MAINTAINING THE BOD: FULL TIME JOB

It takes a lot of time and energy and a team of highly trained medical professionals to stay healthy at my age.  In the next 2 months I have appointments:  dermatology to keep my pre-cancerous skin suit from erupting into anything deadly; dentist to replace a crown (not on my head); audiology to see if my "mild to moderate hearing loss" has worsened or if everyone has just begun to whisper behind my back (increasing my paranoia); mammogram to see if "the girls" are still perky (not) and not trying to kill me; and now a brain MRI to see if my migraines are caused by something horrific .

Also, I fell up the stairs recently.  On the very day I filled out a pre-physical form for my annual check-up that asked if I'd fallen in the past year, and by fallen I take that to mean NOT on the muddy slippery Kauai trial, which would trip up anyone, but just in my house moving around normally.  I said no.  Cuz it was true until 12 hours later when it became a lie I didn't correct.  

The front of my bulky slipper caught on the lip of the top stair.  I was not holding the handrail because I had my hands full with my phone, a half finished can of LaCroix, and my Kindle.  I flew forward at a force great enough to smack my forehead on the wall, wrench my neck back in whiplash fashion, and crash hard onto my right elbow, rib, hip, and knee.  I lay there, stunned, feeling a little tingle down my arm.  Hub came running and wouldn't let me move until he'd checked me out.  We determined there was no permanent damage, and he helped me up.  I'm still sore, over a week later.  It could have been so much worse.  New vow: wear shoes and hold the handrail every time!!!  (I also contemplated whether I could have drowned in my spilled LaCroix had my face been smashed into the wet floor and no one around to save me... Thoughts?)

So, I had my annual physical yesterday.  My doc was accompanied by a young man -- seemingly 12 years old, but maybe a bit older since he was introduced as a "pre-med student" doing an observation stint with a real doc.  Only later did I think to question why a PRE-med student was hanging around oogling my unclothed bod and listening in on my stories of creaky knees, migraines, panic attacks, and sexual exploits.  Shouldn't one at least have been accepted to med school to get to the good stuff?  Well, anyway, there he was, watching from the far corner of the room looking very uncomfortable like he was at the Junior Prom in the gym and might be expected to ask a girl to dance.

My doc declared me as "doing great!"  No big scary things going on, that we know of.  So that's good.  Cuz my platelet count that I'd seen on my lab report the previous day was low-ish and I had gone into a bit of a 24-hour tailspin over that and wondered if it could be something deadly and beyond my control to, well, control.  She said not to worry -- we will just re-check it in 6 months.  Nothing life-threatening happening now.  Whew.  But I'm sure my BP was sky high as I felt the familiar anxiety tipping into panic, with rapid breathing, slight light-headedness, and tears just at the surface.  But I didn't want to upset the 12 year old, so I held it all in.

We moved on to my now diagnosed "vestibular (dizzy) migraines" and she decided to order a brain MRI.  I've done that before and it takes all my meditation expertise to not completely lose it inside that machine.  Claustrophobia, anyone?  So that will be fun to look forward to.  I could have had it done as early as next week, but opted for later in May, after Son Two's upcoming wedding celebration and then another vacation, just in case the news is bad.  I don't want to ruin fun times with a deadly diagnosis.  

When we got to the girl parts exam portion of the visit, Master Pre-Med averted his eyes.  So cute. I was ready for his Mardi Gras beads should he have had some in his pocket, but my breast flashing netted me no reward.  Since I'd just had a colonoscopy in January, she offered to skip the rectal exam (always good news) and also skipped the pelvic this time since she asked if I was having any problems and I said, "No.  Nothing going on down there."  Then I amended, "Well, there's a lot going on down there...just nothing bad."  LOL   I noticed a slight upturn of a smile on the young man's face, so I said, reassuringly, "See?  Even in your 70's you can still have a great sex life!"  My doc and I laughed.  He did not, but I think he was amused (or appalled) nonetheless.

