Iris Ruth Pastor's Blog, page 12
September 1, 2023
Tangling With Mother Nature
It’s Wednesday, August 30, 2023 at 7:14pm and I am sitting on my screened-in porch writing this column.
I am over-looking my 100-year-old oak trees just a few yards from where I sit. Birds are chirping. The early evening sky is a startling blue. And sounds of traffic just beyond my walled yard intermittently break my concentration – reminding me that things are rapidly returning to normal.
Yesterday my husband and I were notified that we were in a mandatory evacuation zone due to an impending hurricane. And that we must find safe shelter somewhere else. Local news stations were reporting that the central portion of the West Coast of Florida could be in the direct path of Hurricane Idalia.
And that’s precisely where we reside.
We know the drill:
Remove all plants and furniture from our three porches.
Dump the irreplaceable, bound copies of newspapers I have written for in the past into our washer and dryer for safe keeping.
Grab some cash.
Fill-up the car with gas.
Pack-up our prescription meds, a battery-operated radio, a few perishables, a change of clothes, the dog and his food and his bed.
Text our kids.
Off we go to the home of my niece and her husband, miles from any body of water.
Once again, we have left our house not knowing what will still be standing once we return. The possibility of high winds or an errant tornado screeching through our yard, felling our huge oak trees, smashing through our house, is uppermost in my mind.
How many times can we dodge a direct hit?
And, once again, it looks like a direct hit is likely.
Hurricane Idalia comes whipping up the coast, churning up the very warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico. At first, it seems like it IS heading straight toward Tampa, where we live. Then… it turns northeast and we breathe a sigh of relief.
Though safely situated in my niece’s home, my anxiety returns. I am glued to the local TV station until 3 in the morning, avidly watching as the newscasters and roving reporters profile the different communities hugging the coast as Idelia unleashes her wrath.
Rising water. Horrible winds. Pelting rain. Power outages. Storm surges.
In mid-afternoon, we get the all-clear to come back to our neighborhood. The water has receded back into the Bay – just two blocks away. My husband and I nervously walk our property.
The beach towels we had haphazardly stuffed around the double front doors are still dry. Our huge, old oak trees are still gallantly standing – unlike the one torn in half and felled to the ground at the Florida governor’s mansion in Tallahasseee. Our windows aren’t punctured. Our screens not torn. Debris is scarce.
We proceed to put our three porches and patio back together. Having stashed most of the tables, plant stands, plants, and wicker furniture in our family room and living room, we hurriedly start restoring order in our fevered quest for normalcy.
And then, I pause. I am exhausted, sweaty, and thirsty. I decide to not only restore order, but to re-configure the contents of my screened porch off the family room. A sane person would wait until the next day. Not me. I begin:
Eliminate half the plants previously crowding the porch
Forget putting back the ottomans we never use
Replace the three swivel chairs with my wicker couch from the patio
Cut down on the clutter of candles, pine cones and seashells crowding out the round table top in the corner
I create a space shouting “Serenity”
I create a space to match the growing presence of gratefulness and relief washing over me.
I’m paying tribute to how lucky we are to live in a beautiful area.
I’m paying tribute to once more being spared the terror of Mother Nature’s random forces.
I’m being mindful of those less fortunate among us who won’t be going to bed tonight with an intact, dry, livable house – much less a newly reconstituted screened in porch overlooking those simply marvelous oak trees.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
You Just Never Know
It’s Wednesday, August 30, 2023 at 7:14pm and I am sitting on my screened-in porch writing this column.
I am over-looking my 100-year-old oak trees just a few yards from where I sit. Birds are chirping. The early evening sky is a startling blue. And sounds of traffic just beyond my walled yard intermittently break my concentration – reminding me that things are rapidly returning to normal.
Yesterday my husband and I were notified that we were in a mandatory evacuation zone due to an impending hurricane. And that we must find safe shelter somewhere else. Local news stations were reporting that the central portion of the West Coast of Florida could be in the direct path of Hurricane Idalia.
And that’s precisely where we reside.
