Abandoning the Castle

We have all seen the syndrome in our parents' generation, the inability to leave the home they lived in for so many years. There are many good reasons for this, of course, and I am sympathetic; more so since I have reached the age where these decisions must be made, to leave with control or to stay and take your chances. Either way, there are hurdles.

Of course, not everyone has the choice to leave, at least voluntarily, before they carry you out on the door. But most of us middle-class types do. Should we downsize while we are still capable of doing it? Perhaps our home is small and single-storied and in a nice neighborhood; perhaps it is already without too many steps to climb or old ceilings and electrical outlets that need attention; perhaps it is ideal and the best bet is to stay and get whatever services you might need as time goes along.

But what if it has lots of steps, bedroom on the third floor, laundry in the basement, so much space that one room or another needs maintenance on a continuing basis? And what if those rooms are all filled to the top with stuff, stuff you have been putting lovingly in place for years?

First to consider is attachment - the caress of memory at everything your lay your eyes on: this was a gift from the first grandchild, your daughter made that in first grade, you bought that before you were married. . . these moments of sighing satisfaction are not easily given up.

Second, there is fear of change - who knows what a new place would be like: whether in a retirement community or a smaller house, you will not know that place like the back of your hand and as for the neighbors!! OMG!!! What might you be letting yourself in for?

Finally, there is the simple overwhelming nature of a project so large as to sort and move a lifetime's collection - no matter who tells you they will help and if you can afford to have someone else pack it all up, you have to sort it yourself because IT ALL WON'T FIT IN THE NEW PLACE. I particularly sympathize with this problem, because if I were to move, I could not take half of what I have. And all the boxes and file drawers and closets that are mixed full of detritus and treasure would have to be culled one by one, assigned to the flames or saved for a new, probably very small closet. And don't kid yourself that your children and their spouses will be lined up to get any of it. They don't want your stuff either.

In addition to these commonly discussed roadblocks to change, I see, more often but not always in the men, that this change means not just the loss of a house, but the loss of a dream; that they worked their whole lives to create this space and they are not only house-proud, their egos are bound to it. If this is the case, moving anywhere else is the last thing they can consider, no matter how difficult the climbing or the fear of falling, no matter how frustrating the leaking pipes or the chipping paint, and no matter how extensive the paid services. The house represents their vision of themselves, their reward for a job well done, a safe haven after the storms of adulthood. This kind of attitude will cause resentment of whatever life changes cause a separation, be it medical or practical. The loss will leave an agenda.

For those of us who have anticipated this moment and placed themselves in appropriately supportive housing situations, Bravo for the foresight. For the rest of us, woe to those couples who disagree and their children as well - buckle up your seatbelts, the future is going to get rough.

Walls of Antiquity

If I were the historian of my life, I would compare myself to a medieval castle, and I would have to say that the time has come when my walls have begun to crumble. I am thinking this is what the Third Stage is all about.

When I was young, I was joyfully aggressive about building a truly grand structure, and I have done that. When I was middle-aged, I was as smart and dedicated in expanding that structure and building defensive walls as my energy could make me, and I rejoiced in it. But now, near the end of my sixth decade, I am definitely slacking. I no longer feel a real need to attend those walls, as if it is just too much trouble.

I might have thought this was owing to encroaching feebleness, except that I don't feel very feeble and in fact still have trouble sitting still. It is not that.  Instead, I think the torches have been passed, the bridge has truly been crossed, and there is just no need for the constant upkeep any more. Let those walls crumble!

It strikes me that this is not simple capitulation to age and powerdown, not just the unfortunate breakdown of bodies returning to earth - this is the gradual process of freeing the energies I once put into building, in my life the most significant investment I have made. And I am not just eroding out my energies, I am unearthing the dedication to pathways that reaped those gains, the focus that required a lot of unconscious censoring of behaviors and thoughts that were detrimental or even just extraneous to my goals. I think they call it The Straight and Narrow. I habitually don't window shop because long ago I knew I would never have enough money to purchase frivolously. I have quit reading serious literature in favor of murder mysteries because it is too distracting. I am known as level-headed, grounded, and calm (if not always rational). These are rocks cut for my walls.

The decisions that shaped my castle, including long-suppressing conventions and the desire to not offend, are no longer required. I find the crumbling is releasing fairy dust, covering my goal-meeting faculties with irrelevancy. I am not likely to be able to meet anyone else's deadlines any more. Likewise I cannot bring myself to care much who hears me rant or what they think about me. There is a general freeing of suppressed self that is coming up through the cracks. I think it is kind of exciting, to get to know me again. I am wearing purple!

For that is what it is - the self does not seem to change within a life, just to gain perspective. The cement that held the stones of my castle in thrall was my own determination to build it that way.  It now is crumbling from time and age, yes, but also from my recognition of having already had a fabulous lifetime, from my satisfaction with the structure I built. Any future joys are pure gravy, the laurels on which I am learning to comfortably and eagerly rest.

