retirement – Dwelling in Presence

INTENTION

Rev. Dr. Kate Winters, “Dwelling in Presence,” December 29, 2023

I woke up thinking about my mother this morning During our daily phone call during her retirement, she would usually tell me what she had done that day. ”I cleared out the drawer underneath my desk,” or “I emptied out the closet in dad’s old office.” She said it with a satisfied sense of accomplishment, often adding “I have to do at least one thing a day, then I can rest.” I never really understood why she couldn’t rest to begin with, after all she was retired.

I’m starting to get it. One of the challenging things I have found in this stage of life is that after so many years of a packed calendar, I now have a lot of empty spaces. As someone who has always longed for more solitude and silence in her life, you would think that this is a good thing. At first, it was glorious (minus the detour for heart surgery), but after a while, I realized something. Although I was still basking in the silence of the mornings, meditating, reading, and writing, by noon I began to feel restless, and even, dare I say it, bored!

Yes, I know, there are many things I can be doing, good work to volunteer for, justice to advocate for, peace to demonstrate for, democracy to protect. And yes, I know I am not done with all of that, but I do not want to simply redo an earlier phase of life without knowing what this one is for. I could easily once again get caught up in a whirlwind before I ever find my ground. Neither do I want to float through half of my days wondering what I’m still here for. This is not restful, it is disorienting.

So, back to Ann, my mother. I think mom firgured out a key to a successful transition to retirement. After days filled with service in her occupation as director of volunteers in a large nursing home/assisted living facility, she may have felt unmoored as I do in open time. There is something, however, that can stem that feeling whatever you are, or are not, currently engaged in. Livng with intention. Each day she seemed to set an intention for her day, whether it be to clear out a drawer or a closet, visit a friend, anything that raised her motivation and feeling of accomplishment when done.

This is different than just “keeping busy.” Setting an intention raises one’s focus and engages the will. Why is this important? My recent experiences of restlessness and boredom feel like having lost not only the energy, but the will, to do or be anything. I may have a number of admirable goals, but somehow have lost the ability to reach toward them. I am living much of my day without a sense of intention, without making a firm decision, to change my circumstances or anyone else’s.

Mom, I understand now why you couldn’t rest until you got something done, until you accomplished your intended goal. It fed your desire to be of use, to be of service, without which you would always be restless and a little bored. You knew you still had it in you to accomplish what you set out to do. And you always did do wonderful things with your life, inspiring your friends and family.

So now, it is my turn. In this retirement phase, I need to return to living with intention. I can start small – such as handling one of the piles of folders in my hermitage, filing or recycling as need be, not expecting to get everything done at once. I may feel accomplished enough to take on another tomorrow. But only if I start my day with intention. I wish I had my mother to call and talk about it. But it will feel good to exercise the will in small ways, because I feel bigger challenges coming. I want to be able to say “yes” with all my heart.

COMING TO TERMS

Rev. Dr. Kate Winters, “Dwelling in Presence,” August 23, 2023

It is one of those perfect Maine summer days, low 70’s, crisp air, brilliant blue sky, and two competitive hummingbirds chattering next to me at the feeder. Make that three. A little male just chased the two females into the tree. I thought that season was over!

This is the first day since last year that I am writing in my screen tent on the deck. I don’t really know what took me so long. Although our prairie has been cut down to grass with hay on the side, I am surrounded by pink, purple, and white phlox, hundreds of black-eyed susans, bright orange nasturtium, and can hear our solar-powered fountain gently splashing in the bird bath. Certainly a more pastoral scene than my corner of the couch offered.

Now that I think about it, since retirement I may have been avoiding the spaces I equated with doing my work. I have written many a sermon/message in this tent. The most joyful part of my work hands-down. I also did a lot of liturgy planning and hymn writing at my desk in front of the wide living room window. It always gave me inspiration, like the osprey spreading its wings and the dragon fly lifted on the breeze. The trees in every season spoke to a different phase of the year and the heart. The empty branches rising in prayer and spring leaf buds hinting at rebirth. The dawn sky of Advent wearing the blue of hope and promise. But lately, I have been using the desk only for e-mail or word processing on the computer, never upon which to write. Any creative activity since January was done in one corner of the sofa. I did most of my grieving and my healing there under an afghan made for me by a dear friend. It was my refuge.

So what brings me outside today? What has changed? Perhaps I am moving from denial of what I have lost in the last seven months to acceptance. Joel and I participated in the installation of a colleague as pastor of another church on Sunday. It was strange putting on our clergy robes and stoles once again. But it was a reminder that even though we have let go the position of pastor at First Church, we are still ordained as pastor/teacher in the wider United Church of Christ. We are still called to serve the church and the world. It will simply have to take another form and be in a new place. Isn’t this the pattern of growth? To let go of one particular thing to open our arms to wider experience?

