from months ago, strike a new pose, sip a new mug of coffee=SIX (IM)POSSIBLE THINGS!
It's strangely energizing,
and usually initiates more "new" tasks,
or old tasks with a new twist.
I am in hibernation mode these past few wintry months by design. Cold winds and icy sidewalks hold no charm for me, as I still negotiate by cane through my world. I have long enjoyed the enchantment of snuggling down under a soft throw or blanket, reading a book, checking my email, viewing a wonderful movie via DVD, or binge-watching a streamed-in television series.
Even during my former lifestyles--busy Mom, busy librarian, busy person in general--having this relaxed nesting-in lifestyle would have been appealing, and not at all appalling. Yet even when I ventured out much more (commuting and working, travelling into downtown Chicago for plays or the Art Institute, organizing semi-mega events involving family and friends) doing nothing certainly had its charms.
When my children were small, having an hour to myself was curiously exciting; I felt a real frisson of joy inside. I suddenly had choices driven by my own desires and inclinations. I had forgotten how delicious that could be!
When you retire, the structure of a work schedule disappears. You seem to walk around without a net, stepping cautiously into every free minute with a strange wonder. You are no longer being paid for your time and labor; your existence isn't based upon tasks and outward recognition. And some of that recognition was quite nice--nicer than you realized until it was gone.
Child rearing had its dividends in hugs and smiles, and its downside in monotony and poop and tantrums. There was the inevitable need to clean up a regularly dusty and sticky house; that tiresomely empty dinner table waiting impatiently for some sort of meal every night; those wayward childhood acts to discipline or at least tamp down.
It was never the child rearing or housekeeping or meal preparation in itself that was debilitating to my spirit: it was the inevitable repetition, the nagging monotony.
Do I miss any of it now that I have freeform time facing me every morning, with only myself and my needs to consider? Do I quake at the idea of trying "six impossible things before breakfast" that are new or different? Do I miss the patter of little and then larger feet? The upturned faces and hungry mouths round the dinner table? The bushels of sweet laundry and the house to be cleaned and the weekend to be filled with all them-stuff?????
Are you kidding me?
