On being a liver

Peter, age seven, and Paige, ten, were playing Legos in my living room, while I sat on the couch pretending to read, but really listening to them build their imaginary world.

At one point Paige lifted her Lego horse and, as it leaped the castle wall, she asked Peter, “Can your guys do this?”

“No,” Peter responded. “Me and Tim don’t do stuff like that. We’re livers.”

Paige cocked her head and gave him that “you’re-crazy” look. “What?”

“Livers.” Peter insisted. “That means we’re normal guys. We don’t do stuff. We just live.”

I smiled and kept quiet. I connected their conversation with the old Martha/Mary division and the differences between people. Some people are do-ers, workers, those who accomplish great—or not-so-great—things for the world. They “work for the night is coming,” knowing that “their labors are not in vain.” Others prefer to sit at the feet of the Master, meditate, pray and just be. They focus on “abiding in the vine.”

This division is, of course, superficial. Most of us move back and forth on a continuum between doing stuff and quietly being present. While we may tend to one side, we’re both types, depending on circumstance and opportunity.

I’m a poet. The noun “poem” comes from the Greek “poema,” and its verb form means, ironically, “to do” or “to make.” The particular making of a poet results, sometimes, in a work of art. Work is on the doing stuff side, but art leans toward the livers of the world. The combination, “work of art,” brings them together in synchronicity.

This is beginning to sound as silly as my grandkids’ conversation.

It gives me something to think about now that I’m in the retirement years. I no longer have the energy to mount a steed and leap high walls. But I’m not yet ready to let go of having meaningful work and making a contribution to the society I’m a part of. I still need to feel I’ve accomplished something worthwhile at the end of the day.

Sometimes this is a problem. Like this morning. Like right now as I write this. I have a free open day ahead of me, something I used to long for. So I’m considering what to do with this gift. My options: visit a neighbor, paint some greeting cards, read my novel, edit a poetry collection, take a long walk, help Hal with filing, clean the refrigerator, take a small load of stuff to Goodwill, and so on. I miss having a big project and deadlines to meet. Correction: sometimes I miss those things. But having so many open choices to do things that won’t make much of a difference to the world makes me restless. I’m still learning how to be retired.

Whatever I decide to do today, I will take the time to remember that I’m basically just a liver.

And that’s good.

The busy syndrome

Once a week we go over to our son’s house to have dinner with him, our daughter-in-law, and whichever of the grandkids can make time to join us. The conversation bounces and sparks as people report on their activities since our last gathering. Our son and daughter-in-law are at the height of their careers with new challenges to talk about every week. They’re making their contributions on the university campus and in the wider sphere of third-world discipleship and development.

The grandkids are in an exciting time, too, full of university studies, overseas trips, new careers, challenging relationships, even new marriages. So much energy spins my brain. All this is right and good. Each generation around the table is living appropriately for their phase of life.

But there always comes a time in our conversation when one of the grandkids asks, “What have you been up to this week, Grandma? How have you been keeping busy?” The question always makes me uneasy and I find myself scrounging for an answer. What have I been doing? What accomplishments can I drop into the conversation? Somehow, I manage to respond, but my answers seem skimpy in comparison.

It happens so often, and not just with family members, you’d think I’d have come up with a few memorized responses by this time. But I don’t want to do that. It doesn’t seem quite honest. So, when faced with a dilemma, I take the logical first step. I write a poem. Here it is:

 

How Have You Been Keeping Busy?

is my least favorite question.
To tell the truth
not long ago I decided
to no longer keep busy.
So I opened the pasture gate
and let her go. Hesitant at first—
after all the old field was familiar
and still had some patches of grass—
she stepped out
and began exploring,
in search of a greener home.
So busy’s gone now
and I’m left behind.
But frankly
I like it this way.

I hope that answers your question.

When I retired at age 69, Hal and I were in the second year of a huge research and writing project which took us five more years to complete.* So I was able to postpone the restlessness of wondering how to spend my time now that I wasn’t employed. I still had work I enjoyed, field trips to take, a contribution to make, and reports to write to the sponsors of the project. The change from employment to retirement wasn’t that great.

It didn’t last. When the book was completed, a new reality manifested itself. For the first time in years, I had no huge goal to work toward. Yet my psyche was geared to work, even as my body was slowing down.

It’s not that I had nothing to do. I took on two voluntary editing jobs, continued writing, helped out at church, even took some lessons in art and music. (I am not gifted in either area.) Life here in the retirement community offers a multitude of activities and opportunities for relationships.

But it’s not the same. And I have to admit that I still struggle to relax and settle into this gentler phase of life. To focus on being rather than doing. Easier said than done.

Let’s face it. Being busy is a cultural value here in the US. People gain status from their educational level, professional achievements, contributions, and wealth. That all requires keeping busy. Busyness is written into our cultural DNA. That’s not necessarily bad. Like the preacher in Ecclesiastes says, “There is a time for every season under the sun.” That includes a time to be busy and a time to rest.

I guess I’m still adjusting to being in the season of rest. Which is not the same as doing nothing. I like how the psalmist describes old age: “The righteous will flourish like a palm tree, they will grow like a cedar of Lebanon…. They will still bear fruit in old age, they will stay fresh and green….” (Psalm 92:12-14)

I’m trying to recenter my focus from accomplishment to fruitfulness. I want to discover what fruitfulness means in this season of life, and in what ways God is guiding me to be a fresh and green old lady. I hope I don’t end up scaring anyone.

When I learn how to do all that, I’ll let you know.

 

*The end result of our long project is entitled, A Long Walk, A Gradual Ascent: The Story of the Bolivian Friends Church in its Context of Conflict. If you want something to help you keep busy, it’s available on Amazon.