Wisdom in the Weeds

Wisdom in the Weeds

When I retired friends asked me what I would do with all my free time.

”Oh,  I don’t know,”  I told them,  “probably just more of the same things I enjoy – theater,  travel, tennis.”

”Why don’t you try something new,  try gardening,” one friend suggested,  “it’s great physical exercise and surprisingly spiritual.  Try planting vegetables!”

We spend weekends in the Connecticut countryside where I could have my own garden plot,  but gardening had never seemed appealing.

“It’s not for me.”  I insisted,  “I’m not so spiritual,  I’m not an enthusiastic cook,  and anyway I don’t have a green thumb.”

But in fact that perfectly describes my son who’s a spiritual guy,  loves to cook,  and has even worked on an organic farm.  “Take a garden plot,  and I’ll come up and help you plant it.”   he promised.

And so that summer we planted tomatoes,  beans,  eggplant,  lettuce,  carrots and squash.  And I weeded and watered and with great satisfaction I watched my garden grow.

The following summer I planted again, but unexpectedly we found ourselves stuck in the city for days at a time.  A neighbor said she’d water my plants,  but I hadn’t thought about the weeds,  and once back in the country I found my garden plot looking more like a mini jungle.

I put on my gardening gloves and started weeding, and two hot and sweaty hours later my garden looked a lot better.  Of course there were some causalities –  plants so intertwined they came up with the weeds,  lettuce gone to seed,  carrots pulled up to soon,  and one very tired but much wiser gardener.

The friend who encouraged me to garden was right,  there is something spiritual about it,  in fact something quite miraculous.  And even at my advanced age,  thanks to my garden I’ve learned some new things:

The sooner you plant,  the sooner things grow.

When you donate some of your beans and eggplants to the food bank you do a good deed and you feel good too.

Patience is a virtue,  and anyway you can’t rush a tomato.

If you’re friendly,  other gardeners give you tips,  and maybe some of their scallions.

You can never have too much of a good thing,  except maybe squash.

And gardening is hard work,  but it’s worth it.  In fact it’s a lot like life – you reap what you sow.

And you get to eat all those fresh veggies!

– Dana Susan Lehrman 

Retirement? Who, Me?

(Sung to the tune of “I Won’t Grow Up” from Peter Pan)

I won’t grow up,

I don’t want to stay home.

And just do whatever I want

Like sleep or write a poem.

 

I won’t grow up,

I don’t want to stop working

And just do whatever I choose

Like Facebook lurking

Not me,

Not I,

Not me,

So there.

Retirement. I guess that’s the next step in this growing up process. Nope, not me. Not yet. It’s not just about the dough, though that’s definitely a consideration; it’s more about liking my gig, the change of scenery, the chit-chatting, being out and about in the hustle and bustle, then returning to the cozy comfort of home and husband at the end of the day.

Besides, what would I do with the myriad job skills I’ve learned and used over a lifetime? If I won’t be using them, then they’re taking up valuable real estate in my brain. As it is, important stuff (like which movies I’ve already seen, whether I’ve already fed the dog, and whether I’ve already brushed my teeth) is leaking out because there’s just not enough room for everything.

It’s not that I’m afraid of being bored. The word is not in my dictionary. My closest friend recently retired and her days are filled to overflowing with cultural and creative pursuits, classes, nature walks, book club, exercise, yoga, travelling, inspired meal planning, seeing friends and family. Heck yeah, I could do  that! And then there’s all that organizing, decluttering, and downsizing I’ve been meaning to get to, and civic and volunteer work I can finally make time for. But…but…

But at heart I’m an introvert, and a homebody, If I retire, I may never leave the house short of being dragged out, bribed, coerced, or threatened. Conscientious to a fault, I show up at work, rarely missing a day, rarely late. But if I didn’t have to show up, I might just stay in bed, or at least in my athleisure wear, and I might forget to brush my teeth.

So there.

[My apologies to PP for having taken certain liberties.]

The Wurst of Times

First there was the retirement that wasn’t, observed by many, and then there was the retirement that “was”, observed by almost no one. And midway between them was a short-circuited retirement, a retirement that “wasn’t” also observed by almost no one. The end.
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