At the beginning of the installation service, the pianist played “Here I Am, Lord.” This was sung at my ordination service in Ohio. I was immediately transported back to that day in Septamber of 2000. It seemed that only yesterday I was taking the vows of ordination and feeling the weight of the hands upon my head as the Spirit was called to fill me and guide me on my way. A part of me was thinking I wish I could do it all over again. On the other hand, a deeper part knows that I am not the same woman anymore, except that I am still burning with a desire to know, love, and serve God in whatever form she manifests herself to me.

Finally, just before I set myself up to write in my tent, I was flipping through TV channels after the news. Sunddenly, there was Josh Fitterling, the new designated interim pastor at The First Church, leading worship on the local access channel. My first impulse was to flip on by, not wanting to deal with my feelings. But then, I just stopped and watched. I noted that he was preaching from the lectern, as I used to do, and not the raised pulpit. And yes, he belonged there. It was his turn to find himself at the heart of that good community. It was his turn to speak. To lead prayer. To love and be loved by the people. It is my turn to sit here on my deck in the summer breeze, listening to the racket of the ravens above me, the zooming by of the hummingbirds, and the whisper deep down in my soul – “Be still. Get ready to open your arms and your heart ever wider.” And I answer, “Yes.”

A COUPLE’S WILD RETIRED LIFE

Rev. Dr. Kate Winters, “Dwelling in Presence,” August 3, 2023

The prairie lives on! No Mow May slipped into No Mow June, became No Mow July, and, lo and behold, it is August! Seas of grasses surround our house, and “seas” is the right word as the surface of the wild growth often reminds me of choppy waters in a storm. Nothing placid about them.

I am glad that Joel has continued to mow walking paths around the grasses giving a bit of shape and edge to the overgrown fields. Otherwise it might seem as if the whole house was sinking under all the turbulent life thriving around it. Also, the paths allow the various patches of garden that he has planted over the years to be seen. They are worth seeing – blue salvia, yellow and orange day lilies, deep rose coneflower, blue and purple delphinium, blackeyed susans, bright fuchsia phlox, holly, winterberry, and azalea bushes, foxglove, columbine, watermelon and blue hydrangea, brilliant orange nasturtium, and errant sunflowers planted by the birds.

Perhaps inspired by the unfettered growth around them, the milkweed and Joe pye weed plants have sprouted all over the grounds, strong and healthy. But sadly, we have seen very few monarch butterflies this year. Yesterday, we spied our third. We used to have two or three daily. Joel did follow this one and was able to witness it laying her eggs on the leaves of a milkweed. In years past, he collected the tiny caterpillars and fed them until they formed the chrysalis and then released the butterflies a few weeks later. But honestly, I think he is busier now than when he was working. He is designing and building a window seat to put under my new “hermitage” window and then building some bookshelves around it. He is starting up his pottery business and is often in his back garage studio kneading, throwing, carving, firing, glazing, and finishing his pieces. The yard and garden still take a good deal of his attention. And, of course, he took really good care of me while I was convalescing. I am blessed with an extraordinary partner. Tonight I plan to cook the eggplant parmesan he has been craving. I have to do my part now, and food is one of Joel’s favorite things! I might even add a blueberry cheesecake pie.

There are so many stories of couples who go crazy in retirement because they have way too much time on their hands, together. That’s not our story, at least so far. My idea of a perfect day is to get up at dawn and bring my pen, a journal, a book or two, and lots of coffee into solitude. Joel goes out a little later for his morning walk downtown where he will run into numerous people, talk to almost every one of them, then return to tell me all about it! I will spend hourse with nature, not so much out in it, but taking in the views from the windows or on the back deck. Joel will put on his hiking bootts, make his own path through the woods, find new birds and insects to study, take numerous pictures, bringing his whole body and soul into the surroundings. We seem to see and experience things in different ways – he with all his bodily senses, me with some kind of inner awareness and intuition. We are both enriched as we bring these gifts to one another.

No, it’s hardly perfect. You can imagine that our differences can become points of contention. He gets lots of energy when surrounded by people. I can only interact for so long before I need to withdraw. How in the world did I stay in ministry for over thirty years? And we stay married for almost thirty? I think it may be that introverted and extroverted energy can both be employed in serving and loving the people. Because we both did and do. Just as we employ them in caring for and loving one another.

I end with another glimpse of the seas of grasses outside my writing desk window. There is no wind today. The waters are calm. I will sit here for a little longer to see what they will teach me. At least until Joel returns from his walk with tales of life from out little city!

SUNDAY MORNING

Rev. Dr. Kate Winters, Dwelling in Presence, July 16, 2023

We are immersed in fog once again. This morning, I am going to sink right into it. Seems there is nothing else to do this summer. What a difference from last year when every Sunday morning was a marathon of activity. Editing our sermons, putting finishing touches on the service, picking up a treat for the children’s message, getting Joel to choir on time, and into the sanctuary by ten. The most restful part was when the service began with the Tibetan bell. That’s the part I miss. I always felt right at home leading a community in prayer with Joel, looking out at all the beloved faces.

