A copy of my most recent publication arrived from Lived Places Publishing last week. The book, Volunteerism Among Older Adults, is a bit slimmer than the last one I produced for the same publisher, which was a bit slimmer than the one before it. Maybe I’m running out of steam. The last two books involved interviewing people, one about their mentally ill loved ones and the other about their volunteer experiences. And while I was honored that friends and complete strangers alike shared their stories with me—sincerely fascinating stories—I’m a bit weary of the interview and transcription process.
If I’m honest, I’m a little weary of the long slog of book-writing in general. When I retired, I thought I might finally get that memoir written I’d been contemplating for more than a decade. When I was younger, I’d pursued publication with the zeal of a bloodhound pursuing an escaped convict, only to be disappointed time after time. Here I am, seven years into retirement with five books in print. Maybe I’ve accomplished my goal and I’m ready for something new. On the other hand, my attitude toward book writing could change, as it did between writing my fourth and fifth books. Anything can happen.
Meanwhile, I have a personal essay in the back of my mind that I want to write about my grandson’s pursuit of a career as a pilot. He wasn’t interested in flying planes until he and his parents visited a nearby college during his senior year in high school. A program in aviation intrigued him, and he’s been working toward becoming a commercial pilot ever since. Who knew? Until that moment, his only goal had been to become a celebrated jazz pianist, a goal he continues to pursue between flying sessions.
As a mom, I was both curious about and surprised by the careers my children chose. Somehow, it’s even more thrilling to watch a grandchild make surprising life choices. I like being astonished by their hidden depths. You think you know the people you love, but you don’t. Not really.
Anyway, this essay has been rolling around in my head, along with the memories of the traumatic small plane crash that killed three men in 2011, one of them the husband of one of my dearest friends. I’m particularly fond of braided essays and hope to weave these threads together: this present reality of a beloved grandchild, the past deeply felt grief of a dear friend, and the objective principles of flight that respect neither.
In keeping with my Substack theme of entertaining change (which is synonymous with learning and personal growth), I’m following up on a creative urge to attempt more complicated weaving projects. It turns out that weaving, at the table set up near my desk, is a terrific way to calm anxiety and it allows time to brainstorm what to write next. A span of only five feet separates my laptop from my loom. What could be more convenient?
My husband and I also recently bought our first electric vehicle, and operating it entails a steep learning curve. Not the least of which includes when and how to charge the battery while our solar panels are most productive and calculating battery life for trips we anticipate taking over the next day or two. Because, seriously, what do you do if you run out of power on the way home from the grocery store? Getting a home charger installed calmed a lot of initial stress, but there’s still much to learn about how to operate the on-board technology. My brain is sorely taxed, but to be honest, I welcome the challenges.
Maybe it’s just as well I have no book in progress while I anticipate what changes will come next. I’m scheduled to conduct a life-writing workshop next month at a new independent bookstore in my town. The session might result in generating a local writing community, a hope shared by the bookstore’s owner. I might even take a class. Become a student of a new discipline. Volunteer with a different community organization. Reorganize my wildly overgrown butterfly garden.
The only thing I know for sure is that I’m not done challenging myself to change and grow. What about you? Where do you see yourself growing next?
Janice Airhart 
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