We stepped out of the car today into the wind, the dog eager to have her daily walk at The Farm, a 320 acre former farm that was bought by the county and is now a park The grass for cows has been killed off here and replaced with prairie grass and flowers, and now the chest-high stalks glisten in the weak sun, their pale yellow shining against the crust of early snow. It has been very cold with high winds of late, but today was well into the 20's, and with the sun I barely had to zip up my winter coat. We walked over the first hill and down, only to see another walker coming the other way, with dogs. Aye, no, now we had to leash our own and hold her against her pretend lunges, something she would never do off leash, but those are the rules. The other walker, however, stood still, and soon we knew why: she was our neighbor and was waiting for us, to walk back and up the longer steep hill past the woods, where the view of the frozen lake and the farms beyond was best.
Soon we were talking, and retirement and the fortunes of others came up. Our "neighborhood" is a 2 mile stretch of road, and by chance, most of us living along it are of roughly the same age, ranging from the mid-fifties to the late sixties, and work life for most is being rolled up. Two couples already have plans for months to spend down south, avoiding the sharp cold that is Wisconsin winter, and others, only semi-retired, are planning shorter trips here and there, as children no longer are going to school and money is no longer so tight. For a few, money is not tight at all, and we discussed this, too, with the longing that comes from casual envy. Everything in our speech was casual, but that is not really so. Retirement is a strange thing, and it hits in ways many would not expect.
I know I did not. Layoffs have recently come to our house, and once we ordered our finances so that we could hope for continued independence, something odd happened, at least to me: a black hole opened up, not to infinity, but to an end that might be 20 or more years into the future. Yes, that would be death, but that is not what makes the hole ominous: it is rather the realization that something must be done with those remaining years; that to simply coast on the grain in the barn is not enough. More grain must be raised, even if the field is gone. How, then, to do that? What, then, to do to feel fulfilled?
It's an odd thing that I had heard of from others, but I thought it impossible. Coast! While I was living with the Indians of the Amazon, it seemed to me that none had this ambition - that to have enough meat and fish and sweet potatoes was enough, and that if it were given, they would simply get fat and lie about in their hammocks. Maybe I am wrong - maybe they would feel an emptiness, but I would never see this situation. That they did not have our ambitions, though, is unmistakable. None were going to be stars or famous because they had no mechanisms for being famous. Even warfare was largely a thing of the past. To be a good hunter or farmer, yes, but that was the limit of what they could be
We, though, have no limits. There is always someone better, either artistically, financially, morally, or whatever. Every peak to us reveals another peak, and the desire to be the best can never be satisfied. But it is not just a desire to be the best - I believe I gave up that notion long ago - but also, or rather, to be useful. In retirement, even though it is your own money that you will be living on, there is sense of not being useful anymore. Without usefulness, even with a full bank account, one feels useless. A general feeling of happiness becomes difficult. This is why so often the big lottery winners end miserably. Having money is not an end to itself - it is only a resource. It is a pile of fish or meat that will not rot. One has plenty to eat, but no thrill of the hunt, no challenge, no difficulties to overcome. It is the plight of the over-rich and the retired and it is real.
A few years ago, we saw a PBS movie on John Muir. He came to America from Scotland with his father when he was a young teen and they settled on the new lands in Wisconsin that had recently been taken from the Indians. His father was pure Calvinism: work, work, work! One was to be useful and industrious! It was his idea of God's desire for us and he infused it into his reluctant son, who would rather walk the woods and fish with the more layed-back locals. He went to college and became an industrial engineer and was very successful, his father's voice always in his head - work, work, be useful! - until he was nearly blinded while attempting to fix a factory machine. In the movie, at least, this was his turning point. He quit after his recovery to do the things he was to become famous for: travel through the woods and mountains and plains of 19th century America with no more than his cloths and a small bundle of cooking items. His accounts are incredible: he walked the Sierra Nevadas in California with this nothing of gear, caught in blizzards and storms, not complaining of his suffering, but relishing his freedom in the elements. He was something of a miracle, so merged with nature that he seemed indestructible. His life was no longer to be useful, but to explore, to feel, to live the wonders of nature that had been set before him. This, he felt, was the natural man, not his father's worker bee.
He did go on to write and become famous, and maybe that was his goal all along, although we are never told this and it does not seem likely. Regardless, this was his philosophy, as it probably was the Indians' in their own way: explore, wonder, enjoy, tremble, feel. Anything past sustenance was excess; all the rest was there, made for our discovery.
They are conflicting cultures of thought, these, and they make all the difference in the world if we have the privilege to decide between the two. Must we have a project, a goal, or is living enough? Must we try to save the poor or build a bigger barn, or can we simply enjoy the sunset? Which of these is the better goal? Most of my neighbors would say,"have a goal," for we are united as a culture behind this. But that is culture. What of that beyond culture? What of the moral imperative of life? And is there a moral imperative to life?
This is the hole we look into at this age. Some brush past it, thinking they know the answer, but the answer is far more difficult, really. It is a question of meaning in our life, not just to ourselves and to others, for that is ever-changing and often superficial, but to fate: to God or to soul or whatever we might call it. Does this empty hole turn dark because we feel we must be useful, or does it turn dark because we are not doing what we should be doing? And what might that be? Is God more impressed with our doings, or with us being impressed by God?
It seems almost the latter, but I am not quite sure, not yet. Everyone, it seems, comes to a different conclusion at this stage, and perhaps it is simply up to individual fate and preference. Maybe it should be an easy decision after all.
