One Full Bucket is Enough for Me to Carry

I don’t know that there was ever a light-bulb moment in my life when I suddenly realized that other people’s opinions weren’t important to me.

And it’s not that I don’t care how other people perceive the world. I do. I find that interesting.

I probably just don’t care that much about how they perceive MY world.

I think people put so much energy into being people pleasers. And there’s a time and a place for wanting to please people. Everybody wants to put their best foot forward. You want to be kind. You want to be considerate. You want to be your authentic self.

But don’t turn yourself into something you’re not, just to raise someone else’s opinion of you.

That’s not where you need to put your energy in life.

Shouldn't the basis of our life be what is important to us, not what is always important to other people?

It’s really not rocket science.

If you’re just a good, kind, honest, caring, conscientious person, there’s a ripple effect to that. The people around you will see who you are because of the way you live your life and the way you treat people.

You don’t have to manufacture their opinion of you.

And yes, when I reflect back on my life at 67, there were definitely times when I cared more and put more energy into the people-pleasing side of myself.

But somewhere along the way, over a long period of my life, I realized there really wasn’t any benefit to putting that kind of energy into what other people thought of me. There was simply no value added to my life in that pursuit. In all honesty, it can have the opposite effect and take value away from our lives. We spend so much time with that as being a high priority, we miss the everyday joy of actually living. 

I don’t remember exactly when my mindset changed. 

Perhaps it happened at the time in my life during the transition to becoming an empty nester, and the focus was no longer on the child rearing years.

There wasn’t one moment when I woke up and decided I didn’t care what anybody thought anymore.

And it didn’t change who I was.

I was still the same person.

I just stopped putting energy into dwelling on what other people thought about me.

Instead, I continued to do the best I could every day.

At the end of the day, I’m the one who has to look in the mirror.

Am I pleased with how I carried myself today?

Was I kind?

Was I honest?

Was I caring?

Did I treat other people well?

Did I do the best I could?

Those are the things I can control.

How somebody else perceives my actions is something I have absolutely no control over.

And the way somebody else chooses to treat me is on them. It isn’t on me.

I can control how I treat them.

I can control the kind of person I am.

I can control whether I’m pleased with the person looking back at me in the mirror.

That’s where my energy belongs.

And I think once I stopped putting energy into everybody else’s opinions, the rest just came naturally.

I didn’t stop caring about people.

I didn’t stop caring about their thoughts, their experiences or the way they see the world.

I simply stopped feeling responsible for how they saw MY world.

Their opinion belongs to them.

I don’t have to carry it.

Now, looking back at 67, it seems so basic.

Do the best you can every day.

Be kind. Be honest. Be caring. Be conscientious.

Treat people the way you want people to treat you, with respect.

Live your life according to what is important to you.

And at the end of the day, be somebody you’re pleased to see when you look in the mirror.

The rest belongs to everybody else.

One full bucket is enough for me to carry.

How Did We Get Here?

I never imagined that Roger and I would take so many bus rides, in and around so many countries during our travels the last 4.5 years. And yet we have, and those bus rides have been short, long and everything in between. We've learned multiple bus systems from the UK to Greece, and even discovered our love, or maybe lack of love, for overnight journeys. It may have been the bus that rode on to the ferry when we were crossing the English Channel, or the coastline journey from Marseille to Genoa, that keeps us coming back for more. So this particular ride was a relatively short one from Palermo, across the mountains of Sicily on the way to visit extended family in Montallegro. Simply thinking of the journey my grandfather took over 100 years ago, had me asking the question, how did we get here and how has it actually shaped our lives, and more importantly, why we choose to live where we are now. 

Another day, another bus ride.

One last trip, from shore to shore, across the island of Sicily.

There are three mountain ranges on this seemingly small island, and as we once again traverse these mountains, I imagine the arduous journey my grandfather took from Montallegro to Palermo before he set sail for America in 1912.

Where there buses, or perhaps trains. The cars and highways of the future, were just not an option then. The journey to get to the port of Palermo may have been equally as harrowing as the ocean voyage he would soon take to New York.