All of this to say, it takes a lot of maintenance as one grows older to keep the bod in good working order.  I am incredibly grateful to modern medicine, practitioners, scientists, and my daughter-in-law for being the practice manager (boss) of two branches of the big multi-speciality clinic I go to, for keeping it all in working order.  I saw her on the way out as she waited for a team to arrive on a PR visit of some kind where one of them was dressed like a mascot dog or bear or something.  It might have been the 12-year old pre-med student doing double-duty -- or perhaps I scared him out of the medical profession into a less stressful career where he could wear a disguise.

At least, that's the view from here...©

P.S. Next we will move on to the mental health portion of my upcoming appointments, wherein I will explore why I used the word "panic", "kill" and "deadly" so often in this post.  

Photo Credit: www.pixabay.com

OLD IS NOT BAD, JUST DIFFERENT, AND OCCASIONALLY ANNOYING AND/OR TERRIFYING AND/OR JOYFUL

 

In the past six Covid months, I have aged.  

My physical appearance has changed noticeably.  There is no denying the grayer hair, the deeper creases and wrinkles, the saggier jowls, the crepe-y skin on the inside of my arms, my thighs, the backs of my hands.  No amount of moisturizer seems to take the years away.  Of course, this was happening anyway, and maybe I didn't notice.  I also still blame that cataract surgery last fall -- non-soft-focus eyesight can be startling in front of the mirror.

I still, occasionally, put on a little mascara and blush.  I do not wear any jewelry except my wedding band and the cheap little turquoise ring I bought at a sidewalk gift shop at the Boulder Dam in 1974 and have worn every day since, its original Native etchings worn smooth over the decades.  I put earrings on one day and felt like a floozy.  Too much.  I took them out.  I do wear my Fitbit, but those have never been confused with jewelry -- they are devices, which is different.

If I leave the house I put on a sports bra.  Otherwise...the girls go free.  I wear black leggings every day with one of a dozen cotton T-shirts with some political or yoga message on the front, or maybe a hoodie on cool days.  My Oofos flip-flops are a constant, unless I don my Addis's for a walk.   I wear ball caps on bad hair days -- or a pony tail, or pig tails.  My hair has gotten very long.  I cut my own bangs; maybe you can tell.

All of my houseplants are thriving because I'm good at houseplants normally, but now they are getting extra TLC.  I replanted all my African violets, which they never like.  Like me, they are homebodies, even if their homes are way too crowded for them.  There were traumatized by the move; I can relate.  But this morning all are strong and healthy and 4 of the 6 are flowering.  Aren't African Violets the epitome of an older woman's houseplants?  I should also have a cat.  I would if Hub didn't object; I think there are meds for that allergy issue, but being a considerate wife I'm sticking to my vow of no more cats after over 30 years of making him endure sharing our home with a bunch of them over time.

Technology stymies me at times.  Easy stuff becomes nightmarish.  The other night Hub and I watched a Tom Hanks movie on Apple + .  I still have no idea why that channel shows up on my TV from a little box Son Two installed; I just know it does, and we watch.  We got a year free of Apple + when we bought our iPhones last year so maybe that's it?  Dunno.  I do know it has added a 4th remote to the three it already takes to watch TV -- one for the TV, one for DISH, one for the receiver.  Now one for the Apple box. Last night we wanted to watch something on Showtime and my brain went blank as to how to access Showtime On Demand.  We spent a good 20 minutes trying various screens, scrolling and backing out of this and that screen.  Then I realized one of the remotes was not even working, so I changed the batteries.  Still nothing, and I said we'd have to give up and do something drastic, like read a book or something, but Hub grabbed the remote and discovered I'd installed the batteries upside down, which I frequently do even when I try super hard to get it right, like I did last night.  

Anyway, back to Tom Hanks... the movie wasn't that good.  ("Greyhound" -- new release straight to streaming because there are so few theaters to show movies these days.)  It was a WWII Navy battle movie, reminding me of all the WWII movies I watched as a kid.  This one had echoes of "The Enemy Below" -- a classic fave.  It was intense at times.  The story of those Nazi subs and their torpedoes cutting through the waves aimed at our hero's destroyer and all those fresh-faced sailors was nail-biting!  But not scary enough for my resting HR, usually in the 70-80 BPM range, to shoot up to 160 per my Fitbit.  