But probably not. Life is not some casual gift. If not to be useful, then, to be what? Maybe the answer was once easy, but we are a culture of change and excitement. The wisdom of elders is rarely appreciated, for their wisdom knows little of new technology and the latest fads. Maybe,.then, we should roam what we can of the mountains like Muir, and take them into our hearts and deeper still. Maybe, even if it must be done without appreciation, we should live for the appreciation of life itself, however we might define that. Perhaps in defining this, we find our usefulness after all. Perhaps that has been the point all along, to fully appreciate, our useful business throughout life not our real business.
It seems it all comes down to finding Self. Who would think that retirement could force us to confront this, the hardest work of all? FK
Soon we were talking, and retirement and the fortunes of others came up. Our "neighborhood" is a 2 mile stretch of road, and by chance, most of us living along it are of roughly the same age, ranging from the mid-fifties to the late sixties, and work life for most is being rolled up. Two couples already have plans for months to spend down south, avoiding the sharp cold that is Wisconsin winter, and others, only semi-retired, are planning shorter trips here and there, as children no longer are going to school and money is no longer so tight. For a few, money is not tight at all, and we discussed this, too, with the longing that comes from casual envy. Everything in our speech was casual, but that is not really so. Retirement is a strange thing, and it hits in ways many would not expect.
I know I did not. Layoffs have recently come to our house, and once we ordered our finances so that we could hope for continued independence, something odd happened, at least to me: a black hole opened up, not to infinity, but to an end that might be 20 or more years into the future. Yes, that would be death, but that is not what makes the hole ominous: it is rather the realization that something must be done with those remaining years; that to simply coast on the grain in the barn is not enough. More grain must be raised, even if the field is gone. How, then, to do that? What, then, to do to feel fulfilled?
It's an odd thing that I had heard of from others, but I thought it impossible. Coast! While I was living with the Indians of the Amazon, it seemed to me that none had this ambition - that to have enough meat and fish and sweet potatoes was enough, and that if it were given, they would simply get fat and lie about in their hammocks. Maybe I am wrong - maybe they would feel an emptiness, but I would never see this situation. That they did not have our ambitions, though, is unmistakable. None were going to be stars or famous because they had no mechanisms for being famous. Even warfare was largely a thing of the past. To be a good hunter or farmer, yes, but that was the limit of what they could be
We, though, have no limits. There is always someone better, either artistically, financially, morally, or whatever. Every peak to us reveals another peak, and the desire to be the best can never be satisfied. But it is not just a desire to be the best - I believe I gave up that notion long ago - but also, or rather, to be useful. In retirement, even though it is your own money that you will be living on, there is sense of not being useful anymore. Without usefulness, even with a full bank account, one feels useless. A general feeling of happiness becomes difficult. This is why so often the big lottery winners end miserably. Having money is not an end to itself - it is only a resource. It is a pile of fish or meat that will not rot. One has plenty to eat, but no thrill of the hunt, no challenge, no difficulties to overcome. It is the plight of the over-rich and the retired and it is real.
A few years ago, we saw a PBS movie on John Muir. He came to America from Scotland with his father when he was a young teen and they settled on the new lands in Wisconsin that had recently been taken from the Indians. His father was pure Calvinism: work, work, work! One was to be useful and industrious! It was his idea of God's desire for us and he infused it into his reluctant son, who would rather walk the woods and fish with the more layed-back locals. He went to college and became an industrial engineer and was very successful, his father's voice always in his head - work, work, be useful! - until he was nearly blinded while attempting to fix a factory machine. In the movie, at least, this was his turning point. He quit after his recovery to do the things he was to become famous for: travel through the woods and mountains and plains of 19th century America with no more than his cloths and a small bundle of cooking items. His accounts are incredible: he walked the Sierra Nevadas in California with this nothing of gear, caught in blizzards and storms, not complaining of his suffering, but relishing his freedom in the elements. He was something of a miracle, so merged with nature that he seemed indestructible. His life was no longer to be useful, but to explore, to feel, to live the wonders of nature that had been set before him. This, he felt, was the natural man, not his father's worker bee.
He did go on to write and become famous, and maybe that was his goal all along, although we are never told this and it does not seem likely. Regardless, this was his philosophy, as it probably was the Indians' in their own way: explore, wonder, enjoy, tremble, feel. Anything past sustenance was excess; all the rest was there, made for our discovery.
They are conflicting cultures of thought, these, and they make all the difference in the world if we have the privilege to decide between the two. Must we have a project, a goal, or is living enough? Must we try to save the poor or build a bigger barn, or can we simply enjoy the sunset? Which of these is the better goal? Most of my neighbors would say,"have a goal," for we are united as a culture behind this. But that is culture. What of that beyond culture? What of the moral imperative of life? And is there a moral imperative to life?
This is the hole we look into at this age. Some brush past it, thinking they know the answer, but the answer is far more difficult, really. It is a question of meaning in our life, not just to ourselves and to others, for that is ever-changing and often superficial, but to fate: to God or to soul or whatever we might call it. Does this empty hole turn dark because we feel we must be useful, or does it turn dark because we are not doing what we should be doing? And what might that be? Is God more impressed with our doings, or with us being impressed by God?
It seems almost the latter, but I am not quite sure, not yet. Everyone, it seems, comes to a different conclusion at this stage, and perhaps it is simply up to individual fate and preference. Maybe it should be an easy decision after all.
But probably not. Life is not some casual gift. If not to be useful, then, to be what? Maybe the answer was once easy, but we are a culture of change and excitement. The wisdom of elders is rarely appreciated, for their wisdom knows little of new technology and the latest fads. Maybe,.then, we should roam what we can of the mountains like Muir, and take them into our hearts and deeper still. Maybe, even if it must be done without appreciation, we should live for the appreciation of life itself, however we might define that. Perhaps in defining this, we find our usefulness after all. Perhaps that has been the point all along, to fully appreciate, our useful business throughout life not our real business.
It seems it all comes down to finding Self. Who would think that retirement could force us to confront this, the hardest work of all? FK
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