Retirement

Aging, All Poems, Career, Change, Gym/exercise, Humor, Pandemic, Retirement

Our Trainer Locked the Door

Posted on

Our trainer locked the door to the track.

Where we walk when weather, inclement.

He came to tell us it would be off limits two hours.

For the conference the university hosted downstairs.

From the course above, we viewed the gathering.

Tables, exhibits, box lunches.

Attendees, speakers dressed for the occasion.

Much like we did while in practice.

Who can count all the conferences attended?

Over a span of more than thirty-five years?

Every topic imaginable in our field.

Psychiatry, psychology, addictions, hypnosis.

Family therapy, leadership, supervision, ethics.

Sitting, sometimes for days, absorbing information.

Networking with colleagues.

In venues, close and far away.

Till the pandemic hit.

When seminars turned to boxes on Zoom.

It refreshes to see in-person meetings again.

Younger people learning like we did.

Though I remember my body complaining.

After long hours in a seat.

Wishing to move, to walk, to run.

At last I have the chance

to wiggle, twist, and step.

Hoping old age maneuvers

awaken youthful pep.

 

Lynn Benjamin

April 22, 2024

All Poems, Food, Health/Illness, Humor, Retirement

Lighter by a Tooth

Posted on

I feel lighter by a tooth, said Bob.

Returning home after a molar extracted.

Waving instructions saying no hot or cold food.

Essentially, no food at all.

Till swelling abates.

Rattling a bottle of antibiotics.

Picked up after surgery.

When he could have retrieved, started them prior.

Had he been alerted.

Now, not supposed to drink.

Just hold ice on the swollen cheek.

What seemed reasonable to us, lost.

In the periodontist’s hurried day.

Sure we would have handled it differently.

For patients in our former practice.

Phoning them beforehand with to-dos.

Giving warning if a meal off the table.

Till the following day.

But society continues spinning

at a pace that’s hard to catch.

It may be for us seniors

an unfortunate mismatch.

 

Lynn Benjamin

April 5,2024

Aging, All Poems, Career, Change, Friendship, Retirement

It’s Hard to Believe

Posted on

 

It’s hard to believe we face each other.

Across a table at a local eatery.

Two grandmothers.

Once young mothers.

Two devotees of parenting education.

Where we met many years ago.

Anguishing over children’s behaviors.

Listening to other mothers’ worries.

Teaching workshops.

Attending them.

Filling heads to overflowing with knowledge.

Both returning to school for more.

Because we couldn’t get enough.

Couldn’t help others enough.

Two family therapists.

One now retired, the other about to.

Here we sit.

Two aging ladies.

Recounting memories

of years gone by.

Making promises today

to simplify.

 

Lynn Benjamin

March 10, 2024

 

 

 

All Poems, Career, Change, Farewell, Memories, Retirement

My Career in a Suitcase

Posted on

 

It’s must weigh fifty pounds, said Bob.

Dragging the suitcase out the door.

After stuffing it with certificates.

Pulled out of three drawers.

Earned during my career.

Never stopping at the minimum number of workshops.

Always more.

More learning.

More skills.

More knowledge.

Family therapy.

Addictions.

Hypnosis.

EMDR.

Psychiatry.

That suitcase was, indeed, heavy.

A career’s worth of study.

How to work with clients.

Teach supervisees.

Effect change.

It was heavy with memories.

Did you know memories weigh a lot?

Take up volume in the brain?

Haunt us in dreams, day and night?

Pop up at unexpected times?

Now the papers, gone.

Evidence tossed out.

Time to reacquaint with an earlier self.

Before credentials, titles, roles.

I am uncluttered, unadorned.

Simply me.

Though I hope within my essence,

I remain caring, kind, and wise.

Open to possibilities

Parading before my eyes.

Offering authentic self

without excuse, disguise.

Seeking truth and beauty

in glow of fireflies.

Finding humility and peace

in hundreds of goodbyes.

Accepting now whatever comes.

Surrendering to whys.

 

Lynn Benjamin

October 31, 2023

Aging, All Poems, Career, Family, Humor, People Traits, Retirement, Spouses

Awards

Posted on

 

For as long as I’ve known Bob, he’s won awards.

Commendations for highest scores on exams.

Subject awards in history, chemistry.

Community awards.

Valedictory acclaim for academic excellence.

Enough college credits to apply to medical school.

Without a fourth year of college.

Acceptance after three years without graduating.

Accolades in medical school.

Invitation to Alpha Omega Alpha Honor Society.

Distinction as an intern/resident.

Chief of residency for Addiction Medicine.

Over time, awards morphed into rewards.

Satisfaction in helping patients.

Earning a living to support a family.

Pouring energy into children’s successes.

Finally, retirement.

A recent invitation by the County Medical Society to a dinner.

To honor him.

For fifty years practicing medicine.

Calling him to the podium.

Giving him a certificate.

Taking a photo for the newsletter.

While attendees watched.

My heart was full of pride

for this likely last citation.

While my belly laughed inside

for the obvious indication.

In the past, each named prize,

its merit you could gauge.

This one though, a paper guise,

to document old age!

 

Lynn Benjamin

June 8, 2023

All Poems, Friendship, Humor, Language, Retirement

Serendipity or Coincidence?