I kept an eye on my heart rate as I got ready for bed and it stayed high.  I started to take deep calming breaths.  I started to feel palpitations.  I started to feel a twinge of pain, perhaps in the left chest.  I did what any normal person would do in this situation, I googled "racing heartbeat" and "heart beat: how high is dangerous?".  I checked the monitor about every 10 seconds.  When Hub came to bed I casually mentioned I seemed to be having a wee bit of tachycardia.  He put on his placid doctor face, sat on the bed next to me and took my wrist in his tender, professional hands to check my pulse. 76 BPM.  I questioned his pulse-checking skill since he IS retired and my Fitbit said at that moment 151.  He defended his 35 year career in medical practice with the suggestion that it might be a Fitbit problem.  We had a good laugh at yet another episode of me foiling the Grim Reaper and I went to sleep reassured.  This is not the first time I've been at death's door; health anxiety sucks.

So the next day, with Fitbit HR still soaring even though I was sitting in a chair, I spent about 2 hours over three contacts throughout the day, on the Fitbit Help Chat following their instructions, performing all manner of reboots, clearing of data, uninstalling and reinstalling the software and finally they agreed it was malfunctioning and they are sending me a new Fitbit.  Upside, that falsely racing heartbeat also tricked Fitbit into thinking I was exercising and it gave me about 3 hours of "active minutes" for the day.  Nice.  I can claim that on my Silver Sneakers app and get points toward Amazon Gift Cards!  (Shhh...don't tell.)

I think I've become a stereotype, but maybe I've just come to the realization that we all grow older as life progresses and we forget to pay attention.  I look around my home, which I love, and see how it might look to a younger person.  They would not want the beautiful china hutch filled with my grandmothers' pretty dishes.  They have no memory of the hand-painted cookie jar full of hard candies at Grandma's house in Indiana, nor the sweet green figurine I won at the 5th grade Mother-Daughter Tea at my elementary school.  They might not want the 25 year old multi-colored chair in the room off the kitchen that I still love, even if a bit worn, because I can see the frayed fabric made so by numerous kitty claws, reminding me of hours of sitting there with a purring cat on my lap.  They might not know the fancy carved old table in the guest room was made by a distant relative or that the blue and white quilt was made by a cousin of some sort while recovering from injuries sustained in the Spanish-American War.  In fact, they might know and just not care.  Kids these days don't prize that old stuff.  

And, today, I'm feeling like Old Stuff too.  It both saddens and amuses me.  In many ways, just a few months shy of turning 70, this is one of the best times of my life.  I am free to create my days as I please. I am pretty healthy (when I'm not fretting about NOT being healthy).  My marriage is good, my kids are close by, my granddaughters are adorable.  I  have friends, even if physically distanced right now. And I have a new appreciation for the precious precariousness of life.  

Also laughter.  I have that.  Life's elixer.

At least, that's the view from here...©

PUFFER FISH

 I'm disappointed with my face.

Since my successful cataract surgery and replacement of old overhead lighting with bright LEDs in my bathroom, things have gone downhill.  It's shocking actually.  No wonder my little granddaughter is appalled when I tell her one day she will look like me with a few wrinkles and sags.  More than a few, it turns out.

On top of that, my dermatologist has me smearing a topical chemo cream on my face for one week a month, three months in a row.  This is to arrest any dormant cancer cells that might have a mind to punish me for overexposure to the sun in the past 69 years.  I've completed the second month -- one more to go.  What happens is for that week of treatment and about 10 days after, red blotches show up making me look like I have an outbreak of measles in some areas of my face.  It's a good look that people admire.  NOT!  My skin gets extra dry so I slather on a variety of moisturizers then some liquid makeup to try to smooth out the skin tone (cover up the blotches), and all of it is very discouraging.  But not as discouraging as skin cancer, so there's that.

ALSO, one side of my face is caving in.  The right side seems to be losing collagen at a rapid rate.  I feel my cheek bone and just below there is a sunken area that seems like an ever expanding crater.  The other side of my face has a comparatively soft, smooth, rounded cheek area.  I asked my dermatologist about this and she said it might be because I sleep on my right side.  I've been smushing my face for several decades with my right side sleeping preferences.  I'm trying to rectify that, but habits are hard to break.  I have a hard time falling asleep in other positions, and even if I do, I wake up on my right side anyway after the nighttime gremlins come in and shove me over.

