Summer's End: Opening Up to Change

Judi Stepek

This morning it hit me: summer is ending and a familiar melancholy sets in. At 5:30 am, the sun failed to greet me the way she did a few days ago, announcing the start of another endless summer day to savor. Since childhood I have associated the change in the climate and the landscape with loss.

The first time I had a visceral reaction to the end of summer occurred while riding from the beach in the back seat of our family car, a Pontiac Bonneville packed with beach chairs and a cooler, my twin brother sitting next to me in the back seat. I remember the tightness of my skin that had likely seen too little sunscreen that day.

My seat offered the best view for looking over the causeway bridge. The grey bay waves looked choppy, and the ocean smell wafted through the car’s open window. I could taste the salt heavy in the air and imagined that the screeching seagulls were laughing at my departure.

I experienced a sixth sense that day.  A drop in my stomach accompanied by the bittersweet feeling of having found love yet knowing it is over. It’s so much more than a change in location; it alters your being if passion runs deep.

Summer does that to me.

Summer complements my interests and my energy in a way that almost personifies her. 

She is the warmth of a sunrise run past the Flying W airport.

She is the glow in a sunset bike ride past old Prickett’s Farm.

She is the open invitation for family and friends to drop by for a quick swim in the pool.

For a few blissful months each year I bask in her glory, knowing a deeper connection to the physical world.

Others may feel it on a winter night lit by a full moon and hushed by the fall of snow. Is there a way to smoothly transition from the guy you married back to the high-school boyfriend you were never so keen on dating anyway?

I won’t hold my breath but I will try to evolve as a person.

I will be optimistic and seek an autumnal miracle.  My plan includes a Hudson Valley escape to see the fall foliage.  I can get behind runs that aren’t so hot I might melt. But I would really like to find a new activity that seals the transition deal for me.

I hope that random people, readers, and those who love the fall share their ideas on how to live for the season.







Our guest blogger, Judi Stepek, is a creative writer, mom and wife who enjoys biking and running, theater and music, and listening to people tell their stories.

Part of the Plan

Have you made your New Year’s Resolutions? 

I love the New Year.  Those big blank pages of my desk calendar are wide open with opportunities yet unknown.  As I have grown older, though, I have focused less and less on an itemized list of good intentions and more and more on goals and plans. 

This morning, though, as I waited for the sun to rise over the ocean, it dawned on me that 2014 is pretty much a mystery.   Five years ago, when I embarked on what I hoped would be a career change and a return to Philadelphia, I envisioned I would be moving from Cape May to PA about this time.  Even just last year, I had set my sights on living in Pennsylvania full time by January 1, 2014. 

Surprise! (Please see my previous blog post for details.)

Still, I have reaped the benefits of many a five-year plan.  From my college degree to my professional designation to my business plan, I have outlined my goals and dreams and have made amazing progress.  For me, those five-year plans were never a rigid set of tasks to accomplish or hurdles to overcome.  Rather, they have been a lattice upon which my life has grown.

I must admit, though:  the next five years have me stymied.  Coming up with a new five-year plan wasn’t part of the old five-year plan…at least not where the old plan ended up. In some ways, 2013 closed with a cliff-hanger.

But I’m not scared.  Like those blank calendar pages, the rest of my life is just waiting to be lived, loved, and written.  I can’t wait to see what develops.

What about you?

Facing Fears?

It continues to surprise me when people tell me they see me as a strong person. Many days I feel so far from brave, that if I was a recipe, I’d be one part courage and four parts wimp.

The past year brought many changes—my 60th birthday, “temporary” early retirement, a new job/benefits/coworkers/work schedule/commute. And go ahead and laugh at the next list if you must—a new i Pad, Android phone, cell phone number, and i Pod!

Each of these changes presented its own myriad set of choices and decisions—some simply exciting, others mind-boggling. In the end, they all required me to either adjust my view of my world or—ugh! — change behaviors. And, all of them gave me (the sometimes unwelcome) opportunity to learn new things.

Why do I bring this up now?