Perhaps he booked passage on a small boat that took him around the island, as it would seem a quicker journey by far. Could it have been simply a horse and cart that crossed hundreds of miles to bring him to the port of Palermo?

It was also early April, the same time of year as our journey today, when he began his adventure 113 years ago.

A hundred years ago, were these olive groves thriving, and were these fields being planted for summer crops? Were the wineries cultivating the vines that would produce another year’s vintage?

What if my grandfather had never taken the chance to sail across the ocean, a decision that absolutely changed the future generations of our Grado family?

What would all of our lives look like now, the descendants of Pasquale, if he had never left this island in the middle of the sea?

Would we be farmers, or teachers, or artists, or even proprietors of shops in our own little towns?

I’m not sure where these thoughts come from, but they are no different than when I wonder how different my own life would have been if my parents hadn’t left the city of Brooklyn six short weeks after my birth to seek a life in the Connecticut countryside.

I would have grown up as a child of the city, surrounded by extended family members on every corner.

Instead, I was raised on a country road, surrounded by the sights of farms and cows, which you could smell long before coming to the end of the street where I took my first steps.

Would I have chosen the smell of Mother Nature and the sound of cows mooing in the fields, as opposed to the scent of the city trash cans at the curbside and the clattering of the garbage men filling their trucks as they rode down 7th Avenue in Bay Ridge?

Although many of us scattered across the country, it has not escaped my notice that we’ve all settled in coastal communities.

Perhaps we are drawn to it, or perhaps circumstances and happenstance simply led us to our various locations.

I only know that I’ve been drawn to the water my entire life and have always opted for life in a coastal community when allowed the free will to choose where I land and make my home, even if just a temporary one.

There's Always a Story

The Lightness of Enough

I think there was probably a time in my life when I thought security meant having a home, having things, knowing where you were going to live, and knowing what came next.

That was just what you did.

You bought a home. You filled it with things. You maintained those things. And then, apparently, you bought more things.

I don’t think that way anymore.

And I don’t think there was one particular day when I suddenly decided I didn’t need any of it. It happened gradually.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped thinking about where I was eventually going to settle.

Actually, I stopped thinking that I needed to settle at all.

Now I can walk into a beautiful house for a pet sit and think, Wow, this is really nice.

And then I live there.

For two weeks. A month. Sometimes longer.

I sit on the porch. I drink my tea. I watch the birds. I use the kitchen. I enjoy the view. For that little period of time, it’s home.

And then I leave.

And I’m perfectly okay with leaving.

Maybe that’s the part that surprises people.

Because I don’t walk away thinking, Oh, I wish this were mine.

I walk away thinking, That was really nice.

And then there’s almost this little feeling of relief because I don’t own it.

The roof isn’t mine.

The refrigerator isn’t mine.

The taxes aren’t mine.

The lawn isn’t mine.

Whatever breaks next isn’t mine either.

I got to enjoy all the good parts, and then I got to leave.

There’s something pretty wonderful about that.

I don’t have to own something to appreciate it.

And I think that’s one of the biggest things that has changed for me.

For a lot of my life, I probably thought happiness was supposed to be attached to something permanent.

Now so much of what makes me happy is temporary.

A pet sit.

A cruise cabin.

A hotel room.

A little apartment somewhere.

A porch in the woods in Kentucky.

They’re all home.

Just not forever.

And I’m perfectly fine with that.

Actually, I think I like knowing that they’re not forever.

Because when one thing ends, there’s something else coming.

Another house.

Another ship.

Another place.

Another conversation.

Another story.

I’ve realized that I really like that feeling.

Some people might find that unsettling. They want to know where they’re going to be six months from now or a year from now.

I don’t necessarily need that anymore.

I know this is going to end.

And rather than making me sad, it usually makes me wonder what’s next.

⸻

I’ve also always been pretty content.

I like my own company.

I don’t need to have something going on every minute of every day. I don’t need a calendar filled with people and activities.

Actually, I don’t want one.

Give me my tea in the morning.

A book.

A walk.

A movie.

A conversation.

A cat sleeping somewhere nearby.

Birds outside.

I’m good.