We know the drill:
Remove all plants and furniture from our three porches.
Dump the irreplaceable, bound copies of newspapers I have written for in the past into our washer and dryer for safe keeping.
Grab some cash.
Fill-up the car with gas.
Pack-up our prescription meds, a battery-operated radio, a few perishables, a change of clothes, the dog and his food and his bed.
Text our kids.
Off we go to the home of my niece and her husband, miles from any body of water.
Once again, we have left our house not knowing what will still be standing once we return. The possibility of high winds or an errant tornado screeching through our yard, felling our huge oak trees, smashing through our house, is uppermost in my mind.
How many times can we dodge a direct hit?
And, once again, it looks like a direct hit is likely.
Hurricane Idalia comes whipping up the coast, churning up the very warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico. At first, it seems like it IS heading straight toward Tampa, where we live. Then… it turns northeast and we breathe a sigh of relief.
Though safely situated in my niece’s home, my anxiety returns. I am glued to the local TV station until 3 in the morning, avidly watching as the newscasters and roving reporters profile the different communities hugging the coast as Idelia unleashes her wrath.
Rising water. Horrible winds. Pelting rain. Power outages. Storm surges.
In mid-afternoon, we get the all-clear to come back to our neighborhood. The water has receded back into the Bay – just two blocks away. My husband and I nervously walk our property.
The beach towels we had haphazardly stuffed around the double front doors are still dry. Our huge, old oak trees are still gallantly standing – unlike the one torn in half and felled to the ground at the Florida governor’s mansion in Tallahasseee. Our windows aren’t punctured. Our screens not torn. Debris is scarce.
We proceed to put our three porches and patio back together. Having stashed most of the tables, plant stands, plants, and wicker furniture in our family room and living room, we hurriedly start restoring order in our fevered quest for normalcy.
And then, I pause. I am exhausted, sweaty, and thirsty. I decide to not only restore order, but to re-configure the contents of my screened porch off the family room. A sane person would wait until the next day. Not me. I begin:
Eliminate half the plants previously crowding the porch
Forget putting back the ottomans we never use
Replace the three swivel chairs with my wicker couch from the patio
Cut down on the clutter of candles, pine cones and seashells crowding out the round table top in the corner
I create a space shouting “Serenity”
I create a space to match the growing presence of gratefulness and relief washing over me.
I’m paying tribute to how lucky we are to live in a beautiful area.
I’m paying tribute to once more being spared the terror of Mother Nature’s random forces.
I’m being mindful of those less fortunate among us who won’t be going to bed tonight with an intact, dry, livable house – much less a newly reconstituted screened in porch overlooking those simply marvelous oak trees.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
August 25, 2023
What the Heck is Cinematic Therapy?
My friend Lynne Billing sent me the following information:
A psychologist, Carla Marie Manly, watched the new Barbie movie and had this to say about cinematic therapy:
This form of ‘cinematic therapy’ I experienced watching Barbie is a legitimate concept. Films have the potential to improve our mental and emotional health.
When cinematic content inspires us to discover and become our best selves—to take the steps necessary to create the lives of our own dreams—the price of admission is exceedingly small. And even if a movie doesn’t propel to some amazing new level in real life, a two-hour dose of cinematic positivity is certainly good for the soul.
Although I admit the movie Barbie didn’t move my needle very much. But I was intrigued by the concept of “Cinematic Therapy” and so asked a few of my buddies what movies have inspired them and why. Below are some of their answers.
Jack: The Magnificent Seven was inspiring on several levels. The farmers and the hired guns faced overwhelming odds. The farmers stood up to the bandits that were taking advantage of their weakness. Rather than running from it, they were motivated and strengthened by it.
Fighting against the odds never dissuades me. Facing a problem head-on appeals to me. It’s how I react to adversity. I live by the maxim that “If you want to achieve what others don’t, you have to do what others won’t.”
Laurin: Any movie involving the Holocaust brings me to my knees. I am shocked, sad, humbled ……I strive to make up for those lost souls through my Judaica and Hebrew teachings and knowledge for the next generations to come!
