Today my mom retires

Dear Mom,

I tried to write this as an essay, and it wasn’t really working out. So, I figured I would try a letter instead.

I went to a Yoga class this morning. And at the end of class, during savasana, as we rested, the instructor went around and placed an oracle card beside each person’s mat. I actually don’t know if you know what an oracle card is. I assume you do, because you’ve been on this earth twice as long as I have. But, just in case, here is what Google has to say: Oracle decks are a tool of self-reflection to add to your magical and spiritual practice, or just to use for fun. I have been using oracle decks, mostly tarot, for five or so years. And they are, indeed, a great tool for my own grounding and self-reflection. Which is to say that I take them seriously, and at their word, so to speak.

At any rate, I was unfamiliar with the deck. And curious about what it might have to say. But when I flipped over my card, it read: A Child’s Love. And, for a moment, it felt a little too corny for me.

But then I paused, and it all made sense: because so much of this week, for me, has been about you.

Today, you retire. Which feels like such an anticlimactic sentence to write: like it does not capture the gravity of this day. But it is true. Today is the last day that you will go to work—at least in the ways that you have gone to work for the last forty years.

And I find that, even for me, the significance of this moment has felt overwhelming and awe-inspiring and maybe even a little bit scary. Like, this is really a big deal. Not even just in the grand scheme of things: that you can be done working for probably the rest of your life if you want. But in the smaller scale, too: it brings me to reflect on all of the moments and conversations and choices that have made this possible over the last three or so years. I kind of can’t believe that you are here.

And I am not sure exactly what I have sat down to say. But I have felt moved to write, and full of deep gratitude and respect for you. So I will probably say something about that.

I think that you and dad have known, for some time, that I am not someone who wants to work in the ways that you have worked for the last four decades. I don’t know if it’s in me. I mean, the capacity is. Probably. If I absolutely have to. But the desire is not. I don’t love work in the ways that you have always seemed to—at least not in a building-a-career kind of way. But I know that the things that you have taught me, in all of your years of working, are things that I carry with me daily. So, I thought, on this your final day of work, I might say something about that.

…

On commitment. I think that one of the reasons that I have felt so much emotion around this week, is because I have only ever known you as someone who works. Sometimes, I think, I hated it. I hated how much it consumed you. Not because it, necessarily, took away from our family: I always experienced you as someone who was present, who showed up in the ways that Grandma showed up, who filmed every basketball game even if it meant that you (in theory) had to cheer more quietly. You have always been there. For everything. But I think the ways that you were consumed by work, the ways that the people and the tasks stayed on your mind, was something that I deeply struggled with understanding. Until I was in it. Until I found things that got my wheels turning in the same ways that work did for you. A little over a decade ago, it was basketball. Then Gryphon Circle. A few years ago, Rise. And Yoga. Today, it’s graduate school. And basketball (again). You taught me how to commit to something with deep fullness of self. And maybe there are better, more balanced, ways of doing life. But also maybe this is the way that fills our cup. That makes us feel useful and connected and good. I’ve watched you be all of those things for so many years. For so many people. It’s no wonder that your way of being in the world has become my own. Or at least how I hope to be.

On kindness. Sometimes I miss going to work with you. I miss living at home. I miss seeing you, and dad, every day. Because some of my favorite memories of you, are the memories of the you that goes to work. Because whether it was Avery Dennison or Robert Half or Ultra Solutions, the you that goes to work, is actually the same you that would come home from work. Full of deep generosity and kindness. It seems to move through you with such ease. And when I would go to work with you, I would see that on the faces of other people. You have been deeply loved and respected and appreciated by the people you have worked with over the years, because of the ways that you show up to your life. And work is the place that I got to see that materialize most profoundly. With every stressor and every deadline, kindness. It was such a gift to witness. And always a gift to receive.

On joy. About two years ago, Decatur and I were home for a weekend. And we went to Disneyland. All of us. You, dad, me, Megan, and ours. We got there around the time that the park opened. And left when it closed. We got home around 1 am, after grabbing some In-N-Out. And I might never forget how Decatur and I looked and felt like zombies as we ate our burgers at the kitchen table (even after I slept the whole car ride home). You and dad? You were gabbing away. Laughing. As if you hadn’t just spent 12 hours on your feet running around Disneyland with your adult-aged children. And when I think back on that day, I think of the ridiculousness of that juxtaposition: of you, twice my age, running circles around me into the early morning. You’ve always been like this, though. And always found a way to do life outside of work as dynamically as you’ve done life at work. With travel. And football games. And parties. And family. You have found a way to balance it all. And to fill each day to the brim. Sometimes, it inspires me to coax the deep Taurus in me off of the couch, and to do something vibrant and brilliant with my days.

…

I am so thrilled that today is your last day of work, Mom. That you get to rest. And adventure. And to continue to live a life that is filled with random days at Disneyland, or early morning runs to In-N-Out with dad. A life filled with family parties. And volunteering. And scrapbooking. And a puppy? And trips to visit Megan and me, wherever we are in the world. All without having to worry about getting up to go to work on a Monday. I could go on and on about what I have learned from you, and what you mean to me. But I figure that I should probably stop somewhere. Because, now, I have some work to do. And you, finally, have a retirement to go enjoy.

You’re the best to ever do it. And it’s an honor to get to learn from you.

Love,

Kristen