One of the traps of retirement is becoming narrow – rejecting new directions, settling comfortably into familiar ways, at first refusing, then fearing change. I have written in other posts about my distress over the circus closing, and now I can add to that the news that Sears, the stalwart of my childhood whose Christmas catalogue was my manic reading material for an entire month before Christmas, is bankrupt. It is permissible, I think, to feel some grief at the passing of what used to be defining institutions of the culture in which we grew up. But it is dangerous to cower in place, to allow the grief of what was to overshadow what is.
I have discovered, and friends of mine have agreed, that I am becoming more and more like my mother – specifically, I have adopted some of her attitudes that I once found distressing, for I saw that they limited her. I remember her rejection of the marvelous invention of the dishwasher. She saw no sense in having a machine that required you to essentially wash the dishes before she loaded it. She also rejected microwave ovens, never seeing its advantages. In both cases, she reneged, and learned to use those devices, but always with a sense that somehow she had given in to the unnecessary.
And so, I mourn for Sears instead of celebrating the ease of Amazon. I miss the circus, instead of marveling at the availability of entertainment in my own home. If I really miss it, I suppose, I could pour sawdust on my floor and rent an elephant.
I love the comfort of my home, but I tend to cower in it. A beautiful day, to me, is one in which I do not have to leave it. But always, the choice to stay at home comes with the price of missing what might be outside.
This tendency of mine came to light last October in a clear, unavoidable way. I had an opportunity to travel to Israel with a group from my church. I paid my deposit, but I knew I could back out. The time came to send the remainder of the money to the travel agency, and to reserve airline tickets. I did both, but also bought insurance, so if I decided not to go, I could expect a refund.
As the time approached for the journey to begin, I found myself in a state of disbelief – as if the departure date would not really arrive, as if I did not yet have to make a decision. I bought a new suitcase (I could always use a new suitcase), began gathering clothes and items for the trip from a list my friend who would be my roommate had given me.
And then, one night, a couple who were going on the trip hosted an evening for the group of “pilgrims” making the journey. We each gave our reasons for going – I, that my son and daughter-in-law had gone to Israel and had encouraged me to make the trip. That was the reason, but I also saw that there was something lacking in my motivation – the desire to know in a physical way the basis for the faith that I practiced. I heard that in the statements of my travel mates.
I had told many people I was going, my son and daughter among them. I continued to gather information and supplies, continued to believe somehow that the trip would not materialize. And then, the date of departure approached, and, suddenly, it seemed, arrived. My roommate picked me up at 4:00 in the morning, to catch our early flight on Air Canada to Toronto, and then on to Tel Aviv. I went to Israel.
The trip was life-changing for me. It expanded my vision and my faith, made real the Biblical accounts, touched me deeply. I fell in love with my travel mates, with the people I met, with Israel itself. If I had gone primarily to please others, I returned with a new dedication to grow in my relationship with Christ.
I felt I had been swept into taking this risk, rather than actually daring to take it, but it taught me a lesson: to step outside of my comfortable home, to have new experiences, to allow myself to grow. Retirement can be a wonderful time of expansion, rather than contraction, of knowledge, of wisdom, of experience – and, yes, of daring to try a new adventure.
01/24/2019