Gingy: Movies of the 40s and 50s were my education. I learned from all–even the B movies. I grew up wanting a white telephone and a fluffy pink bed jacket and fancy house slippers with heels. I wanted the waiter to bring the telephone to my table. I wanted to wear make-up like Moira Shearer in The Red Shoes. I still do.
Anonymous: I love Inglorious Bastards – its alternate version of history feels so good.
Dianne: I was always mesmerized by Queen Elizabeth I… Magnificent women played Lizzie I; Bette Davis, Judi Dench, Helen Mirren, Cate Blanchett…
The more I watched these adaptations, the more I saw how the icon was unpacked…I still marvel at Lizzie from her birth, to the impact of her mother dying, to her father’s rejection, to the many ‘foster’ people who were the chief-operating-officers of her youth, to only one of five other queen-step-mothers who embraced her with affection, to being imprisoned in the Tower, to having people who plotted to kill her, to her love and passions for a man being second to her priority of ruling for the good of her people, to misogyny of men who thought a woman unworthy of her being a ‘Prince’ (ruling queen). She prevailed to become one of the most significant, successful queens in history. (Without the drama of Cleopatra!) You take ‘just’ a woman~ all of us, and I say, “lesson learned.” All 4 of these movies reinforced my image of Queen Elizabeth I.
Lori: Funny Girl with Barbara Streisand is my choice. Fanny Brice’s ability to believe in herself and her ability to power through any heartbreak she encountered had a profound impact on me at a very young age.
Anonymous: I love Babette’s Feast. It’s beautifully simple and shows devotion, kindness, and features a most gorgeous elaborate French feast as a gesture of gratitude and appreciation. It is a quiet and lovely movie.
David: I would have to say that “To Kill A Mockingbird” is probably the one movie that has inspired me more than any others. Atticus Finch is a wonderful role model as an attorney, but also as a father and as a kind, decent person who gracefully dealt with very difficult times in the Deep South during segregation. I aspired to be like him when I went to law school and later as a Dean, Department Chair and Professor at Saint Leo University. I know he was a fictional character, but to me he is a great role model.
My all-time favorite that I watch every January – snuggling comfortably on my couch – is Dr. Zhivago.
I am besotted with the scenery, haunted by the music, moved by the superb script. The secrets we keep, the unavailable men we love, the political upheaval we can easily be swept up in and the tragedies resulting from revolutions and civil unrest all intrigue me.
And an interesting side note: Dr. Zhivago could not be filmed in Russia – where it takes place – because the book by Boris Pasternak was banned there. (Sound familiar?)
Happy Watching and Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
August 18, 2023
It was enough for me
Everywhere I look in my house, things are in in disarray
The books on the topmost shelves of my living room wall are stuffed together in no particular order
The suitcases of every shape, size, and color are haphazardly piled in the corner of the garage between the pile of broken flower pots and endless varieties of plant fertilizer
The heap of cheap (and not-so-cheap) cosmetics I buy and never try are stashed in an overflowing drawer in my guest bathroom
The cookbooks are jumbled together in my pantry – squeezed in between outdated, seldom-used jars of spices and stale crackers
Everywhere I look in the newspapers delivered to my door, headlines scream out reminding me that the world too is in disarray.
As Planet Warms, No Place is Safe
5 Americans Held Prisoner in Iran
Ukrainians Fight Russians Inch by Inch
Hospitals Shut Down Maternity Wards, Leaving Women, Infants at Higher Risk
Omicron Subvariant Drives Rise in Covid Infections
No wonder I feel untethered, anxious, and unfocused – coupled with a huge inability to start a task and complete it without feeling overwhelmed and distracted.
“One small thing,” I tell myself. “Just accomplish one small thing today and you will feel better.”
I decide to bake my husband a birthday cake.
Rather than tackle the gargantuan number of cookbook volumes in my disorganised kitchen pantry, I head right for my computer on my kitchen counter. Rapidly I tap in “the perfect carrot cake.”
In 49 seconds, 62,800 results pop-up.
My conclusion: apparently there are a lot of “perfect” recipes for making carrot cake from scratch.
