The expression is…March comes in like a lion…well, I never loved that expression. It implies turbulence and storms. Lions in reality lie around in the sun a lot gathering strength for their one best shot of a good hunt. But I have to say, this March is living up to the old expression.
First of all, I started the month off by painting a store window. In a previously written blog, I mentioned the new location of a local yarn store. The owner asked if I would paint the windows because it may take a while to get a new sign. I love painting windows, so no problem. But I got a slow start because I have lost my rhythm for painting big projects. My truck is not working, so I have to approach the job without my ladders and gear. And, in general I wasn’t sure how it would it would all come together. I decided just to start with cartoon sheep–simple, fun, whimsical. A man came up and asked me if the new shop was a mattress store. I stenciled in “yarn shop.” I painted tassels across the top of the windows and stood back and looked at it and decided it had a faint Asian flair–maybe a Chinese mattress store, but I didn’t have time to fix it because I needed to drive up to Boulder.
About a month ago I wrote a script for a production for a literary show entitled Listen to Your Mother which is a live show in Boulder. My script was chosen for an in-person audition. I was excited, but the trip to Boulder was bizarre. In Colorado Springs, the rain started. My windshield wiper was showing signs of needing to be replaced and the other one wasn’t working at all. I had no idea why. When did it break, anyway? I didn’t stop and try to fix it; my weather app said the rain was going to stop, so I kept going and made it to Boulder early. I drove around a bit in an area now called NOBO. Boulder is SO pretentious. I started remembering some horrible things that happened to me while I was in college. I actually flashed on this image of myself in a black t-shirt standing on a corner with a plastic hospital ID on my wrist, trying to figure out who to call to pick me up when I didn’t have a quarter in my pocket and I wasn’t sure where my car was. I don’t think about college much, and to be transported back in time like that, felt really real, both upsetting and scaring me a bit. I almost started crying, but it was time for the audition. I felt so off my game. Even though I was supposed to stay with a friend afterwards, I just drove home. I drove straight into a swirling, wet snowstorm with a floppy windshield and almost zero disability. I don’t know what it is about going on road trips and ending up in dark weather vortexes that make me wonder if my last will and testament are up to date. I did make it home safe once again.
I didn’t get into the show. I got a nice rejection note, blah, blah. I was a little disappointed, but also okay, because driving up to Boulder a few times might have been a big commitment and maybe a show like that isn’t where my writing is supposed to take me right now.
I did start wondering about WHERE I am supposed to go though. I feel like I have been retired three months now and a direction should be coming clearer. Why isn’t it, though?
Then I got on a plane to Philadelphia. One of childhood my friends wrote a musical. I didn’t want my confusion to diminish how proud I am of her success, so on the way to Philadelphia, I tried to prepare myself for being in the moment for my friend.
Philadelphia is only about sixty miles to Atlantic City. I always want to see the ocean if I can and I had the first day alone. I thought I could get myself to the beach, delight in waves and sea foam, walk in the sand and then get to the musical. I didn’t know trains don’t run until the afternoon during the week, so I found myself on a bus. A very slow bus. After about two hours, I’d only gone half way. I realized that I would not be able to get back in time for the play, so I decided to return to the city. It reminded me of Demon Copperhead, when the character tries to get to ocean, but crappy things keep happening to him.
As I was looking out the bus window at endless strip malls and row houses and graffiti, it felt like being in a music video I had seen back in the early nineties. Out of nowhere I remembered that Bruce Springsteen is from New Jersey and all of a sudden, I realized I didn’t want to go to Atlantic City anyway.
I thought about college and Boulder again. I spent hours listening to music, trying to figure out my way back to myself. One summer I discovered Bruce–not the Born in the USA Bruce–the gritty, unfiltered Bruce. I bought all his music at an Albums on the Hill and then deep dived into his lyrics. I had a Springsteen t-shirt that I wore for so long that it became a rag. I still have it folded into a plastic bag, because for some reason holding on to that scrap of fabric was an important reminder of my survival. I googled how to get to Asbury Park.
So maybe March really does come in like a lion. Not the dramatic, roaring, charging, killing kind, but the real kind. The lion that spends long hours stretched in the sun waiting for that one, decisive moment.
So far this month has felt a little like that–cartoon sheep–painting on glass, a surface that is streaky and difficult–a strange drive through a city I no longer recognize to unbury painful memories of a forgotten time–a kind rejection letter–a drive toward an ocean that I didn’t see. None of it felt like progress if life is measured by neat accomplishments or tidy plans.
But somewhere between the swirling snow, the Jersey strip malls, and the memory of that worn-out Springsteen t-shirt, I remembered something important. There was a time in my life when music and words helped me claw my way back to myself. Back then I didn’t know where I was going either. I just knew that surviving meant listening closely to the voice that said keep going.
Maybe retirement isn’t about immediately discovering a clear new direction. Maybe it’s more like those lions in the sun—resting, watching, remembering who you are, and waiting for the moment when the next right thing appears.
For now, I’ll paint the windows. I’ll write the stories. And if the ocean wants to wait for me a little longer, that’s okay too.
Just Another Damn Thing to be Strong About 
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