Because after years of writing, rewriting, editing, and querying agents, after two derailed offers of representation for my novels, and getting close enough another half-dozen times to have my hopes dashed, I have accepted the reality of today’s topsy-turvy publishing world. If a debut novelist wants to get published, 99.99999% of the time, you have to do-it-yourself.

If you aren’t an aspiring novelist, you may not grasp the fear that strikes in my heart. Learning the inner workings of the publishing business—things like, print fonts, e-pub formatting, front and back matter, interior and book cover design, ISBNs, book marketing and distribution, and some freakin’ thing called metadata! Seriously? What could a 60-year-old non-nerd possibly know about that?

When I started writing creatively 15+ years ago, I thought, “If you write it they will come.” Jeez, was I naïve!

If you are familiar with 12 step programs, you know the 4th step is, “Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.” The first time I tried to work step 4, the word fearless made me think I wasn’t ready. Then I heard someone share, “Fearless doesn’t mean without fear, it means with courage.”

OH!

So baby step by baby step, I muster the courage to face my fear and embark on the self-publishing process.

What wisdom can you offer to keep my fears from turning me back?

A Lesson in Slowing Down

 

 

 

Of the many changes that came with the decision to “early-retire,” most unexpected for me is the realization that having more time does not automatically mean getting more done— that the real gift of having more time is in learning to slow down.

Several years ago, when I was still in my 55-60 hour a week HR job, I was the only non-retired member in a weekly writing critique group. Often, I was the most fanatical about attending our meetings—once, when my leg was broken, I scuttled up a steep, rain-dampened fire escape on my butt to reach the meeting room.  It wasn’t unusual for me to be the only one with a new piece of writing for critique. I used to ask the retired guys what kept them from writing when they had all that time off. They said things like, “Time is different when you retire, you’ll see.”

So after 5 weeks of what Jim now refers to as “retirement practice” I am back to work 3 days a week and here’s what I have learned. Slowing down felt so good, I want to stay slowed down.

Gone is that burning need to be on my computer by 4:30 or 5 A.M. to write or edit, on my bike or powerwalking by 6, squeezing in housework or prepping dinner before  rushing through the motions to shower and dress  by 7,  setting my cruise control for just over the limit to be at my desk by 8.

You know the cliché about smelling the roses—when I decided to work less, I knew I would love the newfound time for Jim and family, writing and smelling the salt air.  

But let’s face it—I am an over-achiever. So, what surprises me most about the gift of more time is the utter joy in simply Slowing Down!

Plotting My Escape from Autopilot

Chris Brady

Our vacation getaway.  (Glad I don't mow this lawn.)

I struggled to come up with a topic for the blog this week.  I guess you could call it writer’s block.  But then I wondered if it’s more like a living block. Looking back at the last four weeks of my life, I wasn’t jazzed to write about anything I had experienced.

I haven’t had any wonderful life moments like Mary seems to encounter.

I’m not about to retire like Carol, excited about the new possibilities.

And I am not living with a year-old son like Julie, where every minute brings discovery.

For some time now, I’ve noticed that my life is more like a lake than a river. If there was a way to track footprints in my house there would be this little trail that happens every day.  Same with work and too often, weekends.

Vacations help, but they are way too short. Bernie and I got away for a week in a beautiful place recently, and just being somewhere else was energizing.  But the buzz was gone as I entered our driveway on arriving home. It was like I got back on a conveyor belt and my life went into autopilot.

Of course, I can schedule more “vacation moments” in my life: fun with family and friends, experiencing culture, and getting off my butt to exercise.  I just find myself nesting more than ever:  reading, walking the dog, puttering in the garden, and just being in the moment.  

Not exciting, nothing to write about, comforting in its own way, but not as fascinating as my Facebook friends’ lives appear to be. Then I think about people I care about who are seriously ill, struggling through unemployment, caring for a dying parent, or stuck in a bad relationship. 

“Count your blessings,” my inner voice tells me.  (That inner voice is always right.)

Knowing there is a problem is the first step toward recovery.  I promise to have an adventure (or two) between now and the next blog post.

What about you?  Is your life on autopilot?

What are you doing to make life more memorable?