I choose one.
https://sallysbakingaddiction.com/my-favorite-carrot-cake-recipe/
The haphazard pile of luggage in my garage is still piled up haphazardly – as are my books on the top shelves in the living room, my cosmetics in the guest bathroom drawer and my cookbooks in the pantry. And I still have a pile of unread newspapers to weed through.
But, I baked my husband the most perfect birthday cake today. And that is enough for me.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
August 10, 2023
My Husband is Turning 76 Years Old Today
My husband is turning 76 years-old today.
We were born in the same month, in the same year, in the same city and in the same hospital. My mother left the hospital with me the day his mother checked into the maternity ward to give birth to him.
In less than a week, we will be celebrating our 47th wedding anniversary.
When we first got married, we woke up each morning and asked each other one question and one question only: Are You Horny?
Nowadays, we ask each other two questions upon arising:
How’d you sleep?
Are you okay?
And then we remind each other to take our blood pressure pills and check our blood pressure later in the day.
We no longer cheer at our kids’ soccer games, but we do a lot of cheering at our friends’ birthday parties – because we are still around to celebrate another year of life. Too many of our friends, classmates and relatives are not.
We used to admonish our kids, in fiery rhetoric, to be careful every time they took the car, or partied with their buddies, or drove down to Florida for spring break or went through the terrifying experience (at least for a parent) of pledging a college fraternity.
Our life is much more mundane now.
When either of us leaves the house or embarks on a new experience, we ask the most commonplace of questions:
Do you have your glasses?
Do you know where you’re going?
What time will you be back?
(And a new experience for us is now defined as switching to a new doctor, trying to figure out whether flavored seltzer water upsets our tummies and trying out a new digestive aid.)
My husband turns 76 tomorrow.
He does not look the same as the day I married him. Nor do I.
His dark thick curls are long gone – and he’s mostly bald.
His physique is trim and muscular, but not as trim and muscular as it used to be.
(I don’t have that particular concern as my physique was never trim and muscular.)
I recently saw a picture of Ali McGraw and Ryan O’Neal from their “Love Story” days:
And now:
I could relate.
Here’s ours:
Time takes its toll.
We lose the people we love.
Those of us who still have our spouses are lucky and I am grateful for my husband’s presence every day.
Most of the time.
Well, some of the time.
He is messy.
He eats way too much ice cream and then complains of acid reflux.
He still can’t figure out the difference between texts and e mail.
He incessantly asks me questions when binge watching because he always leaves the room to do gosh-knows-what.
He can never find his glasses and keys.
He has no idea what is in each of the kitchen cabinets though we have lived in this house over 15 years.
He over scrutinizes our dog’s eating habits, bowel habits and moods.
My husband is turning 76 today.
He used to swagger.
Now he walks tentatively and slower.
As do I.
If he still had his Porsche, he’d probably not be able to even climb in it – much less out of it.
His medicines crowd the cabinet shelves – shelves which used to house his vast array of protein powders.
His sweaty work-out clothes are long gone, replaced by his neck brace and back brace.
And he constantly misplaces his handicapped sticker.
But some things never change:
He is still jealous of my high school boyfriend.
And he still tells me that my smile lights up any room I’m in.
I think I’ll keep him.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
August 4, 2023
I’m Turning 76 Tomorrow
How do I really feel now that I am turning 76 years old tomorrow?
Constantly adjusting to the aging process can be an energy sucker:
Clutching the bannister when using the stairs – no more bounding up and down effortlessly.
Ditto for getting out of bed. The operative word now is SLOWLY. No leaps.
My kitchen cabinet has a coterie of pills and prescriptions – ever growing – and all mine.
New age spots and sun spots sprout up daily.
I eat less, but the digital scale registers more.
Chewing gum and drinking diet soda give me heartburn and gas – in that order.
And everywhere I go, I look around to see if I am the oldest one in the room – and I’m beginning to think I am.
I can’t remember the last time the employees in the thrift store I visit every Tuesday because its 20 per cent off for senior citizens actually asked me if I was one.