Outrage Exhaustion

I saw this term used by a friend of a friend and have not been able to pass up any opportunity to use it since. SO PERFECT!  The last two years have been a helluvaride, but I am sputtering to a stop here - or at least a slow glide. You can only keep up frenzy for so long!

And it was a frenzy at first when 45 "won" the election. Geez geez geez, how could there be enough idiots to even get him close? I read, and signed petitions, and donated my little heart out until it became obvious that nothing anyone said was making any difference.

So I gave up on the petitions, thinking that the flood of lawsuits by People Who Matter would be more effective at taking the whole cohort out. A year passed, and whoops maybe not - whatever happened to those lawsuits? Those absolutely constitutional legal arguments? Those surely-this-will-do-the-trick, certain-to-impeach efforts? Nada. In the words of the old Fugs song, "Monday nothing, Tuesday nothing, Wednesday nothing, Thursday nothing." I quite sending money to politicians I can stomach and just read.

But surely that rat-bastard Mueller's team would get them, and get them good. It did strike me as ultimately ironic that the tried and true FBI lead liar (pants on fire) had become our new Savior, but whatever, go for it, Son. I even gave up scoping the deep state anymore so I could maintain a modicum of support for this effort and not tie myself up in any new knots. But here it is a year later and we have some low-life scum on display with no upward mobility in sight. And if Mueller Mueller He's Our Guy can't do it, who can?

I, like everyone else I know, have outrage exhaustion. I have begun the long trek to save my sanity by unsubscribing to every damn political or social email I get. The race to get Progressives into congress looks exactly like the race to get Democrats into congress looks exactly like the race to get any politician anywhere - Give Me The Money. I can't watch it any more, much less participate. I have instead scheduled far too much yard work and social time this summer to read a thing outside my murder mysteries. Too painful, too useless, and too too fatiguing.

It will take a lot to get my head out of my ass. It seems the only safe place to be.

Well, the dust seems to have settled. It is July of 2018 and I have been peering through the storm for a year, trying to sort my Small Projects (SPs) into some kind of approachable landscape while maintaining a feet-on-the-ground attitude about growing increasingly old. Retirement looms like a balloonful of psychedelics, distant or in my face OMG, but not yet. I fret and mow the yard and manage Mimi, the new puppy Silver Fox and I added to our pack. And once again, I will be sharing my thoughts through this looking glass, an SP to which today I return. The post below is from August, 2017 - a reminder of last year's plans and this year's reckoning:) Welcome back, everyone:)


The thing about VLPs (Very Large Projects), is that they prioritize things for you. To a person like me, whose list of I'd Like To Dos gets longer every day, that focus is invaluable. But the cost of VLPs gets higher with every passing year, and while I would like to have found that new wisdoms will balance those costs, for me they did not. Frustrations with learning curves, late-night tasking, time management issues, loneliness - Nevermore; I have foresworn.


And that leaves me with SPs - Small Projects. Lot and lots of them. I dream them, some float through my thoughts, conversations spark them, and I am inundated after traveling somewhere new. I want to paint; I want to make a photography book; I want to travel with my family; I want to sew up a pattern I have in my head. . . these SP visions begin to swirl through my mind until I am dizzy. If I pick one to work on I am easily distracted. If I start something new I am easily frustrated. I find it easiest to rant at whatever comes my way and just be reactive rather than proactive. This is not the way I want to live!

Take electronics, without which I cannot continue publishing. I bought a new phone and suddenly my music is gone and I have Silver Fox's instead. Ummm. My camera takes these cute little series of pics on each shot that makes action for a second before it stops. Those transfer to IPhoto as a whole load of photos taking up who knows how much space that you can't just grab and move, or choose only one, or anything easy, as apparently you have to click on the whole set to even delete. How do I make my camera stop doing that??? Now I have a new SP learning all about my new phone from the internet, a lengthy proposition for my slow old brain.

The world is going crazy, and the last time things were so bad I was right in the middle of it. I want to help, but I can no longer be the foot soldier I was then. And regardless of how we third-stagers puff ourselves up about wisdom and experience, no one will listen. I should read and write more; I should send money; I should sign petitions; I should write congresspeople; I should be part of the answer.

My physical regimen for the summer has been almost exclusively landscaping and gardening. What the hell am I going to do now???

Around and around they go, blowing up large for a moment and then receding while the next blows up, like those folder and desktop application functions that wax and wane as you run your mouse under them. I hate those. The views are too small and they move to fast, just like my imagination.

Becoming the belledame has, however, had unforeseen impacts. Having crossed that bridge when I came to it, I find myself now transitioned, bedamed if you like; and one thing I seem to have less of is tolerance for foolishness, in myself and in others. I can fix this and be dizzy no more. Today I have a plan. I make a list of all the SPs I currently know about and decide what to do about each, then get help. I will sign up for Apple phone training. I will send money and shut up about injustice (well, maybe a rant here now and then). I will get a yoga teacher. I will delegate, and, following another of my newly crystallized dame precepts, I ain't gonna do anything I don't want to. If an SP requires me to do something I don't want to, it is out of the band. The new-agers say this is a year to clear:)

And when the dust settles, I will too.