I spend much of my time walking in large circles, lollipop shapes, back and forth—on streets, on trails, on old logging roads, through the woods, past gardens, up to views, and back again. Though I move, I accomplish nothing.

At home I bake—bread, muffins, cakes, apple crisps, cinnamon rolls. My projects come daily or weekly. I love the moment my creation comes out of the oven, the aroma, the joy and gratitude from my beloved. But everything soon disappears.

And then I talk, often hours a day, on the phone, in person, or on a walk. Sometimes the others need a listening ear more than anything. Others we joke, discuss ideas, commiserate about fears, check in about health and happiness.

In these two years since retirement, it seems I’ve done little, created no legacy, moved to no second or third act. I have only miles walked and forgotten, bread crumbs dusting the counters, and thousands of words vanishing into the past.

I am not alone.

As Zadie Smith says, “Watching this manic desire to make or grow or do ‘something,’ that now seems to be consuming everybody, I do feel comforted to discover I’m not the only person on this earth who has no idea what life is for, nor what is to be done with all this time aside from filling it.”*

*From “Something to Do”  in Intimations by Zadie Smith. Penguin Books. 2020.