Things are different now. Now on Sunday mornings we first decide if and where to go to church. It’s often weather-determined. It is interesting going from presider to first-time attendee. We’ve visited six different churches so far, a few more than once. I’ve learned that most of them feel very similar going in for the first time – many folks reach out to welcome us. It’s at coffee hour afterwards where you can get a better individual vibe of the community. See the interaction. Find if you are left standing alone or invited into the conversation. Notice how comfortable the kids are. And, for Joel, what kind of treats are offered! I’m the one who goes straight for the coffee.

Of course, first the individual services send out strong and important impressions – is there life? Laughter and tears as well as read words? Silence as well as exuberant singing? Is it truly prayer directly to God, or as my friend Linda bemoans, is it all sermon? Do I feel the Spirit? Has anything happened that wove us together as one or are we walking out as separate as we did coming in? And yes, did the message bring both grace and challenge? (Whew, I’m glad I didn’t have me as a former pastor walking into one of our services!)

Though I know I have received a lot from these various church services, I know that it is what you bring in, how you participate, and what you give that blesses the experience and makes it whole. Honestly, I have yet to feel as if I have much to give. If you’ve been following this blog, you already know I’ve been feeling peculiarly empty of me lately. It seems I did not take fully into account what the bypass surgery immediately following retirement would do to me.

But this morning, thanks to a new subscriber to the blog, I am feeling deep gratitude. She included in her message a poem by Jeff Foster. I quote the last few lines:

If you want to do nothing, let yourself do nothing today.

Feel the fulness of the emptiness, the vastness of the silence,

the sheer life of your unproductive moments.

Time does not always have to be filled

You are enough simply in your being.

Thank you, Pat C. You may not know that my first plan for retirement was to enter three months of silence. I was wanting to “feel the fulness of the emptiness” and the “vastness of the silence.” My heart event changed my plans. Or did it? I may just be resisting learning in this new way – to the rhythm of a plan not my own.

Wake Up Call

Rev. Dr. Kate Winters

Saturday, April 22nd

The call of the owl was comforting on Tuesday, a sign of the ongoing presence of my mother during unsettling times. This morning, however, she seems to be sending a wake up call. I literally slept all day yesterday, not rising until 4:30 in the afternoon, a full twelve and a half hours later than usual. When upon waking this morning, I immediately began to think that I was supposed to be in Portland hooked up to all sorts of medical machinery, when the call came through my open window, sounding not soothing but rather impatient. “Listen up,” she seemed to say, “shouldn’t you be feeling gratitude? You are alive, you are free, it’s a beautiful day. Get out of that bed and live!”

The owl channeling my mother is wise. It’s true I’ve been spending too much time in bed lately. Not all of that time can be attributed to my heart condition. I am, after all, newly retired. The medical diagnosis has given me a convenient excuse not to deal with what that really means to me. It has put off my planned period of silence and anything else I had hoped to do in this time. The owl calls once again. (I swear it can read my mind.) “Get out of that bed!”

So, here I am, up and writing. Perhaps these two weeks of delay is not only disappointment, but a gift. I can be dealing with something else I’ve been putting off so that when I get out of the hospital, it won’t all just be sitting here waiting for me. Perhaps I can at least find a way to move forward.

I need to turn my work office at home into what I am calling my “hermitage.” I want a room in the house that calls me to prayer, reflection, silence, and writing. Joel and I used to go yearly to a cabin that did these things for me in Rangeley, Maine (yes, the land of the moose!). I was in a whole different mindspace when I got to that cabin. I attribute a large part of that to the simplicity and sparseness of the space itself – it held nothing more than the essentials for daily living. It had a tiny kitchen, a sofa and chair, a bed and bath, a table to write on, and a screened in porch upon which to take in the sunrise. I felt a deeper contentment there than I had anywhere else on earth. That is what I am hoping for in my hermitage.

The biggest challenge is not in setting up the room, just this week we had one of the small windows replaced with a large screened one. It seems to take the whole backyard including the woods inside. I love it. The hardest part is that the rest of the rooms holds my whole life in boxes! Books that I have loved and have changed me from grad school and seminary. At least three decades of liturgical writing – sermons, services, and hymns. Pictures and other objects from my parents’ home after my mother died. What to save? What to let go?

It is not as simple as getting rid of the “clutter” as all the books say. I think it has more to do with figuring out who I am now and what am I about? What is essential to me at this stage in my life? Having had no children, having let go of my church family, having siblings living in other states all with their own children and grandchildren, it is not an easy question for me to answer. I feel untethered, really. What and who am I to serve? This is the question that is calling me to my hermitage. Now that I have gotten out of bed.