April 3, 2003

Guilty or Not

I stand leaning my elbow on the chest of drawers under my bedroom window, looking west over the grass and trees as I love to do. It occurs to me that being retired is a lot like being on summer vacation from school. Only then I didn�t feel guilty for doing little or nothing. What is with this �feeling guilty� stuff, just because I am able to do as I please for most of the hours of my day?

Is it because, for so many years I felt restricted by the enforced parameters of schools and later, my employers, and now I am sort of without borders? At least borders prescribed by others.

One would think that after eight months of retirement, I would be past this stage. And to some degree, I am. But it is difficult for me to truly enjoy being able simply to do what I want at the moment�even if that is to do nothing at all.

It must be a terribly traumatic experience for a person who has been incarcerated, when that person is released after, perhaps, years of confinement and restricted behavior.

I suppose my mind is wandering too far a field with that thought.

I recall discussing with my school teacher daughter how children think they do not like boundaries, but it is the fence around the schoolyard that makes them feel safe and protected. Without boundaries of some type, we all �just wander off.

So perhaps, this is the final period of "growing up�. The period in life where we most fully discover what our own personal boundary system is made of. Where we �schedule� our own lives to produce valuable moments and experiences. Or not. And we become able to appreciate the personal freedom without allowing it to produce feelings of false guilt, or that we are wasting time.

On the other hand, we need to learn when we ARE wasting time and develop some new personal habits.

It�s time for me to go DO something.

A dear friend used to close her journal with�

�Thanks for reading."

I thought that was such a beautiful closing, that if she doesn�t object, I will do the same.

Thanks for reading.

Text � copyright 2003 - 2008 The Homespun Philosopher

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