I took myself to Starbucks this morning, a “treat” wedged between a quick stop at T.J.Maxx and a 10-minute post-surgery appointment with a physician’s assistant. It wasn’t my usual, as I’m more of a coffee shop “irregular” who takes that indulgent detour only every now and then.
But, that wasn’t always the case.
I’m flashing back to a time before working from home became “a thing” and long before the pandemic meant nearly everyone typed away while in their pajamas. Back then, countless high-heeled herds of us did the commuter hustle. If we were lucky, or just meticulous planners, we could squeeze in a coffee pitstop before heading out in our carpools or catching the train – at least that’s how it was in the northeast, a different time and place.
But today, as I gathered my literary fiction and settled into a small table overlooking the parking lot, I felt like a fringe customer – not a regular with work to attend to on my laptop or a virtual meeting to join. I couldn’t help overhearing some of the “important” conversations around me – a bearded guy engrossed in a negotiation, a pair of colleagues mapping out a treatment plan for, well, I don’t know, but the language, the phrases, even the cadence of their exchange excited the deeply entrenched worker bee in me.
I’d be lying to myself if I said that I don’t sometimes miss all of that, because I do. Even as I realize that I have made it to the promised land of retirement, I am equally mindful of that surge of longing. Yeah, it really is a physical feeling. Over the years, I’ve read tons of research and personal accounts of people losing their sense of identity once work is but a memory that resides in the rear-view mirror. The adjustment is hard on some of us. When I considered what exactly I was feeling, I had to admit that it was a longing to contribute something of value. After decades of creating, improving, replacing, championing, leading, following and collaborating, well, it’s like muscle memory. It’s in my very cells.
I honored that and found the grace to steer away from chastising myself. I remembered to be grateful for the opportunity to know that experience of personal efficacy, of well, mattering in a way both measurable and intangible. But, this business of sitting with myself – my past and present iterations – didn’t end there. My attention shifted to the lovely, dewy-skinned young women who floated in, outfitted in their cool gym gear and nonchalantly establishing their space. Was I ever like that? Did I exude that casual confidence and ease of presence? I doubt it. It was a beautiful thing to behold – or so I thought as I sat in high contrast with my left leg resting on a chair to ease the chronic pain in my knee.
The same grace that helped to chase the demons of self-chastisement away continued to guide me. I soon found myself able to separate the “who I was” from the “who I am,” all the while understanding that what was will forever be a part of me. That’s when I settled into a quiet and soothing peace, sending unspoken kind thoughts to the strangers who filled my world this morning:
May you be blessed as I have been. And then some….