"I'm retired. From education."
I made up a profession so people can check off the occupation box but my answer is still followed by blank looks.
"So what do you DO...? Now, here?"
"So,what did'ya get done today?" How are you doing? Did I catch you in the middle of doing something? Did you get that .... done? Are you done with your house? Your writing. Unpacking. Preparing. Cleaning it up.
I do. I did. I done. (I know the grammar- I do, I did, I am done.) Turkeys and pies are done. Sometimes the laundry is done. People are not done.
Well, I done. Now I be.
And some days, I just be.
I watch the sun rise above my barn, warm tea in my hand, fuzzy knit slippers on my feet. On cold mornings, I snuggle down, heavy cotton damask, rescued from an Italian flea market, covers the fluffy down comforter. I read in my bed, heating pad against my low back- reminiscent of medival heated bricks that fought the damp and cold of drafty castles. No draft or danger here. Just the luxury of owning my own time.
After brewing a fresh cup of tea and fiddling with the wood in my fireplace, I watch horses graze in the close pasture I eat whatever, whenever I want. The phone rarely rings. I feel indulgent, indolent, self focused.
Truthfully, I feel unfocused, unsteady.
For I am a
doer. Not a human being but a human
doer. Struggling to find the balance.
Years ago at a military chapel, an older man rebuked me. Bill's new assignment at an undemanding school environment was deemed perfect for leading neighborhood Bible studies. Focusing on others, being effective. I was expecting our fourth child, who came in an emergency C-section days after this conversation. Meekly, I had offered that we had just returned from a demanding position, we needed rest. I didn't divulge our marriage was fragile. I was fragile. He replied in no uncertain terms, that I could rest in heaven,"Burning out beats rusting out". Like it or not, one way or another, we were to be used, consumed for the kingdom.
I'd like to go back and hold that idiot's head under water. Put a little backbone in that young military wife and tell him to buzz off, give her a break. Trust your instincts, woman.
But I didn't. Instead, while slowly recovering from major surgery, I took my turns in the nursery and hosted small groups in our cramped townhouse. Three small children and a fussy newborn clamored for space and attention. I attended teas, tours, and chapel Bible studies. I taught my children, nursed them through bizarre medical crisises and almost lost my father to a botched heart surgery. The First Gulf War dominated and there was a general urgency in the air to be ready. To sacrifice. We were at war.
I was just exhausted.
But the stage was set. The players cast. The acts rolled on. Typecast, if only in my own mind, I became Get-it-done-Gertrude. I perfected the role, repeating my performance over and over. Sucess was mine! I got it all done. I did it all. What I did not do was sleep but I quipped that sleep was overrated. What I did do was create a deep, dark hole. A hole of performance and perfection pulled me into pain and depression.
And now I am out.The dark is behind me most days and before me stretches a path that requires pacing, rest stops, refueling. Life is a marathon, not a sprint with failing adrenals and death biting our heels. Jesus said, "My yoke is easy, my burden light." Where does burning up or rusting out fit into these words? Quiet moments with Dad bring life, not the accusatory "Did you DO your quiet time this week?" Life comes when we slip away from the crowd, a meal, a party, an event. All good thing but laid aside for the best. And maybe the life of faith means laying aside the need to be understood, to fit in, to be the American workaholic. To get it all done.
I am choosing to lay aside my compulsion to be productive, to be about Kathryn's business, to measure sucess and satisfaction only by what I can accomplish each day. Accomplished means finished or completed. No wonder I never felt done- the only things completed in my frazzled days were temporal. Laundry, dishes, yardwork. My life had little time or place for life giving choices.
These days, I take care of my body, stretching out a sore back, eating what fuels me best. Strolling an art gallery with a new friend adds riches to my world. A bit of time on the phone with new friends or old brings peace and community. Sister time is precious now and time is made for what is precious.
Grateful for this season, I take an entire day to drive and be with other writers. Work and life are shared in that close knit group. We give and receive criticism and praise. Writing feeds my soul, filling up the small cracks that threaten to pull me back into performance. Feeling the words slip from a place deep inside to the waiting page, I know joy. I dig for more, rewriting a phrase, choosing a new word. Sitting with a good book, I marvel at the writing of another. It's a rich season and it isn't exhausting at all. It is slower, there are large, empty spaces of life I ache to fill. But I know peace. And in this season, I'm productive in ways that escaped me as a younger woman.
Like a fruiting tree that a master gardener prunes and shapes, I can't take credit for the fruit I produce but the pruning is doing its work in me. I am producing more peace, joy, contentment, some long-suffering, a bit more patience, maybe some self control. Love. I am producing love- somedays in loving acts toward myself and somedays toward others as my new world expands.
I'm living as a human being- being loving, being patient, being aware, being grateful, being... the best of me.
We've played charades with much laughter and also sat in a quiet circle with lit candles to share dreams and tears. We've prayed and sanctified our time reflecting on our blessings. We toasted with champagne and grape juice. We've been together.
