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OOPS, I DID IT AGAIN: A STORY ABOUT FAILING

Last fall, I was several weeks into retirement after thirty-three years of teaching, and I was uncomfortable. It was an itchy feeling like I hadn’t rinsed off the soap in the shower, or I had rubbed up against a toxic plant. This was unexpected. I retired intentionally; I was prepared. And I was ready for change. 

I have multiple interests and had promised myself more time to write. I relished the idea of having the brain space to tackle new things. Maybe I lack self-awareness, or (and) maybe no one can predict how we will feel about a big change until it’s the skin we’re in. For me, turning the page to a new chapter isn’t as easy as a flip of the wrist.

The issue was not that I couldn’t find enough to do. Instead, there was so much to do that I couldn’t settle into any of it.

THE STRUGGLE TO FOCUS

First, I launched this blog. It was a success by my measure, and let’s face it, at this time of my life, my measure is the one that matters. I enjoyed creating this website (which still needs work). Heck, I was proud that I could make a website. And I felt joy at writing about the things I like—wellness, writing and wine. 

Joy equals success.

But was I heading in the right direction? I started and stopped other things as well. Primarily, cleaning the basement. Talk about failure—it’s worse now than it was a year ago.

Another failure was an account I made on a digital platform that connects freelancers with job opportunities. I had high hopes for this. The problem was the writing I landed was soulless, the pay was demeaning, and more concerning, I ran into a few scams. 

Over time, I became quiet. I was alone all day. I hadn’t prepared for the loss of the social aspects of teaching. I spent a lifetime chatting with kids all day, every day. And let’s face it, smelly as they may be, kids are funny and energizing. When I taught, I came home and told my husband all manner of funny stories. Suddenly, I had little to talk about at the end of the day.

Other odd behaviors evolved. I was randomly saying hello to preteens in the Target. If I bumped into a former student at a restaurant, I chatted them up to a degree that likely challenged their attention span. Frankly, I was giving desperate. 

A SOLUTION OF SORTS

My husband, David, suggested I take a ten-day position in the district where he works. This wasn’t what I had promised myself, but out of concern for my well-being, I took the job. David commented at the end of day one that I was using possessive pronouns—the students were already mine. My face hurt from smiling all day, and I had stories to tell at the dinner table. When that teaching assignment ended, I decided to grab more of a good thing and took on a full semester placement in another district. 

In other words, I failed to launch into retirement. It may be that I wanted my old skin. There’s a plethora of research about falling back on what we know instead of learning to live with discomfort as we embark on something new. This behavior is natural in many ways and dates back to our need for self-preservation. Survival of the species is reinforced when we continue to do that which has been successful. Was I afraid to remain uncomfortable while I learned something new? Absolutely. I have more work to do in this area because, even though it is natural, it is not necessarily good for the brain.

For sure I was missing the energetic company of those with whom I spent thirty-three years: twelve-, thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds, as well as my work friends. It’s not surprising, then, that I thoroughly enjoyed the new environments I discovered while subbing. I became attached to new colleagues I met, I learned different approaches to instruction, and of course I felt energized by the kids. 

Strangely, I was uplifted every morning by a different drive into work. There’s a wellness lesson here.

One subbing assignment took me past a new construction. It was a home in the shape of a barn—bright red with a slate black roof. Their car seemed to pull right into the back of the house as the whole of it was under a single roofing frame. On dark winter mornings, I’d strain with curiosity to see inside the windows. Farther along, there was a tree on a hill in the middle of the field, and as the sun rose, it sliced light through the branches and shot misty streaks of shadow and light down the slope. 

MOVING FORWARD

So, yes, I went back to work. I don’t actually believe I failed. Instead, I had the opportunity to experiment—which I needed. How can I honor the person I’ve always been while giving myself new opportunities for growth? 

On the new school year, I’ve destroyed the upstairs of my home, cleaning, painting, updating—all things that felt too overwhelming to undertake before. I’m doing physical therapy to address a running injury, and I am taking on creative projects like making junk journals.

I did fail to keep blogging at the pace I intended and at a pace that makes a blog successful. Turns out that when I’m teaching something new and in an unfamiliar environment, I can’t get my hands or mind free to crank out meaningful content. 