Jane Fonda, who looks artificially amazing for 82, announced recently she will forgo any further plastic surgery.  She admitted to vanity, but will no longer "cut herself" for beauty.  I have been a firm and vocal proponent for aging naturally -- no hair dye, no surgery.  I've encouraged women to embrace their natural beauty, no matter their age (with the caveat that I do wear a bit of make up even when not trying to hide measley looking skin.)   But I've been wavering ever so slightly.  NO surgery for me, but is there a magic potion, a little teeny injection of something that could make my face less lopsided?

Sure.  I'm sure there is.  But my fear is that I'd end up looking like a puffer fish about to be attacked and I'm not willing to take that risk.  So I ask for your forebearance.  This is me.  This is my face.  Splotches, wrinkles, craters and all.  Sigh.


At least, that's the view from here...©

Puffer Photo Credit:  www.pixabay.com

WITH AGE...

In my mid-late 40's, I think, I was first diagnosed with "borderline" high blood pressure.  I was shocked.  I went on meds, was advised to lose weight, and exercise more, de-stress.  The usual.  When asking why my BP was suddenly a problem, I was told for the first time, "Well, with age...."

This phrase has prefaced so many medical discussions over the ensuing 20 or so years, I've come to anticipate it.

Cholesterol:  "Well, with age...."
Keratosis:  "Well, with age..."
Osteopenia:  "Well, with age...."
Weight settling around the mid-region:  "Well, with age..."
Knees aching on occasion:  "Well, with age...."
Dry skin, age spots, dull complexion, wrinkles:  "Well, with age...."
Interrupted sleep/waking early: "Well, with age...."
Blurred vision/cataracts:  "Well, with age...."
Hearing impairment: "Well, with age...."

You probably have a list too.

As 2019 comes to a close,  I feel like it's a full time job to keep my body going.  There are only so many hours in the day to do all I want/need to do, and physical care is taking up more and more of my time.  Age is only a number, but well, with age....the only way to manipulate that number is to attend to age-related changes in our physical health.

I do not believe in using age as an excuse -- we have a lot of control over how we age by attending to what we can to mitigate some of the limiting aspects of age and health.  But age is an explanation for why I'm suddenly at the clinic for things that weren't an issue a few years ago.

I had my annual physical in October and went on a higher dose statin for cholesterol and have to do home BP checks to see if my BP meds are keeping that under control....borderline for increasing the doseage.  I've lost weight and get more exercise than in my 40's but, well, with age...

A couple of weeks ago I had my annual dermatology visit for a full body check. I've had a couple of basal cell carcinoma thingies removed and one squamous cell spot, so I'm a candidate for constantly checking the vast expanse of northern European/Scandinavian white skin that I foolishly thought would "tan" in my 20's and 30's.  The minimal tan and maximal sunburns of those years have now come back to haunt me.  Once again I'll be applying topical chemical therapies to my hands and a couple spots on my face to keep the damaged cells there from freaking out and becoming something ominous.  This will be my third round of such treatment.  We also talked about a better skin care regimen for my face. (I'm notoriously lax in that area -- wash, slap on some drugstore moisturizer, call it good.)

This fall I had two cataract surgeries.  I am so incredibly amazed and delighted to be able to see clearly again, even at night, even when driving in the rain!  I had curtailed my nighttime driving to basically emergencies only and it was very limiting.  Now I am confident that on the off chance I have an evening activity (Well, with age... I actually prefer to be home most nights) I can see where I'm going and not be a danger to myself or others.  I hope this miracle lasts, even with advancing age.

Last week I also went in for my first-ever hearing test.  I have tinnitus (that annoying ringing in the ears) and had also noticed I can't hear a thing in noisy restaurants with all the echoing, clanging, music, etc in the background.  I also noticed I used to be able to hear my husband talking to me from a couple rooms away, but now it's just a mumbling muddle.  I was told both of these scenarios are very common, so I was reassured.

Then I had the tests.  I now have a new "with age..." diagnosis:  mild to moderate hearing loss.  This is mostly in the very upper registers of tone.  (I think they were employing a dog whistle and admonishing me for not hearing it.  I am not a Poodle!)  Not time for hearing aides, but something to re-test in a year.  Sheesh!

