For all of my working life, my morning routine was guided by getting ready to go somewhere. At first, that involved getting myself and three children out the door every morning, then later, just myself. For most of that time, I had to dress according to someone else's standards of professional attire for women, which always included pantyhose or stockings. Do you know what I especially don't miss in these days of retirement and pandemic? Those stupid pantyhose.
My routine changed a bit after the kids were grown, and when I was going to the gym or swimming in the morning before work, but I still had to choose the work outfit before leaving the house for the day. I would leave the house in sweats or swimsuit, but within a couple of hours would be dressed in "real clothes." Except for my last five years of work, which was in a union office with a boss who was an actual human being, I was never comfortable in that particular skin. I felt like I was playing dress-up to conform to the expectations of a society I did not want to belong to.
It has been two years since I retired. My closet contents have changed considerably in that time; my morning routine considerably more by virtue of the fact that I no longer have a routine when it comes to dressing and doing my hair. I have the freedom to do whatever pleases me, in whatever order it pleases me. I don't take that freedom for granted.
My days have sometimes gone a bit wonky during this time of pandemic isolation. I know many people who make jokes about staying in their pajamas or sweats or underwear all day, days on end. If I engaged in that behavior, it would be a red-flag level of depression. Most days, I get dressed in clean, comfortable clothes. If I'm working outside, sometimes I change two or three times a day. But there are random days when I choose to spend the day in sweats or warm, comfy pajamas. I think that is a good, healthy self-care choice.
Then there are days like today when I slept through my alarm, so I rushed outside to let the chickens out after pulling my coat on over my sleeveless, t-shirt nightgown and slipping my bare feet into my wellies. It was only 34 degrees outside, and I thought I would just hurry out then hurry back in. But the instant I stepped into the sun, I knew I wanted and needed more time outside. I just wasn't ready to get dressed. After tending the chicks, I followed the sun around to the South yard, where I sat on the east-facing porch of Rhodes' workshop.
Sitting in direct sunlight, I took my coat and wellies off. Sun on as much bare skin as possible without being naked, bare feet in the dew-soaked grass, I was warm and comfortable and content. My monkey mind tried to tell me that I needed to get busy, to get dressed, and start my daily chores and writing, but I made a deliberate choice to turn that voice off. I gave myself the gift of 10 minutes of intentionally listening to birdsong, visually exploring the different shades of blue that filled the sky, noticing how the sun felt on my skin, and truly, madly, deeply feeling the connection between my feet and the earth beneath me.
I've carried the joy inspired by those 10 minutes through this entire day. More and more, I realize that the seemingly endless horizon of time in these days of isolation is not a gift. That the pockets of intentional, focused, unplugged, wilding time are one of the real treasures to be found in these difficult days. And by making sweet use of them, I am shedding more expectations than I ever thought it was possible to carry.
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