I’m also researching vineyards that create a high-end wine and a table wine. I’d like to blind taste test and to see if I can identify the more expensive of the two. For example, the Quilt cab vs their less expensive cab called Thread Count (I love the names). I’ll be sure to pass along my notes.

Finally, I’ve been researching the difference between optimism and hope.

I like the term “semi-retired”. It feels right to me. I’ll be back in a middle school for second quarter (oops, I did it again), and while I know it will slow me down as a writer, I also know it will fulfill me in ways I now know I need. 

Here’s the teacher’s vocabulary lesson: intentional is thee buzz word today, meaning deliberate, calculated, on purpose. For example, I planned, intentionally, for retirement. But now that I’m here, it has felt more like I hurled myself into the unknown. I’ve had some “failures” (the basement still haunts me), but I’ve had some big wins. I’ve figured out the tonic for itchy skin by stepping back into what I know, yet I’m determined to keep foraging into the unknown, perhaps with less intention if I can handle that. As a friend of mine told me a year ago, intentionality is the enemy of creativity. I’m destined to endure more itchy skin moments and that may lead to more failure. But it will also bring some unintended discoveries, creativity and growth. So, I’ll do it again. Oops!

IT’S THE HOLIDAYS: HOW DO EXPECTATIONS INTERFERE WITH WELLNESS?

The holidays are supposed to be cozy, colorful, comforting. They are supposed to be awe-inspiring, spiritual, uplifting. That’s a lot of pressure for one season. As such, many of us put in Herculean efforts to make sure our loved ones will experience all the feels and have memories for a lifetime.

When my kids were little, Martha Stewart was in her prime. I subscribed to her magazine and watched her show. I remember an episode where she matched the color of her house to an egg her chicken laid because even her chickens understood perfection. They popped out eggs in a color she called ecru. It was understated. Classy. Perfection. She took the egg to a paint store to have her own color made. If this was her everyday episode, you can imagine her Christmas episodes. Handmade garland, candles and wreaths. Home cooked meals in multiple courses, served on three layers of plates with polished silver and more elements to a dinner table than I understood. 

 Did I find all the feels Christmas should be? I only found fatigue. Teaching children in the weeks leading up to Christmas is exhausting. Privileged kids are over-excited. Underprivileged kids are stressed, short-tempered, and worried about the school doors closing for a week. Further, when school let out, I or my husband often came home with the flu. 

I remember one Christmas Eve where I had bought my daughters matching black velvet and gold dresses with the wide, flowing skirts they loved. I had picked out black Mary Janes and warm tights and had a vision of how perfectly adorable they’d be at church and at their grandparents for the celebration. I could see the photo I would take then print–smiling faces in Christmas finery shaped into a black frame. It would be a photo I would add to a perfectly arranged gallery and others would comment: How adorable! How sweet! 

I got the girls dressed for church early so we could take the picture in front of the tree. My youngest was just a baby and she quietly cooperated. My oldest, however, had ideas of her own (and did forever after). She didn’t like the black Mary Janes I had selected. They had a gummy sole. They did not clip-clop when she walked across the kitchen floor; and were, therefore, decidedly NOT dressy. They were not, in her mind, perfect. She pulled the black shoes off and tugged on a pair of shiny white shoes from a wedding she’d been the flower girl for. These shoes had a little heel. They made clacking sounds on the floor. Nevermind that she was in a gold and black dress with black tights. She was wearing the white shoes. 

I took a stand. I showed her in the mirror that she did not match. I showed her how she did not coordinate with her sister. Of course, I was also worrying that others would judge me for not getting her matching shoes. Poor neglected child. She cried, and I was really tired and still had curlers in my hair, so I cried too. 

I had expectations for the day. My expectations, of which she had zero understanding, weren’t going to be met. Hers were. As mom, it’s what we do. The white shoes were photographed, were worn at church (she smiled wide when she heard those shoes on the marble floor), and at the family celebration.

In reality, my tears weren’t about the mismatched shoes and an imperfect photo. They were Martha’s fault and a reckoning moment. A realization that a (media influenced) vision I had in my head, an expectation, was not going to be a reality. I was not, nor ever would be, the type of person who could create the lushly gorgeous holiday that I saw in my mind and in magazines. I had failed. 

