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I Want to Float

I want to float.  No house, no car, no suitcase, no connections.  Just float.

Retirement didn’t cause this state of mind yet in some way it has exacerbated it.  After I taught my last class at the university in December, all winter I buried myself in my writing.  I felt little connection between time of day and eating and sleeping.  I barely surfaced to know what day it was.  Finally I began to set my iPhone for 6 AM just so I’d have a marker to keep me upright.

Then I sold my house and had to empty it.  Once my belongings were in PODS I wished a tornado would whisk them away.  Still strikes me as odd how all the natural events I feared in Missouri–tornadoes, ice-storms, and sink holes–became potential deliverers from self-definition.

I’ve bought a condo and while I wait out the days until I see my belongings again (pretty things chosen over decades during travels near and far), my longing to float has become almost palpable.

I phone for insurance for this and that, yet I wish I had nothing to insure.  I buy furniture for my patio, yet I can’t imagine sitting still in it.  I want to go to Machu Picchu.  I want to spend three months on Crete.  I want to be a barn swallow.  They make nests out of mud, yet they are swift and social and beautiful.

There is something about choosing a home that anchors and defines.  I want that to end.  I wish there was some sort of graduation for a retired person (besides death, of course) that would release me from being pegged and categorized, that delivered me from ownership and definition.