10 January 2011


I stop after brushing my teeth and sit in the rocking chair and listen, my crazy sweet old dog breathes at my feet, I gaze around the room and enjoy the mementos of my life, I look out the window at the clouds. Then (and only then) do I get up to walk downstairs. It's these little pauses that I never had before — when it was only work-cook-clean-organize-drive-park-shop-come-home-and-do-it-again — that I savor.

This was written early November 2010. See "more" for why it's late in getting posted.

I realize that it has been over six months since I have added an item to this blog. It's not that I wasn't thinking of things to say, it's more that I was "out there" living those things, and I was high on emotions. (I was in the euphoric first days of retirement.) I came up with ideas, but didn't stop to write them down into proper blog entries. I wasn't yet grounded. (See my next blog entry for my thoughts on grounding, and beyond.)

The first paragraph in this current blog entry is verbatim from an email that I wrote in early November of 2010, so it is sort of "plucked" out of that early retirement period. The last paragraph (below) is a sharp memory of at least one summer day in the early months of my retirement.

Even now, in January 2011, I soak up time like a sponge. Years from now when I've been retired for a long time, I might forget how amazing it is to have time to . . . pause. I don't want to forget.

(Circa June, 2010)
In the early summer, one day I got up and dressed and ready to leave for errands in town. The sun had begun to warm the stones under the chair outside. Looking for Lucy the big dog, I walked outside and found her, sitting in the sunshine. What a good idea. I sat in the chair and turned my face to the sun and listened to the leaves rustling, the birds chirping. I breathed deeply and relaxed back into the chair. There is no rush. Time. Armfuls of time.


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