Was the answer to lower my expectations? Frankly, we teachers never like doing that.

I had a conversation with two of my sisters about this Christmas Eve disconnect. One sister said, “You have a blackmail photo. Those are the best. Show her when she’s older and worried about her image.”

 Another sister said, “Why would you cry? Photos can be cropped.”

LOWER EXPECTATIONS OR A SHIFT IN FOCUS?

The advice from my sisters was really about a shift in focus. We all have ideals and expectations, and I’ve always believed it to be important to work toward them–personal growth, self-improvement and all that. But when things go wrong, looking at the results differently could improve enjoyment of the holidays.

Case in point: photos can be cropped. 

Let’s play with that as a metaphor. How can we frame events that don’t meet our expectations in a positive light?

Similarly, what can we accept? 

Just last week, my family (my kids are adults now), traveled to my home state to see a group of 45 people for Thanksgiving. Our family is big and only getting bigger. Each of us loves our large family, and we are committed to staying connected. 

I booked an Airbnb with one of my sisters and her family. I was excited because it was spacious, with a large great room and kitchen–perfect for entertaining all our adult children. The location was close to the house where the full gathering would be.

Unfortunately, this did not not pan out. The rental was attached to another rental and the door between the two spaces was not secure. There were several other issues I will not get into here, but long story short, we left the premises. This involved a conversation with a Sheriff, relocating eleven people and a cooking turkey, and uncomfortable conversations with the owner. These efforts consumed the entire day of Thanksgiving. Disappointing, no?

I don’t, however, look back at the Thanksgiving holiday, as a whole, negatively. I saw a nephew I haven’t seen in years. I played with a few grand nieces and nephews. I met a new baby.

I played a game with my sister, sister-in-law and two nephews–a game my sister-in-law invented on the spot. (Highlight of the weekend. Also, my team won.) I engaged in meaningful conversations with nieces, my daughters, and snagged a few moments with my daughter’s boyfriend. 

In my mind, these memories live larger than the Airbnb disaster.

This shift in focus is new for me, something I now understand to be practiced. It comes down to acceptance. I have learned to accept that things outside of our control happen. That sounds ridiculous but that’s it–things happen. I had to wade through what went wrong. I was angry, disappointed, embarrassed (I booked the place for everyone), but  I couldn’t change it. 

I got my money back, but my family was tired, irritated and shook. I couldn’t get their day back, so I had to accept it and move my focus on to other things, like the people I wanted to connect with, a wine I wanted to try, a pie I needed to taste. 

Simple, important things.

ANN’S NOTATIONS FROM AN EXPERT: BRENE BROWN

 My disappointment comes when that last piece–the love and praise–doesn’t happen. I need to recognize that it doesn’t always happen because it was all a secret. And usually  too subtle for any of my loved ones to pick up on.

BACK TO THE WHITE SHOES

Did I share with my oldest, on that stressful Christmas Eve, that I expected a perfect picture? Probably not, because she would not have understood anyway.  

And did she share with me that only clickety-clackety shoes would do for Christmas? Of course not, but there’s an important lesson here. I had expectations–and so did she. 

You have expectations for your holidays–so do the many people you share the holidays with. What if, like mismatched shoes and tights, expectations don’t connect, don’t mesh, even interfere with those around you? 

By communicating expectations (okay, maybe not with toddlers), everyone’s secret little visions are on the table.

And that isn’t lowering expectations; that just feels good. 

THE TAKEAWAY

I started this blog because I’m retired, and I am at an age where I can reflect back on things. The pearl of wisdom I give you is this:

 Holidays where expectations did not meet reality are frequently the ones my family treasures the most. 

My oldest loves the story about the shoes and what it says about her twenty years later. And so do I. And I guarantee there will be buzz, barbs, and teasing in the years to come around the Thanksgiving Airbnb debacle. 

Here’s why acceptance is important. When we process the disappointment, then allow ourselves to move into a place of acceptance, we can reframe the “picture” we had in mind, and shift our focus to the moments we are grateful for. You’ll likely discover that there were uplifting moments, cozy, sustaining moments, and more likely the best of all–joy from the simple things. Even the mishaps.