I’m buying less and investing more in experiences.
My good news is more centered on health, not wardrobe acquisitions or decorative home enhancements. For instance, I just found out I don’t need a knee replacement because my orthopedic surgeon thinks a PRP injection will alleviate my pain and discomfort. Whoopee!
I’m cutting off doing chores, errands, bills, house cleaning and plant watering at 7pm, not 9 pm, because I’m simply too tired.
Every place I travel, I now lose something. This time it was my prized gold ring for my right thumb. I thought it was my hearing aids I misplaced, but they were found intact, in one of the zippered compartments of my suitcase when I got home and unpacked. That’s because I always “forget” to wear them.
Friends are being diagnosed with crappy things and it does seem like funerals are beginning to replace cocktail parties at an alarming rate.
Decades ago, when I saw a dancer on stage, I’d say to myself: I could do that.
Years ago I said: I used to be able to do that.
Now I say: How in the hell can they still do that?
I keep forgetting stuff – like one grandson’s birthday and the spelling of one of my granddaughter’s names. That why I now have the password to my computer written on a Post It note, scotch taped to my key board.
Rather than participate with abandon, I now am finding myself watching my grown adult sons interact with each other – trying to imagine how it will be when I’m no longer with them.
But I’m not sad.
And most days I revel in the reduced responsibilities I have at this stage in my life.
And I’m also re-discovering so many interesting things lying around my own house. Like a copy of Life Magazine I bought and saved, though I can’t remember why, in 1991.
An essay on one of the last pages caught my attention – “Picturing Happiness” by Lynda Barry.
She writes about finding a very old picture of her parents the summer she was 13, shortly before her father left the family. A surge of memories of happier times for her household came roaring back as she studied the photo of the smiling, exuberant young couple. And it made her sad.
But years later, after she too married and divorced, she had an epiphany:
Happiness is happiness,
no matter how things turns out.
It still counts.
I’ll never quite look at old pictures of happier times in the same way again. Thank you, Lynda Barry, for reminding me to glory in those “fleeting moments of joy“.
As William Wordsworth wrote so long ago, “Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, glory in the flower, we will grieve not, rather find, strength in what remains behind.”
Here’s to all life’s joyous moments – lasting or short-lived…experienced in youth or old age…
And Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
My First and Last Sports Column Part 2
A lot of people have happy places.
My sister’s happy place is a city where she spent a lot of time visiting when growing up: Tampa, Florida.
A friend loves nesting at home on the couch with her deaf cat.
Another friend tells me her happy place is working as a dental hygienist and that she intends to be the longest practicing one ever.
A friend of mine for decades tells me her happy place is wherever she is when learning something new.
A Facebook acquaintance frequently posts inspirational and funny things on her Facebook page – I bet if you asked her she’d site Facebook as one of her happy places. Who doesn’t feel happy after reading her latest post:
Things I’m Super Good At:
Forgetting someone’s name 10 seconds after they tell me.
Buying produce…and throwing it out two weeks later.
Digging through the trash for the food box I just tossed because I already forgot the directions.
Making plans. And then immediately regretting making plans.
Calculating how much sleep l’ll get if I can just “fall asleeep right now.”
My happy place:
Great American Ball Park, Cincinnati, Ohio.
It simply connects me to my hometown roots.
I love all the eclectic quotes written about the game – many which are posted throughout Great American Ball Park.
I love the game no matter who I am with.
But most of all, l love going to the games with my husband.
He played baseball for years as a pitcher – and he teaches me a little bit more every game that we attend together.
For instance, I just learned that if the batter tips the ball on the third strike and the catcher catches it, it’s an out. If he doesn’t catch the ball, there is no strike three called and he’s not out.
I now know what ERA denotes.
I now know the significance of the speed of the pitch.
I now know that there is a electronic box on each catcher’s thigh that transmits a signal to the pitcher about which type of pitch to throw.
I still don’t understand why a starting pitcher can throw up to 100 pitches in a game, but the relief pitcher throws just a fraction of that number because is arm will get too tired. This makes no sense to me.