Posted on

 

Was it serendipity or coincidence?

That a colleague and I reconnected?

After the pandemic separated us.

For, I, reaching out, emailed her old address.

The one from her time as a psychologist.

At a school where we worked together.

Though she had left, retired.

Spotting it only because she joined the school board.

Reactivating the old email account.

Maybe it was serendipity for her.

A fortunate discovery.

Occurring by fortuitous accident.

Because she checked her messages at the old address.

For me, coincidence.

That I sent an email to a wrong address.

That, by chance, she restored.

At the exact moment I sent my greeting.

Serendipity or coincidence?

Happenstance or luck?

Call it what you will.

Covid spell, unstuck.

 

Lynn Benjamin

May 23, 2023

 

Aging, All Poems, Career, Retirement

Business Attire

Posted on

 

I think I found an old jacket I can wear, I called to Bob.

After rummaging through zippered bags in a closet.

To which he replied, I’m gonna put my old jacket on my old self

to see my old classmates.

Both of us referring to his fiftieth medical school reunion dinner.

Tonight, Friday, April 21st.

He’s been ruminating about this reunion since winter.

But neither of us bothered to prepare.

For a dinner in business attire.

Packed away since retirement.

Since the pandemic.

When Zoom appointments only required garments from the waist up.

So, today, we had to find the right clothes.

Drape jackets on our bodies.

Sashay down memory lane.

Try to recognize winkled faces.

For this likely last refrain.

 

Lynn Benjamin

April 21, 2023

Aging, All Poems, Career, Retirement, Stories

Cusp of the New Year

Posted on

 

It was the cusp of the New Year.

Bob ran to the market for flowers.

As the ones in the vase drooped, exhausted.

At the store, he bumped into a former colleague.

A child analyst, older than he.

Called out his name.

The man turned.

I didn’t recognize you. Your hair is longer.

Which tickled Bob.

Though his hair is longer, it’s also snow white.

Not the chestnut of bygone years.

Are you still working? Bob asked.

Of course. What else would I do? Aren’t you?

No, Bob answered.

Then, what do you do with yourself all day?

Bob went on to tell him about travels.

The upcoming trip to Málaga.

Visits to see kids, grandchildren.

The psychiatrist was disbelieving.

Who could function without frame?

What would a person do all day?

Without clinical goals, aim?

Bob nodded, respected his choice.

Each had made up his  mind.

For Bob, retirement’s an adventure.

Way of life redesigned.

 

Lynn Benjamin

January 2, 2023

 

Aging, All Poems, Career, Change, Friendship, Memories, Retirement

Two Old Men in the Waiting Room

Posted on

 

Two old men sat in the waiting room.

Of the outpatient building.

While I was getting a cardiac stress test.

I watched them through the glass.

While pacing as chemicals raced through my blood.

They chatted animatedly.

Their bodies leaning toward each other.

Like plants to the sun.

Till the man I didn’t recognize was called.

The other was my husband.

Who accompanied me to the appointment.

Waited three hours.

During the phases of the procedure.

And made a friend.

Who, he later explained, had trained in surgery where he had.

Who knew the same teachers.

The same stories.

Same legends.

Only remembered by those who were there.

Both doctors now wore civvies.

Veterans of careers in medicine.

My procedure ended.

I joined Bob.

Ready to go, I said.

He turned around.

Put a handwritten note on a chair.

What’s that? I asked.

Just the name of a doctor neither of us could think of.

Did you include your contact information?

No, he answered. I thought about it. But I didn’t.

Out we walked.

Not likely to see the other gentleman again.

An intersection in time.

Random crossing of two paths.

And, I, the lens,

snapping verbal photographs.

 

Lynn Benjamin

December 17, 2022

 

 

 

Aging, All Poems, Friendship, Pandemic, Retirement

Old Times

Posted on

 

It seemed like old times.

Pulling into the strip mall parking lot.

To meet a friend for lunch.

Something not done for three years.

Since the pandemic.

I was surprised so many cars wove through aisles.

Especially in unrelenting heavy rain.

I donned a mask in the name of caution.

Only to see no one masked.

Not patrons.

Hostesses.

Cooks.

My friend nabbed a table in the back.

Close to the kitchen.

I waved, joined her.

We ordered, but food wasn’t the point.

Only conversation, reminiscence.

How did our children, grandchildren get so old?

How did we?

We met as young mothers, babes in arms.

Words flooded us.

They were on our faces.

Hands.

Napkins.

The table was full of them.

No time to eat, drink.

Pushed plates aside.

Out of the jumble, poked a question.

From my friend to me.

How did you know it was time to retire?

I paused and took a breath.

The first in an hour.

People write long essays on the topic.

For magazines like AARP.

Even books.

So, I could only speak for myself.

Honoring people who want to continue working.

Into old age.

Who hold tightly to work identity.

After years of training and experience.

My decisions were ethical and personal, I said.

I wanted to make space for younger practitioners.

To try their skills.

Find success.

Second, I saw fewer years ahead than behind.

I wanted to grab them.

Find adventures.

Each decade I accomplished

tiny tasks to big careers.

It was time now to just be me,

claim myself without veneers.

 

Lynn Benjamin

December 1, 2022