For the first time in our 57 years together, Trude (Most Beautiful One's real name) and I plan on living in a vibrant urban retirement community—where we can walk to restaurants, music, theater and just about everything else that makes city life interesting. Retirement, it turns out, doesn't necessarily mean retreating.
We haven't moved yet (still waiting for the right apartment to become available). But we've also begun moving. Both things are true.
We've considerably downsized, prepared to sell our house, had several meals with very interesting residents, walked our new neighborhood, and agreed on what matters most to each of us in our next home.
Welcome to a world where two seemingly contradictory things can both be true. Instead of either/or, think both/and.
We love our Bainbridge home and friends and we're excited about our new adventure. We value our independence and recognize that moving to a community offering more support may help preserve it.
While we don't particularly want to think about assisted living and skilled nursing, there have been times over the last year when having more support would have made life easier.
We've discovered that downsizing is strangely liberating. We've parted with furniture, clothes, books and assorted treasures we once apparently believed our descendants would fight over. So far, no familial bidding wars have broken out.
Still, sometimes detachment is easier to discuss philosophically than when your spouse holds a jar of screws you haven't used since 1997 and innocently asks, "Do we really need these?"
Preparing to move has also highlighted one of the enduring differences in our marriage: how we make decisions.
I'm inclined to gather information (think ChatGPT and Google Gemini), make a decision and move on. Trude likes to more fully process things (e.g., actually think things through). Then she processes them a little more.
On occasion, I've been known to impatiently inquire: We've made a decision. Why are we discussing this again?
Her reasonable response is: Because you stopped listening to me and decided we made a decision.
After nearly six decades, I'm still learning that holding space for Trude to process isn't postponing the decision. It's part of making the decision. And her deliberateness has often protected us from my tendency to confuse decisiveness with wisdom.
There's an old saying about marriage: "If one person wins, both lose." I'd add a corollary: even when you win, mentioning that you won is generally a poor strategy (and in poor taste).
Last week we saw a concert at the Triple Door (there are actually four doors) with our good friends Lynn and Marc. They shared some advice they received when they were house hunting: have a united prayer. Regardless of one's religious persuasion, I think that simply means getting on the same page.
Chanting together for clarity (along with some honest feedback from our daughters) caused me to realize I wasn't really appreciating Trude's needs.
Just two years ago, when I was at my lowest, she helped me get better even when I wasn't sure I could.
In a very real sense, I owe her my life.
Which leads me to another traditional marital question: Who's right? A better question is: What matters to you? What matters to me? And is there a solution that honors both? That's different than simply splitting the difference.
Real dialogue is where two people are willing to be changed by the conversation. This applies to nations. And to married couples discussing a jar of screws.
Our move no longer feels hypothetical. We're on the priority list and already building connections with the community that will surround us. We're not leaving one life behind so much as beginning another before the first one has quite ended.
We can be grateful for the leap of faith that took us from Virginia to Bainbridge Island 22 years ago and excited about what's waiting for us in Seattle's South Lake Union. We can feel sad about leaving and nervous about beginning anew.
One thing is certain: no matter how hard we try, impermanence is inevitable. What we can do is continue to seek the wisdom, compassion and patience to navigate it together.
At times this will mean changing our circumstances. More often it will mean changing ourselves.
And sometimes it means admitting that two things can be true at once:
Trude may be right.
And I may still need those screws.
Mike Lisagor still resides with his wife on Bainbridge Island. His books, essays and videos live at BooksByMike.org.