It doesn’t matter if it’s warm or cold.
It doesn’t matter if it’s raining or sunny.
It doesn’t even matter who the Cincinnati Reds are playing.
I am filled with anticipation every time I slide into my seat, pop on my sunglasses, put my hand on my heart and face the music’s direction as I hear the opening strains of our National Anthem.
https://www.google.com/search?client=safari&rls=en&q=what%27s+the+national+anthem+sung+t+the+beginning+of+the+cincinnati+reds+gfames&ie=UTF-8&oe=UTF-8#fpstate=ive&vld=cid:128627cc,vid:fMvCZnIJJrs
The above rendition was also sung by Marlana Van Hoose on Opening Day, 2023 at the Great American Ball Park. VanHoose is an American contemporary Christian singer who has been blind since birth and has achieved fame singing the National Anthem at major professional sporting events.
I get instantly re-charged at the 7th Inning Stretch when the crowd rises from their seats in the Great American Ball Park to sing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame,” which has become the unofficial anthem of North American baseball. It was written by two men who had never attended a baseball game before writing the song: Jack Norworth and Albert Von Tilzer.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_pnn1Q1uP44
The Great American Ball Park is simply my happy place.
This country is my happy place too.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
My First and Last Sports Column – Part 1
This is the only sports column I have ever written and intend to write. This is Part 1 and next week will be Part 2 and then: NEVER AGAIN.
It all started with my grandfather, Frank, who frequently went to see the Cincinnati Reds play at Crosley Field in the 1930’s. He was such an avid fan that he regularly advertised his small flower shop business in the Cincinnati Reds short program. (A copy is still in our family’s possession.)
Riverfront Stadium opened its doors in 1970 and my dad was lucky enough to call for two season tickets immediately after a journalist returned his two box seat tickets – four rows behind home plate.
Shortly thereafter, the fabulous Big Red Machine started dominating the National League. For Cincinnati, it was baseball at its finest.
My children spent their childhood going to baseball games with their grandfather. Such an impression the Cincinnati Reds experience had on my boys was evident when four out of five of them chose the Cincinnati Reds as their Bar Mitzvah theme.
My boys grew up. My boys moved away. My dad died. And all that was left of the Big Red Machine was a scrapbook of memories. For many years, the Cincinnati Reds limped along. Attendance continued to decline. Games became boring – and far too long. And even though we all had access to very good seats, it was not the draw it used to be. And most of the time, if none of us were in town, we couldn’t even give the tickets away.
And now: it’s the 2023 baseball season. And things are rapidly changing.
Attendance is way up all over the country.
Why?
(Here’s where I my sport writer’s hat kicks in.)
The shift role has been abandoned. This eliminates the infield player’s ability to move to one side of the field in an effort to catch a hit more easily. Not only did left handed batters suffer from adapting then shift, but the games themselves generated little action. A homerun or an out. That was about it.
Thank goodness this year the baseball commission put the kibosh on this analytic. The shift had proven to be an entertainment killing move and everyone knows that going to a baseball game should be entertaining.
The pitch clock also came under a sea change. Now a pitcher is only allowed 15 seconds to throw a pitch if the bases are empty and 20 seconds if there is a runner on base. This has speeded up the game.
A pitcher can only throw to an occupied base two times in an attempt to pick off a runner during a batter’s plate appearance – thus further shortening the game.
And an added benefit: the bases have increased from 15 inches square to 18 inches square to avoid more injuries and collisions.
Stadiums all over the country are filling up. Why? Because of the new rules, more action on the field and because the games are about 25 minutes shorter and more exciting.
“It’s like going back to the 1980’s when baseball was at its aesthetic best,” says Tom Verducci, American sports writer, recently in Sports Illustrated.
Last year overall attendance for the Cincinnati Reds was about 1.4 million. As of July 19, 2023, their numbers were already above 1.1 million, with about 30 home games remaining. Of course, the fact that my favorite team is presently near the top of their division accounts for some of this wave of fans descending on the Great American Ball Park, but I believe it’s also due to the new changes the baseball commission has instituted.
