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.
Causes Jean Stringam Supports