The Cow, the Bird & the Bud

I had an intense flare of anger and distress yesterday.

There is a tradition on the team I just left, of writing songs (new lyrics to existing songs) for people who are leaving the agency, and also for those who are expecting a child. I went in to join my now ex-colleagues in writing a song for a colleague who will retire in April. As we were doing this, a former colleague turned to me with a smile and asked how it felt to be retired. I yelled at her, cursed and teared up.

Wow, huh?

The thing is, I didn't retire; I quit. Over many weeks before I left, I stressed to supervisors and those above them that I was resigning, not retiring. Even so, people from my own and other agencies would run into me and say, "Hey, I hear you're retiring" or "Congratulations on your retirement!" Each time I'd correct them, "No, actually, I'm not retiring. I can't afford to retire. I'm leaving -- quitting."

It matters to me deeply that people understand the significance in my life of this particular act, and of the words that are used to describe it. In my younger years, I lived fairly hand-to-mouth and was unconcerned about financial stability and medical care. As I've aged, and with the development of some chronic medical issues, I've come to appreciate paid health insurance along with the ease that comes from a steady paycheck. Giving these up is a leap over a huge mountain of fear and inertia; calling it "retirement" is, for me, like making a mole hill of that mountain (play on words intended).

The greater significance has to do with my finally acting on something I'd realized long ago: I am a bad fit for bureaucracies. They play to my worst tendency toward a rule-driven work style, and they do not nurture my spirit. At a team retreat some four or five years ago, I realized that I was a cow in a field of the lushest, juiciest, most varied and tender greens -- I had the pleasure of working with an amazing group of folks. In this verdant field, however, surrounded by such richness, I was tethered to a trough filled with crappy cow feed. I enjoyed my colleagues several times a year at our retreats, and then returned to the trough. My perception was that, having spent a day laughing, sharing our open hearts, eating, singing and crying together, we would return to work all shut down and ready to meet our deadlines. The light was gone from people's faces. My impression was that we barely made eye contact so as to avoid the possibility of a conversation; conversations will really put you behind on your progress notes, you know? 

This knowledge of my bad fit was like a bird flying around looking for a place to land. In early 2011, the bird did finally land -- in my heart -- and I knew I would have to leave.

I started looking for work elsewhere, including overseas. However, I had two old cats, sisters, whom I'd raised and cared for since they were kittens, and it made no sense to leave the neighborhood they knew and the veterinary practice I trusted. I committed myself to waiting until my cats had died. I put Squeak down in August of 2011, and Tigger in July of last year; they were 17-1/2 and 18-1/2 years old, respectively -- old and very dear friends. I continue to miss them at a level beyond words.

My great love for my clients and my colleagues, along with inertia, yes, kept me at my job longer than I'd planned. Now, however, I am out. I did not retire; I left. The lightness and expansion I feel far exceed the heaviness and constriction of the fear I continue to experience at times, and I am glad to be alive.

I end with some quotes that guide me, in particular at this time:

"And the day came when the risk it took to remain closed in a bud became more painful than the risk it took to blossom."  Anais Nin

"You cannot lead where you will not go."  (African proverb)

"If you don't risk anything, you risk even more."   Erica Jong

"Don't ask yourself what the world needs - ask yourself what makes you come alive, and then go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive."    Howard Thurman

meg  2-27-2013

Life, Death and Packing

The journey continues as I sort through my life and my stuff. As I was putting someone's name on a box of items, I wondered if I might be willing to simply give the things away now, before my death, rather than designating the things to be given to that person in the event of my death. I thought about all the loving words we say to each other about someone who has died, perhaps never having said them to that person while s/he was still alive -- or, at least, not recently or often enough or with enough attention. Why wait? What would it be like if we all had a memorial before we died? I suggested at work once that we pull a team member's name out of a hat each week or each month, in order to share with that person the love, respect and admiration we felt about her or him. People didn't like the idea. Back to the boxes of things: I'm not ready to give up all of my stuff.

I'm in an interesting dance with the fact of my impermanence and the impermanence of others. I will write a will before I leave the US, as well as identify my beneficiaries and answer the Five Questions about the kind of care I would and would not want in the event of serious illness or injury. I know that I could die tomorrow, today, in the next moment. I could die right here where I live now; travel outside the US is not a prerequisite for death.

What motivates me to tend to these things now is my wish to spare from unnecessary hardship the friend who has generously agreed to take on legal, financial and medical power of attorney while I'm traveling. I acknowledge the reality of my impermanence, but I plan to return. And I want certain stuff waiting for me when I do. As if I were in control of all that. I remember that, when my mom was in a Trauma Care Unit after the auto accident that killed my dad, I went from trying to control everything to "letting go of control" to "letting go of the illusion of control." Yet here it is again, that illusion of control. "Oh! when did you get back into town?" Clearly, this is a work in progress.

I have some goals for this journey. After years of sleepwalking my way through life (i.e., making "safe" choices, living small), I want to jump into the unknown. I would like to be in enough of an unknown that I naturally come face-to-face with who I am and what I bring to my life and the lives of others. How do I show up? What doors do I open? What stones do I thrown in my own and others' paths? When do I say yes, when do I say no, and why? Having spent the past two decades working in bureaucratic public sector settings, I want to volunteer in local projects in order to experience how people are taking care of themselves and each other in other parts of the world. Along the way, I'd like to become more familiar with Latin American cultures, and to bump up my Spanish and Portuguese.

In spite of the stress of my preparations -- this is not a relaxing time! -- I am aware of feeling very alive. Though I have certain goals and intentions, I don't know where this journey will take me or where I will take the journey. The unknown is both terrifying and thrilling. Many years ago, a coworker described his experience of taking a one-day sky-diving course. He said that, when it was his turn to jump, he was terrified. "But it was then, Meg, that I realized that there are two kinds of people in this world: those who are afraid, and those who are afraid and jump anyway." I want to be in the latter group.

meg   2-22-13

The blog begins.

The blog begins.

The journey began quite some time ago, and is already a great adventure. At this moment, I'm thinking about the thread I threw out to my community some months back: an email informing people that I'd be traveling, explaining my goals, and asking for guidance in any form. An entire web has come back to me from that thread: broad brush guidance and highly detailed tips, names of people to contact and places to go, enthusiasm and faith that buoy me when I am afraid, books to read, and stories stories stories about people's travels and dreams. I have realized what a limited imagination I have, so unable was I to predict the richness of my extended community. I am deeply grateful for this experience of connection, love and wisdom, all so freely shared.

One of the travel tips I received was to "stay safe and have fun." When I first read this, I mistook "stay safe" for "don't take risks," and I thought "have fun" meant "go tourist about." My goals are rather opposite of these, in that I want to risk a leap into the unknown, and I want to connect with people and communities much more than I want to be a tourist. It took a while before I realized that "stay safe" means "take care of yourself," and "have fun" is about everything else. It's a reminder to be awake to life.

Last Friday was my last day at work, following two weeks of intensive good-byes with my clients and colleagues, as well as some days of intensive cubicle cleaning. How can any one person have so much stuff? The process of going through and weeding out, tossing and gifting, re-appreciating and head scratching ("I must have had a reason for keeping this, but I have no clue what it was") has been instructive, to say the least. I notice how easy it is to part with some things, and how difficult to part with others. I notice how my heart stands between the object and the toss in some instances ("This came from -- and connects me with -- a beloved"), and my ego in others ("Surely I will eventually read this book. I just know it.")


Now it is time to take the plunge and hit the "publish" button. To be continued...  meg  2-19-2013