Do you wonder what others are doing with their time at home? I do. Some, of course, are working, earning a living by staring at their screens. Those of us who are retired—some of us immune compromised, so religiously staying put—are another story.
Me, I’m getting lazier. Put that another way: I’m growing less interested in charging ahead, making each day count. By “count” I mean “produce.” By “produce,” I mean I think back to when I was maybe 12 or 13—that young!—and I discovered that if I could tick off boxes every day, “Here’s what I got done,” I’d feel, if not necessarily happy, not necessarily free of anxiety, but at least like I was climbing upward. By “upward,” I mean getting somehow better, using more of myself.
If you’ve never been in the second half of your 70s, you will have to take my word for it: this plan quits working. It did work. You probably accomplished a lot of stuff. And you’re glad of that. You’re a more complex, wiser person than you used to be. But the plan doesn’t work any more. This is never more clear than in this pandemic, when you’re not able to dash around with your little tasks.
How do I spend my days? I don’t feel driven to write, but I write anyway. Some. I read, as always, anything with print on it—magazines, mysteries, poems, novels. I help other people with their poems and manuscripts. We watch something on TV every night (suggestions welcome). Most days I walk 2-3 miles. I’m not excited about cooking, but I do make some pretty nice meals sometimes. We order out about once a week. Jerry and I sit and drink coffee and talk. How people married 30 years can keep talking is beyond me, but we do.
Tell me these blue pillows aren’t too-too. Jerry says he’s “getting used to them.”
I am a bit obsessed about changing something, anything, in our condo. After six years, I would like to move furniture around, but there’s no other good arrangement. I bought new sofa pillows. Oh well.
Notice that I’m writing this. The writing seems to come to me. I don’t come to it. I come almost reluctantly, sometimes, feeling lazy about it, but it insists. I say to it, “I don’t have anything else to say.” It says to me, “That’s what you think.”
I say to it, “Why do I need to say anything more?” It says to me, “Look deeper. There is more. Trust me.”
Another thing: I’m lazy about sending work out. I have so many poems languishing in my computer! Well, not languishing. Many of them deserve to stay there. I’m not trying to get tenure or anything. I don’t send out work I’m not entirely happy with.
I used to feel uneasy about spending my time writing when others are out saving the world. That was my misunderstanding of “saving the world.” Now I say to myself, “Who knows what’s saving the world?”
What else do I do all day? I am fascinated that every morning each of us throws the covers off from our side to make a perfect arrow. I am fascinated by the colored lights on the balcony across the way, that send streaming colors down like little waterfalls. I am fascinated by my newfound ability to just sit, not lost in space, actually present, but as if I’m switched to idle.
Also, the still-unrestored building across the way recently has lights lit in it all night. What’s that about? I ponder this.