My favorite days are empty. Nothing scheduled, swaths of undirected hours. A hi to Jane at breakfast, walk Henry, shut my study door, silence the phone, dispense with emails and headlines (not always easy), and dispatch my mind to play to see what topics tempt. Write, read, browse, doze, no choice is forbidden. Words come unbidden. Like Henry, needing their exercise, they bark to be let out.
You might expect, in retirement, such empty days are common. With “nothing to do,” why not just do nothing? If only it were that easy. Modernity conspires against silence with endless urgencies and importunities. Commerce, prizing my attention, makes it its prey. Attention is a prerequisite for purchasing. Supplicants tug like sellers in a souk. “Sorry to bother you,” they wheedle. “This won’t take a minute.” Nothing takes a minute and then it’s night. How did that happen!
My career years, I was harder to distract. Purpose dictated what next. Every waking minute I instinctively assessed for advantage. If I bid you good morning, I deemed it worth my while. As with a gymnast during their routine, to lose focus was to fail. This was practicality, not monomania. Leisure was a luxury I couldn’t afford.
Retired, no longer charging toward a goal, I can linger, veer. I’ve emptied my calendar of obligations – institutional, social, individual. If you and I are spending time together, it’s because I want to, I’ve no profit but delight. Your competitors for my attention are Shakespeare et al., but don’t fret, even books need a breather. I balance sociability and solitude: too much of either injures both.
You might think, in these latter years, I’m “the boss of me,” in my grandkids’ lingo. Not so. I’m as beset as Actaeon.
By dread first and foremost. For a dozen years, Trump has been my Godzilla, life-threatening and impossible to ignore. If he wasn’t President, he might be again. I feared for freedom, truth, decency, tranquility, civilization. In my experience, only cancer was scarier, and that fear retreated after treatment. It’s hard to concentrate when you feel Godzilla out your window, chomping, grunting, growling.
The Internet’s another predator of calm. Before combustion engines or electricity, news traveled slower. A letter might take months to reach its recipient. Today we’re harried by an expectation of instantness. “I texted you,” a loved one chides, mere hours after the event. Checking messages yanks my mind from pondering. A ping from my all-too-smartphone announces a bulletin. Let me not be guilty of neglect – or what if something’s wrong!
Knowledge keeps us from deeper knowing. Consider health. Any ache, lump, or blotch may be ominous at my age. Better look it up – Google makes it so easy – won’t take a minute. This symptom’s probably innocuous – but what if it isn’t! Should I call my doc – “just to be safe”? So with any practical consideration. An infinitude of information is available gratis at a finger-flick. Socrates can wait.
Then beggars swarm. This political season, Nancy, Chuck, Hakeem, Hillary, Barack, Jamie, Bernie, countless candidates and, of course, Kamala and Joe want a piece of me. They hate to bother, won’t take a minute or are alerting a three-alarm fire. I’d do the same if I were they, I’m rooting for their success, but oh, can’t they leave me be!
Where do I find emptiness? In the hollow of night. It’s now turning six, you and I have been jawing since four. I don’t relish rising so early but I must if I hope to get anything thought or said. Maybe now a nap before the knock.