I can sit by myself for hours and never feel lonely.

I think there’s a difference between being alone and being lonely, and I’ve never had much trouble being alone.

I like quiet.

I think I need quiet.

And maybe that’s part of why this lifestyle works so well for me.

⸻

I’ve also figured out that too much of a good thing is still too much.

I love Disney.

I don’t want to go to Disney every day.

I love cruising.

But if I cruised every single day of the year, at some point I would probably want to get off the ship and sit on a porch somewhere.

I love creating things. I love taking pictures. I love making videos. I love writing down stories.

But I don’t want every single thing I do to become content.

Sometimes I just want to do it.

I don’t need a picture of every meal.

I don’t need a video of every place.

I don’t need proof that I was there.

I was there.

I remember it.

That’s enough.

And I think retirement has given me permission to do more of that.

Not everything has to be productive.

Not everything has to turn into something.

Sometimes you can just enjoy your day.

⸻

And then there are the things.

Possessions.

I don’t think possessions are bad. I had plenty of them.

But things come with jobs.

You have to store them.

Clean them.

Fix them.

Insure them.

Organize them.

Replace them.

Move them.

And the more things you have, the more things you have to think about.

At some point I realized that I really didn’t want more.

Because more wasn’t just more stuff.

More was more responsibility.

And I didn’t want the responsibility that came with it.

That’s probably why I look at wealth very differently now.

Having more time feels wealthy to me.

Having freedom feels wealthy.

Being able to leave somewhere without worrying about everything I’m leaving behind feels wealthy.

Having very little that I have to take care of feels wealthy.

So when I say less is more, I don’t mean I’m sacrificing something.

It doesn’t feel like sacrifice at all.

I simply don’t want what comes attached to more anymore.

⸻

People sometimes wonder how we travel the way we do without having a home base.

But I do have a home.

It’s just not an address.

Home is whatever I bring with me.

My routines come with me.

My books come with me.

My tea comes with me.

Roger comes with me.

I come with me.

And somehow I create this little bubble wherever I am.

It can be a cruise cabin.

It can be somebody else’s house.

It can be a hotel room.

It can be a little apartment halfway around the world.

The scenery changes, but my little bubble really doesn’t.

And I’m comfortable inside it.

⸻

I think one of the biggest changes I’ve noticed is what happens when I see a beautiful house or a beautiful neighborhood.

Years ago, I might have looked at it and wondered what it would be like to live there.

Maybe there was even a tiny bit of, Wouldn’t it have been nice if…

I don’t do that anymore.

I can look at a beautiful house and think it’s beautiful without wanting it.

I can stay somewhere wonderful and not wish I could stay forever.

I can enjoy something temporary without thinking temporary somehow makes it less.

Maybe it actually makes me appreciate it more.

Because I know I’m leaving.

So I notice it.

I enjoy it.

And then when it’s time, I go.

⸻

I’ve learned the same thing in a different way with people.

I don’t have to carry everybody else’s mood.

That took some learning.

If somebody I love is having a bad day, I can love them and still have a good day.

I can care about what they’re going through without making it mine.

That doesn’t mean I don’t care.

It means I’ve learned that my peace doesn’t have to disappear because somebody else’s has.

And that has made life lighter too.

⸻

At this stage of my life, I don’t find myself wanting more.

I think what I want is enough.

Enough adventure.

Enough quiet.

Enough money.

Enough health to keep walking and seeing things.

Enough time.

Enough people I love.

Enough things to look forward to.

And enough space in between all of it to just be.

Maybe that’s what abundance looks like to me now.

Not having everything.

Having enough.

I don’t measure my life by what I own anymore.

I think I measure it more by how little I need in order to be happy.

And maybe that’s one of the best things retirement has given me.

Not just freedom from going to work every day.

Freedom from thinking I need something else in order to be content.

Because wherever I go, there I am.

My tea.

My books.

My routines.

My little bubble.

And sooner or later, another door opens, another ship sails, another house becomes home for a little while, and another story starts.

At 67, I still have goals, I still have things I want to do and places I want to see. But I've realized that deciding enough is enough can be a goal too.

That’s enough for me.