The Challenge of Change

Sedona AZ

Dear Mrs. Cast,

Thank you for your comments on my blog. They are very much appreciated. And you came to the right girl for advice. So here’s my take on retiring to an RV full time.

I feel your pain.

But like all change, it’s really the anticipation that is scary. I should know. When I went into labor with my second child, I decided I just wasn't having this baby. I'd changed my mind. Guess what.

Once you commit to any life, whether it’s retirement, period, with all its adjustments, or moving to another part of the country, or downsizing, or god forbid moving in with the kids, it’s unnerving. Especially that kids thing, oy.

But the reality of this turtle living, moving around with your home on your figurative backs, is that it doesn’t have to be permanent. You can always change your mind. Encourage your reluctant spouse to think of it as a nice long, protracted vacation adventure, with lots of time for visiting with friends and family, lots of fun exploring new sights, foods, people and places, lots of learning that will undoubtedly keep your mind agile even if your back is growing achy, your knees are giving out and your hearing’s getting more selective by the day.

And you can stop doing it the minute you get bored, or begin to long for dirt. That’s the only thing I’ve missed in two years on the road, dirt. A nice little plot to put seeds in, nurture and watch grow into beautiful flowers. I missed the decorating thing for a while, but buying a couple of pillows for the couch seemed to staunch that fire. They’re on the floor as I write this, making a nice resting place for our smelly little dog. So much for living in style.

Seriously, I’m not going to be 95 and hauling ass all over America. I’m going to be rocking and knitting. Then again, I could well move that rocker into the bus and haul my bony old self up to Alaska for just one more look. I have every option in the world, you see.

That’s the beautiful part of the rest of our lives. We still have all the choices in the world, and all the world to discover.

But the pain, oh the pain, of giving up your stuff. Your house, your furniture, your washing machine, your rake, your trash compacter, your closet with those clothes you haven’t worn in years, those knick knacks you’ve forgotten to dust for three months.

You get my drift. What I discovered was that I was holding onto a concept of hearth and home that had little, if any, basis in reality. Things don’t make a home. You do. And you will turn wherever you are into your home and love it as much as that house with its dust bunnies under the bed, air conditioner that dies on the hottest day, and washing machine that burps if you put clothes in it.

It took my husband three years to get me to sell my thriving business, abandon my partner and employees, my brothers and sisters, friends and acquaintances, sell my beautiful house, pretty condo and BMW and trade it all for – let’s get real here – the future of my marriage and the safety of our nest egg. We were simply living too high on the hog, accent on the hog.

Once I finally committed to this big change, I surprised myself. I got jazzed about it. And I began to see what really mattered to me in my life. For example, where I had been in love with the antique demilune chest with the marble top that graced our entrance and made it elegant, special and unique, I now saw it as a gorgeous box for candles I’d never light, tassels I’d bought and never used, vases I couldn’t throw away and keys to things I couldn’t remember. Plus, it was a catchall for purses, gloves and stuff that wasn’t even decorative. So when someone at the garage sale offered me the same price I’d paid for it two years earlier, I happily sold it, even though I’d had every intention of keeping it in storage.

But I kept every picture I’d ever taken of my kids, my Betty Boop collection because it has sentimental value, my brand new mattress, but not the bed, and a couple of bureaus that were so expensive I’d never get what they were worth. We have three rooms full of stored things, and I have been thinking lately of how much it costs to store stuff, and which of those things I couldn’t bear to part with, things that are now just a monkey on my back money-wise, and how I’m going to put most of them on Craig’s List when I get back to New York. So much for what I couldn’t live without. You’ll be amazed. And the money will be really nice if I ever buy a place. All new stuff, how exciting.

I thought I’d miss my friends and family, and while I certainly do miss our regular dinners together, card games visits and the like, I’m actually seeing much more of them than I expected. Wheels can take you anywhere, remember. And I’ve reconnected with old friends who’ve moved away, which is one of the happiest of all my happy experiences. Hanging out with somebody you’ve not seen for twenty years, who is just as great to be with as you remember – that’s a gift.

And thank God for phone and Internet and Facebook and computers with cameras and Skype and all the ways we can stay close no matter where we are.

So you see, dear Mrs. C, home is where you make it. And things are less important than you think. And if you don’t have a patch of dirt to plant, then you buy a portable flower box and throw some seeds in it. And if your friends are far away, you will make more of an effort to stay in touch. Adapting is the name of the game, and change really does shake the tree and help the dead fruit to fall to the ground. The good peaches will stay with you and taste riper and juicier than you ever imagined.

I think I just made the longest metaphor ever attempted by a writer. See? When I lived on my dirt, I could never have done that. The dryer would have dinged and I’d have to fold clothes. It just wouldn’t have happened.

Oh, and by the way, before you leave, tell your husband he’s now in charge of his own laundry. You’re not retiring to become a housekeeper. It’s bad enough you’ll have to toss those paper plates in the garbage. That’s enough housework for any woman.

Love Betty