Letter to a friend about to retire

I know that look. I know what goes into it. Mainly there’s fear, that’s the touch of frost or frozenness, the sense of something rigid and cold. Icicles could grow on that look. Snowflakes could fall and pile up. Glaciers could form and polar bears could have a picnic but you mustn’t let it get that far. Ending – one must see retirement as an ending – is a kind of death. Therefore it is always chilly. We are chilled by the realization that something so vital to us and once so reliant on our vitality actually proceeds without us. Our leadership, once regarded with awe, seems so easily dismissed. Work marches on with nary a backward glance. This makes us wonder: Was I not important after all? What were all those years about?

I know that look. I know what it sounds like – hollow. The veins filled with tension that fueled energy are empty now, not re-filled, not replenished. We awaken at the same time even when we don’t set the alarm, our bodies tensed for work and battle realize they have nowhere to go. My body is a hollow shell. Everything that once filled me, gave me purpose, has been left behind. Do you hear that? It’s the sound of space. Is there a way to fill this newfound space?

I know that look. I caught it at dinner as I prattled about my plans, the book I was reading, you gave me that look and I stopped in mid-sentence. "I envy you your resiliency. You just go out there and do it. You just fill time so easily. I wish I could be like you," you said, "but I’m not." I decided then to write you this letter.

Here’s what you do. You wake up each morning when your body wants to awaken and you ask it: What do you want to do today? Then listen well. Sometimes you want to get up at the crack of dawn. When I do I go for a walk, smell the wild figs that litter the ground and wonder why they can’t be eaten. I make up stories about them. I think about all the delicious things I’ve had the privilege of tasting and I am grateful. Sometimes on my walk I think of old friends gone before me and I ask them in my head, How are you? I haven’t thought about you in a while, is there something you want to say to me? If you listen, they talk to you. Usually they advise you make the most out of being alive because that’s what you’re supposed to do.

Once a week discover a new place. This week I strayed into the Lifestyle section of the Rockwell Power Plant. I was starting a writing class at the Filipinas Heritage Library and I wanted a ritual that would bring good vibes into the room. I walked into a store I had always walked past before. Trousseau, it was called. Why would I go in? I’m not getting married, swore off that stuff. But this time I ventured in and chatted with the young lady in charge of the store who looked vaguely familiar. Turns out we are related by the two z’s in our Gonzalez. Doble Zeta, we say, and understand each other. I am surprised at this store. I thought "trousseau" meant hope chests, embroidered linen, lace nightgowns, bride things. I am told that today "trousseau" has expanded meaning that includes furniture, houseware, everything one needs to set up home. I learned something, found a relative and a good store that will be a permanent stop on my shopping itinerary since it’s not only for brides-to-be. Or maybe I could pretend to be a bride-to-be. That might be fun.

I know that look. It says you don’t believe this can be fun. Put it in perspective. I never had time for simple activities before. It was always work, deadlines, meeting clients, meeting forecasts. To smell the flowers we bought them fresh and put them on my desk. I didn’t have time to just go out and see or just stay in and be. I never had time for me, never had time to listen to that voice inside and let it take me here and there leading me finally to what I want to do next.

I know that look. It says people won’t approve. So ignore them. Today I wanted a ritual to celebrate the beginning of another public writing class. We shopped for a candle and flowers. We invented a ritual that involved enthusiastic clapping. We said it would change the energies in the room. We scattered fresh flowers on the tabletop. We looked silly but we had fun and we felt special and sacred.

I know that look. It means you think I’m not taking your pre-retirement woes seriously. It is the end of a way of life, a way of being. That needs to be mourned as you’re mourning now. Around the bend a new life awaits. It is one you must live for yourself. Spend this time getting to know yourself better, explore and adventure inwards. Discover your gifts, talents you’ve allowed to rust on a shelf somewhere. Learn something new every day, even if that is as trivial as the expanded meaning of "trousseau." Retirement can be a magical time. This is the experience of many who have retired early or late.

I know that look. It means you want to believe me but you can’t just now. It will take time. You’ll have to try it out. No one else can do it for you. I assure you it will work out splendidly. You will be happy, I promise. When I see you next, I’ll say, "I know that look," and by that I will mean – finally, it mirrors mine.

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Ms Gonzalez offers writing courses for non-writers. For more info or comments, e-mail her at lilypad@skyinet.net.