Me Go, Too

Most of you know that over the last 2 months, I have grappled with a big decision—early retirement—to go or not to go? Mary’s recent blog, http://www.4broadminds.blogspot.com/2012/07/dont-just-do-something-stand-there.html , reminded me: the answers to life’s tough decisions come from within, and sometimes you have to hit life’s pause button to listen to your soul.

If you are like me, you have envied friends who had the chance to early retire and have said things like, “I am so jealous. It’s a no-brainer. If they offer me early retirement, I am out of here.” So, it surprised me that my initial reaction to the offer was totally opposite: Forget it. I love my job. I am not ready to stop working. Absolutely no.

As an organizational development consultant and coach, my role is to ask others probing, powerful questions to help them find their way through change. Yet, faced with my own major life change, my first instinct was to ignore it. Could I summon the courage to hit that pause button and coach myself through those same difficult questions?  

The offer would expire in less than 30 days. The clock was ticking, and hard questions began to emerge. At the top of the list—is it even financially feasible? Crunching the numbers seemed daunting at first, but ultimately it was the easier part. More demanding were soul searching questions like: What have I accomplished in my career and is it enough? Can I find other ways to contribute? What is my legacy? How much is my self-worth tied to my job? What will it take to accept the possibility that I may never work or earn a paycheck again?

After considerable reflection (and a few margaritas) my answers became clear.

This early retirement offer perched me on the edge of a pool of possibilities. I read somewhere recently that it is hard to know how deep the water is until you dive in. I cannot say I am totally ready, but arms flapping, legs pumping, eyes and heart wide open, I am going to take that leap.

Falling Up

Falling Up

I tripped on my shoelace

And I fell up –

Up to the rooftops.

Up over the town.

Up past the treetops.

Up over the mountains.

Up where the colors

Blend into the sounds

But it got me so dizzy

When I looked around,

I got sick to my stomach

And I threw down.

Carol’s story of her fall last week made me recall this poem by Shel Silverstein.  A co-worker gave me his book “Falling Up” as I left for a new job.  The poem has come to symbolize my career for me. I’ve had 10 jobs at 8 companies in my career, and in the past year I’ve started to think a lot about what’s next.  Mostly I think about life after work, wondering how I will spend my time when I am unfettered by the golden handcuffs. 

I am a boomer, several years away from official retirement age, but close enough to plan. It occurred to me that you rarely see the gold watch exits these days. Sometimes companies nudge 60ish workers with early retirement packages to get them off the books, but plain vanilla layoffs (aka: “position eliminations”) are more the norm.  Every time a co-worker loses a job, I am relieved that the grim reaper has spared me, but I’m secretly jealous too. 

Don’t get me wrong; I enjoy my work in employee development. I have autonomy, I work with good people, I am fairly paid, and best of all, my co-workers appreciate what I do.  But after 30+ years, the theater of the corporation (pointy-haired bosses, restructuring, doing more with less) saps my energy more and more. I fantasize about a sabbatical.

So I dream about the possibilities, almost like when I have a ticket in a mega millions lottery.  What could I do with an extra 50 hours a week?  Write my novel?  Get in shape?  Work on the presidential campaign?  I really would like to spend more time with my husband who has been retired our whole marriage of 15 years.

This sounds pretty good for a few months, but for the next 20+ years?  (And let’s face it, my 401k is not even close to what the experts say I need to retire.) Suddenly, the creativity, the people and the perqs of my current job look pretty good.  (Look where my job is taking me in May.)  

Like Carol, I had a bad fall myself recently. I was looking ahead to where I was going when I stumbled off an unseen curb sprawling to the pavement.  “Watch where you’re going,” I heard my inner critic say as I evaluated the damages to my foot.  (It still hurts six weeks later.)

So the lesson I take from my fall (and from Shel) is that looking ahead is good, but being truly engaged in your “right now” might be a better choice.  I think I’ll stay put for a while and see where it takes me.

Anybody else feeling the urge to change?  What’s your story?

  

You Are What You Order

Amazon has the goods on me.

I find it eerie that Amazon knows me (Hello, Mary!) before I even log on to the website. And uncanny that it knows which credit card I prefer to use before I use it. I might even be comforted knowing that Amazon won't let me ship to my new address (my credit card bill goes to a different address) except for all the hurdles it makes me clear to change all that. Who is in charge here? I am not sure I want technology looking out for me so fastidiously.

