I turned in my notice last week, and instantly panicked. There is a part of my gut that's convinced retirement causes cancer. After all, that's what happened the last time. (as if somehow, if I only kept working, I'd live forever?)
The fear has been surprisingly strong. I've been ignoring it, to the point where my skin has broken out in rashes to make sure I understand the fear is there.
But I've traveled a challenging road since I was first forced to take a detour on my camper van trip. I have learned fear will always be there - but to look beyond its dark whispering to see the beauty that Is, even on the darkest of days.
And so I'm retiring again, anyways.
My road has taken so many twists and turns while I was on my detour, I no longer know if there's another camper van trip on the map. (It'll have to wait at least a year if it's going to come back into the path of my journey.)
In the meantime, I'll be baby-watching through much of the winter; those days will fly quickly by. I have no definitive plans for my days once he moves on to regular day-care, and I've decided I don't necessarily them. I'm trying to pause in this liminal space. To listen and just be, instead of trying to plot the path ahead.
After all - when I jumped into the camper van the first time, I had no clear map of where I wanted to go. No plans, no agenda other than to try to refresh my weary mind, body and soul. My next destination was guided only a vague sense of the direction I was going, and by the desire to see more beautiful places. It worked well enough that I'm ready to try it again.
I have three weeks yet to work. Somewhere, underneath my fear, my long neglected inner two year-old is beginning to stir.
Soon, my dear, soon.