Journal of retired life

I am officially retired – have you heard? (She says with some degree of sarcasm since she’s been shouting it from the rooftops.) So: here’s a little bit about how I am now spending my days… kinda living my best life.

Friday, May 15 –

A Sunday-paper kind of morning. A time lived mostly in my head, absorbed in newsletters from some of my favorite thinkers. My heart hurts as they explore the origins and implications of current crises; my mind whirls as they delve into some of my favorite topics; my fingers itch to write. I collect ideas, notice turns of phrase, consider what to pursue further.

Among this day’s treasures: Audrey Waters rebukes tech bro arrogance as “full of historical inaccuracies and scientific impossibilities drowned out by great bravado.” Anya Kamenetz, a New Orleans native, wonders how to mourn a city that will eventually be lost to rising seas while it is still so vibrant to her and her family. “How long is the long run? How long does it need to be, to be worth loving and caring for this place?” Anne-Laure Le Cunff cautions about turning hobbies into hustles, uncomfortably echoing my concern that pursuing publication will be exchanging one exhausting and disheartening performance pursuit for another. As a counterpoint, Austin Kleon (who has managed to turn his doodles into best-sellers) thrums with excitement over the imminent publication of his newest book, Don’t Call It Art. Lisa Sibbett pens the most memorable phrase twist of the day when she describes those “whose vivres bubble over with joie” and I think that might apply to me. These authors often recommend links, and I dive into rabbit holes with a measure of glee.

And on it goes: political analysis, provocative opinion, topical essays, advice columns, book news, humor. While I enjoy a ginger muffin and glass of orange juice, I’m learning, rethinking, marveling, exploring. When I look up, it’s well past lunchtime already.

Sunday, May 17 –

A spectacular early summer day. I feel untethered, relaxed, amused, expectant. I appreciate that I am so incredibly fortunate. Happy-tear emotions arise unexpectedly from a day-long meander around Rehoboth Beach at its sunny, warm, sparkling best, where I go to do do-nothing things and to absorb the sights and sounds: the joy, the bustle, the life.

Families tow littles dressed in matching outfits. Portable A-shaped sidewalk billboards advertise menus and sales and grand openings. Store doors open wide to invite comings and goings. I hear the cadence and tone of conversations, but not the words. Music spills out – Paradise by the Dashboard Lights, The Fate of Ophilia, a cover of a folk song I can’t quite name. A young teen-ager calls out, “Hey, that’s Michael Jackson!” – a fact I knew three seconds into the distinctive Billie Jean backbeat. While the scent of French fries and funnel cake and fresh pizza lure some people, I treat myself to a small black-and-white milkshake.

On the beach, the rental shacks and lifeguard stands have been returned from their storehouses. People plant chairs and blankets, only to set out searching for stones and shells and metal treasures, to approach the sea to test the temperature and brave the waves. As I settle into my thinking spot on a boardwalk bench facing the ocean, the breeze is refreshing, the sound of the waves is heartening, the action on the beach is fascinating. Someone flies a fancy kite, its long panel of primary color bands slithering like a Chinese dragon’s tail. A group of teens holds conference with a quad of police officers and their conversation thankfully ends without drama. A swarm of seagulls scree discordantly as they swoop in for French fries that a beach-goer carelessly tosses into the air.

Deep cleansing breath. I want to imprint this feeling in my mind forever.

Thursday, May 28 –

Learning the sea breezes’ personalities. This morning’s atmospheric current works like a celestial shepherd, breaking up the poofy clouds, prodding them to spread out and meander for the day. Later, while I’m wandering the stores in Bethany Beach, I’m joined by a Rastafarian zephyr off the ocean, a cool cat with a beachy vibe. It hums past me, fluttering my shirt, tempering the heat of the sun. When I seek a quiet shady spot in the garden patio of Coastal Library, the breeze caresses me like a sweetheart’s breath, playing with my hair while I lose myself in a novel. Returning to the boardwalk later, the ocean-cooled airflow annoys like a kid brother. It teases at me on my walk, whips up my hair, and pokes my attention when I pause for a sit. At the same time, it’s a surfer’s best friend, churning up the waves to rideable heights. As I leave for home, the wind gods are gathering a threatening cloud bank to block the sun. Yet out on my balcony after sunset, the air moves softly like a cabaret performer, tinkling my neighbor’s windchimes.

Friday, May 29 –

Am writing. On my beach walk this afternoon, I realize that these essays have yet to cover the best part of my retired life: time spent writing. It isn’t long before – as is often typical – I start composing in my head while ambling down the beach. At first, I wonder if I should describe the flow I get into when writing, how hours slip by without my noticing. But I quickly realize that, better, I could describe a writing session.

The quiet rhythm of wave action and walking motion energizes my thinking; I am absorbed in it even as it fades into background. I start mentally cataloging the writing and editing I did earlier today, even pausing to jot notes on my phone…

I reviewed each entry of this journal, challenging myself to make better word choices. “Very very lucky” was reduced to one very, and then to incredibly fortunate. I deleted the unnecessary adjective winter in front of storehouses. Airflow doesn’t just act like an annoying kid brother, it annoys like a kid brother (with apologies to my own, who are never annoying). I realized that the ending of the breezes essay needed to circle back to the wind at my condo, and then I described the wind off the balcony like a cabaret performer not singer which better aligns with playing the wind chimes. I reorganized paragraphs for better flow. I shortened and sharpened a few sentences. I read aloud, and rewrote a couple of sections because I kept stumbling over them. More word refinements, small additions, judicial deletions. After several hours, my body needed the kind of good stretch that a beach walk can provide.

And so it seems I am earning the writer-beach-walker title I aspire to.

I hope you enjoyed a peek into my new rhythms: nothing extravagant, just appreciating the vibe and doing what I love most. These essays were initiated as an assignment for my latest writing course. Thanks to Maribeth and my classmates for helping me to refine my writing.