Well, maybe "looking out for me" is too tame a term. Maybe I mean "snooping through my inbox” or “reading my mind.” I am beginning to think Amazon may know more about me than J. Edgar Hoover knew about John F. Kennedy. What clued me in was the solicitous phrase that pops up as soon as I log in:

"Recommended for you..."

Now, for a long time I have considered myself a fairly savvy business woman. I have hired and (almost) fired. I've traveled to 27 states in the US of A and have been to six foreign countries. I have dressed for success. My resume, if I do say so myself, impresses even me.

Amazon, however, thinks otherwise.

Which I discovered during a recent online excursion to purchase a book, when I decided to peruse the recommendations the wonderful wizard of Amazon had for me.

No "Swim with the Sharks." No "What Color is Your Parachute?" No "Art of the Deal." No Rich Dad seminars. No Suze Orman. None of the hippest music. None of the edgiest movies.

Noooooooo....

A brief sampling of the movies Amazon thinks I will enjoy:

"Please Don't Eat the Daisies"
"Gidget"
"Footloose" (both versions)
"Yours, Mine and Ours" (the original, with Lucille Ball and Henry Fonda)
"Murphy's Romance"
"The Love Bug"
And every Elvis movie ever made.

The merchandise Amazon proffered actually had me laughing: snowflake headband, Rudolph Holiday Reindeer Antlers, flashing reindeer nose, an elf costume for me and a Santa holiday costume for my car.

The book I eventually ordered, by the way, was a book on writing - and there were a few other apropos selections in that vein amid Amazon's recommendations for me. But as I skimmed through 35 products all specially selected for me, I realized, again, why I have finally changed my course in life.

Why did I think I would ever be happy swimming with the sharks? Heck, if Amazon is reading me right, I have the heart of Flipper!

4336

According to "The Free Dictionary” on line, one of the definitions of number is: one of a series of symbols of unique meaning.


For me, 4336 embodies that definition. That number is the house number of an unassuming row house ("twin," actually) on a neat little street in an enduring Philadelphia neighborhood. To spare this unique address any unsolicited attention, I am leaving out the street name. But for me there is no other place like it in the whole wide world.

4336
where I was whisked when my sisters Diane, Theresa and Barbara were born.
where I watched Shirley Temple movies afternoons sprawled on the living room floor and "Double Chiller" late nights in bed with my cousins and the covers up to our chins.
where I first had galompkis and kruschiki and pierogies.
where I watched teenagers dance to The Geator in the basement "rec room" and yearned for the day I'd be one of them.
where I learned to apply false eyelashes and to put a bra on "backwards."
where I emigrated when I had a fight with my parents or my best friend.
where the middle bedroom became "my room" when I came to visit after moving to Cape May.
where I have always been welcome, along with all of my dogs and most of my boyfriends.

You see, I had already lived in five places by the time I was nine years old. And my parents moved twice since I have been all grown up. Now, my mother lives in a very sensible, small apartment.

I, too, travel lighter than most people I know. I have always kept moving. My houses have been more like "rest stops" than "home," especially in the Martha Stewart sense of the word. I often wonder if all that moving at such an early age is what set me in motion for the rest of my life.

One recent afternoon, though, as I settled in for a nap at 4336, it hit me. Though my own life has been one of seeming perpetual motion, this address has never changed.

For over 50 years I have dashed up the same front steps, sat at the table in the same kitchen (with a few renovations), and looked out the same front window at the same row houses across the street. I can find my way through these rooms blindfolded. Even my dogs, every one of them, sensed when we were approaching. Each would awaken from a dead sleep whether we were coming off of I-95 or over one of the Delaware bridges: they, too, knew the magic of the place.

My Aunt Renee and Uncle Nicky had been married 60 years before she died. They spent every one of those years at 4336. Even the phone number has been the same in all the years I've known it. Through births and deaths and love and loss, this little place has embraced their history. Such constancy always amazed me: so antithetical to all I have become.

And yet...
so much a part of all I have become.