The thrill of sitting in a stadium filled to capacity, surrounded by cheering, engaged fans is an unbeatable high.
Yes, this may well be the last sports column I ever write, but you can bet I will be attending – G-d willing – many more baseball games in the future.
Go Reds!
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
July 14, 2023
I Really Did Think I Was Alone
I Really Did Think I Was Alone
I thought most of my contemporaries were kicking back their feet
Leisurely going through their days
Taking an exercise class
Traveling to Spain
Lunching with the girls
Playing a little pickleball
Doing something totally frivolous at whim
And here I was
Totally pre-occupied
Somewhat stressed (actually, pretty darn stressed)
Over stimulated
Making new connections
Meeting new people
Learning new stuff
And launching a brand-new initiative
It turns out that people around my age – the
first wave of the ubiquitous baby boomers –
are once again breaking the mold, writing their own script for aging gloriously and controlling their own remote.
In the Wall Street Journal, on June 27, 2023 this headline appeared: More High-Powered People Choose to Work into Their 80’s
Recognizing that our generation has concerns over QTR (Quality Time Remaining), many of us are simply deciding to work rather than simply retire. Some need to continue due to financial constraints, but many simply cite that they “Just want to.”
Maybe they just don’t like pickleball – maybe their spouse is pushing them to do something besides sitting idle. Maybe they are just bored
And role models now abound. No matter your personal opinion of President Biden, age 80, running for re-election, it certainly supports the mind set that your ninth decade can still be one of productivity and purpose. Further proof: Harrison Ford, at age 80, is releasing his latest “Indiana Jones” movie. No mean feat.
It kinda makes retirement at age 65 look extremely premature. Outdated. And an obsolete template.
My father was thrilled, when on the eve of his 80th birthday, he received one present from all of his grandkids: a briefcase.
I was shocked at the happiness it brought him.
“Are you kidding?” he marveled, “My family thinks it’s normal for me to be working at my age and bought me a briefcase to replace my bedraggled one – wow that spurs me to keep on keeping on.”
Personally, I owe this productive and invigorating stage in life to a recognition of two things: The concept of QTR (Quality Time Remaining) and the clock constantly ticking.
What is “Quality Time Remaining” all about? It’s a philosophy and a filter for making choices in life.
It involves facing your own mortality
Taking things OFF the back burner
No more vowing to do it SOMEDAY
Focusing on living the life you want after whittling down what is really important to you
And who you want to spend time with
So once again, I, too, am totally involved with something new as I take full advantage of my “Quality Time Remaining” – treading precariously in uncharted waters.
I’m not quite ready to unveil my newest adventure, but I will tell you a few things it is already doing for me:
Introducing me to people I would never have met otherwise
Forcing me to learn new tech skills (very reluctantly, I might add)
Learning the inner workings and constraints of being a non-profit
Scoping out new information daily on trends, habits, challenges and roadblocks incurred as we journey through the winter of our lives.
And here is something delightful I ran across:
Julia Louis Dreyfuss has just launched a new podcast series called “Wiser Than Me” where she interviews woman in their 70’s and 80’s after wondering why we don’t hear more from older women on how to live a full and meaningful life. (Her interview with Fran Lebowitz is awesome!)
Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick Tock.
In the meantime, Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
PS: Part of living fully in your QTR is finding your “Happy Place.”
Where’s yours?
And why?
Send me back your answers: irisruthpastor@gmail.com
July 7, 2023
Looks Are Deceiving
It’s located in a very pleasant, but generic, office park off a major highway. That’s about the only ordinary thing I can say about this storefront named Loft 181.
Because Loft 181 is NOT ordinary.
Billed as a “boutique-style” shop, Loft 181 caters to a very unique segment of the population: girls in foster care and girls and women who are victims of sex trafficking.
Loft 181 is also not ordinary because a key component of a retail store is missing from their premises: the cash register. And they are open for business by appointment only.
Females who come to shop at the 3000+ square foot store are not charged for anything they choose. Instead, this boutique – with its very strong shabby chic, upscale vibe – treats all its clients as valued customers, although no money exchanges hands.
