Here's a one-question happiness test for you. It's based on a thought that might float through your head fives times a day for your entire adult life.
Fill in the blank with an activity, (not a feeling).
The one word that always completed that sentence for me was gardening. Specifically, I fantasized about growing food, turning every inch of my lawn into an edible landscape. Was it true, though, that I'd trade a seat at a conference table to stand knee deep in composted manure? Truth becomes a dare when we retire, as time stretches out in front of us to do what we imagined we'd do with it.
So in November 2015, as I walked out the employment door into the sunlit landscape of retirement, I found I had an acre of land, a supportive spouse, all the time I needed, and no excuses.
I decided to experiment with a permaculture garden. Its principles include: no digging the soil, no pulling weeds, no planting in straight lines, and, basically, no stressing about insects or pests. Just create compost, encourage diversity, and be open to all kinds of wildness.
Wildness sounded like fun.
The result was an abundance of vegetables throughout the summer, spinach and lettuce all winter, and the promise of even more in the next year. This season, with the head start of a crazy-warm February, I have ten different kinds of greens and root vegetables out there already. There are about 100 seedlings in my greenhouse, waiting their turn. Half of them will go into a communal garden that's starting at my synagogue.
After 16 months of retirement, I can see the truth and dare of my dream of happiness in a garden. The truth is that I was right. This is the natural thing to do with my time and energy. Looking back, even as a non-profit executive, I was happiest when the task at hand was to grow something - an idea, a program, a customer base. I'm not afraid of hard work, dirt, bugs or worms, (in the garden as well as the non-profit world). I enjoy experimenting and learning from failure. I am mildly obsessive. These are all classic qualities of a gardener.
Work trains us to respond to an external source of accountability. There's always a report due or a target date for launch that's often set arbitrarily. In the garden, the plants are in charge. Forget to water them? They wilt. Put them out too early and there's a frost? They die. Work deadlines might be arbitrary; the garden's are not.
And the dare: My back and knees were in better shape 35 years ago. Aches and pains were disheartening at first. There was a point when I had to wonder if I had waited too long to start, if I had a dream, but I slept through it.
It took a year to notice that I'm stronger this year than last year. I'm patient with plants; I learned to be patient with my aching back. The reward for moderation and continuous improvement is simply delicious food.
So who wants a rutabaga?
"If I didn't need to do what I'm doing right now, I would be ___________________."I hope it's easy for you to conjure up a picture of an imaginary alternative to boredom or stress. Or your answer is that you wouldn't change a thing because you're in the exact right spot.
The one word that always completed that sentence for me was gardening. Specifically, I fantasized about growing food, turning every inch of my lawn into an edible landscape. Was it true, though, that I'd trade a seat at a conference table to stand knee deep in composted manure? Truth becomes a dare when we retire, as time stretches out in front of us to do what we imagined we'd do with it.
So in November 2015, as I walked out the employment door into the sunlit landscape of retirement, I found I had an acre of land, a supportive spouse, all the time I needed, and no excuses.
I decided to experiment with a permaculture garden. Its principles include: no digging the soil, no pulling weeds, no planting in straight lines, and, basically, no stressing about insects or pests. Just create compost, encourage diversity, and be open to all kinds of wildness.
Wildness sounded like fun.
Work trains us to respond to an external source of accountability. There's always a report due or a target date for launch that's often set arbitrarily. In the garden, the plants are in charge. Forget to water them? They wilt. Put them out too early and there's a frost? They die. Work deadlines might be arbitrary; the garden's are not.
And the dare: My back and knees were in better shape 35 years ago. Aches and pains were disheartening at first. There was a point when I had to wonder if I had waited too long to start, if I had a dream, but I slept through it.
It took a year to notice that I'm stronger this year than last year. I'm patient with plants; I learned to be patient with my aching back. The reward for moderation and continuous improvement is simply delicious food.
So who wants a rutabaga?
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