The volunteers who help the visitors are personal shoppers and, in their own words, “hope dispensers.” And they certainly are. From the moment the girl or young woman arrives on the doorstep of this voluminous “clothes closet,” she is greeted with warmth and personal sustained attention for the approximately 90 minutes she will be there picking out clothing, jewelry, accessories, beauty products and undergarments.
One girl.
One appointment at a time.
Before a client arrives, one of the very special things a volunteer does is write the client’s first name on a framed picture hanging right outside the dressing room she will be using.
Jennifer Whitten, Loft 181 store manager, and Emily Petrilli (senior director of planned giving for the umbrella non-profit One More Child) filled me in on the details. “Often this attention to the girl or woman could be the very first time in her life she has received positive feedback. As Loft’s personal shoppers learn more about the girls and women, their clients literally ‘open up.’ Counteracting the dark circumstances of their lives is as much a part of the process as the actual wardrobe choosing. And,” adds Jennifer, “instantly leads to a much sunnier perspective for them.”
The volunteers who help with the personal shopping also are aware of the concept of “trauma-informed care” – a general mindfulness of the type of things the girls have been through and what is appropriate and not appropriate to say. People who are trained in trauma-informed care understand that a person’s life experience — especially past trauma — has a direct effect on that person’s behavior. Great care is given to how to act so nothing negative is triggered in respect to the girls.
Loft 181 strives to provide a safe, nurturing space where clients get full-on, one-on-one attention – where they are treated with respect and dignity.
There is total attention given to each detail every step of the Loft 181 experience. For example, there is a prominent tag with the client’s name in a cheerful script already on the bag that will hold the client’s choices. They are also given a prayer card before they leave and details of their particular story are written and filed so that when they next visit, the volunteer can ask them follow-up questions – demonstrating interest and compassion.
Rooms and nooks and crannies are segregated by contents:
Gown room
Shoe room
Jeans room
Racks of t shirts and jewelry
Tables of purses
Intimacy room – body care products and intimate apparel
(Most items in Loft 181 are gently worn – except for underwear, which is brand new.)
Toward the back of the sprawling expanse of rooms is the counseling and fellowship room. Comfy couches and snacks abound. After shopping, patrons kick back their shoes and eat home-baked goodies donated by volunteers – and some deep and meaningful conversations naturally take place.
“Any particular challenges facing Loft 181?” I asked Jennifer.
“The clients just keep coming – it is a constantly revolving door – the boutique serves about 300 women a year and gives out about 10,000 items of clothing annually,” notes Jennifer. “We have about 30 consistent volunteers and we could use more of these personal shoppers.
The only day off limits to assemble a wardrobe is Tuesday – that is sorting day for the donated clothes that come in and it is chaotic – from 9am to 3pm. Volunteers are needed for that too.”
As I got ready to depart from this magical space, I couldn’t help but ask two final questions:
Were there any limits on how many items of clothing a client could take at once?
Jennifer’s reply: We tell them we do have limits on things, but we are not good at counting.
What is the most prevalent reaction among the patrons?
Jennifer’s reply: Why would you do this for me?
Why?
Because the people at Loft 181 believe every life should be loved and valued.
If you believe that too and would like to volunteer or donate much needed items (like size 7-8 gently worn shoes or plus size clothing), please contact store manager Jennifer Whitten at jenniferwhitten@onemorechild.org
Before I left this beautiful space, Jennifer, Emily and I talked about the concept of synchronicity – the simultaneous occurrence of events which appear significantly related, but have no discernible casual connection.
Shortly after our chat, I hastily scribbled down notes in preparation for writing this newsletter.
LOFT 181, I wrote down, is a faith-based Christian initiative. And then I took a closer look at Loft 181:
1 and 8 when read from left to right
And
1 and 8 when read from right to left
= 18
The number 18 in Judaism – my religion – is a significant number, which means life. And the angel number of 18 conjures up the power of infinite possibilities. Exactly what Loft 181 does.
Imagine that!
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