In the meantime, I'm to adjust my environment by avoiding those noisy restaurants, which I mostly do anyway; by talking to my "communication partners" about talking to me face to face; by using hearing protection any time I am around noise that is loud and repetitive for any length of time:  concerts, sporting events, generators, lawn equipment like hedge trimmers, lawnmowers, power washers, etc, even hairdryers, and blenders in the kitchen.  I've ordered the type of ear plugs musicians use that fit inside the ear and reduce decibels without reducing the ability to hear what one wants to hear.

What I'm noticing is that humility comes "with age..." as well.  I used to be so impatient with my mom about all the doctor visits, diagnoses, limitations, and adaptations.  My arrogance was such that there were times when I felt she just wasn't trying hard enough.  OMG!  As she started to age, maybe mentioning the changes she saw in her 50s and onward, that woman ate well, went for daily walks, did Yoga Sun Salutation every morning, strength trained with exercise bands, had annual physicals, took all her meds, did not drink or smoke, quit driving when she started to feel insecure behind the wheel, wore hearing aides and glasses....she did all she could and still ended up with vascular dementia in her later years and died a month shy of 88 of stroke, so at a certain point something will get ya.

But now she is my role model for taking responsibility for my physical body for as long as I have it.  No one gets out alive, but how we age can often be within our control.  It takes commitment, diligence, and an inordinate amount of time.  I'm looking at my calendar and figuring out how I can fit in my yoga practice, classes at the new YMCA, and walks in the 'hood into my already sort of jammed social and "work" (meetings, household duties, childcare dates, writing, etc.) schedule.  More and more time goes to the body, leaving less for other activities.  I also suspect I can be more efficient with my time and probably find a new schedule that doesn't feel like I'm sacrificing for my health.

With age one is better able to discern what is truly important (maybe not scrolling Facebook) and how best to live in health -- with acceptance, adaptation, grace, and humility.

At least, that's the view from here...©

AGES AND STAGES, PART 3: I DON'T KNOW WHAT HAPPENS WHEN PEOPLE DIE

I don't know what happens when people die
Can't seem to grasp it as hard as I try
It's like a song I can hear playing right in my ear
That I can't sing,
I can't help but listen...
--lines from the song "For A Dancer" by Jackson Browne

I love this song.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IU1rZa8Ur_Q  I want it to play behind the video montage at my Memorial Service.   Jackson Browne's poetry and music have been so often the soundtrack of my life.  And this particular song has always moved me -- especially after my older brother died far too young in 1990 and then with each subsequent death of a loved one.

I don't know what happens when people die either.  Having been raised Methodist, and having had children's Bible story books read to me, I got the message about Heaven, even saw pictures of it (artitst's rendition anyway), which looked like a peaceful place.  I would journey there after I died... IF....

It was the "IF" that scared me.  I never really believed I could ever be good enough to make the cut, and Jesus dying to ensure my spot in the clouds never made any sense to me.   So I have spent a lot of time trying to sort out the meaning of life, the reality of death, the oh so tempting desire to believe there is "something" out there, something else, something after.  It has mostly been an intellectual pursuit, a curiosity of questioning and an occasional topic of Google searches and Amazon purchases.

One of those purchases was the book, Proof of Heaven, by Eben Alexander, MD.  He tells in this memoir the story of his Near Death Experience (NDE) after contracting a rare E-Coli meningitis which attacked the thought and emotion centers of his brain and put him in a barely not yet brain-dead coma for  seven days, with death the only possible outcome, according to the physicians caring for him.  But, alas, he did not die, and miraculously returned to consciousness telling of realms beyond this one where he had visited and was absolutely certain existed on the other side of death of the body.  Some part of us lives on -- not only lives, but thrives, and "returns" to our soul's source.  I give credence to his account because he was such an intellectual, scientifically-trained, mostly non-religious skeptic.  Now he's not.

His new book, The Map of Heaven, explores this further, pulling in the latest discoveries from quantum physics to help explain that we know so very little about the universe and the subtle swirling  subatomic ....whatever, whatever, whatever... I don't get the science of it all.  That stuff is what Stephen Hawking has spent his amazing lifetime studying, along with other really smart people who are good at math.

All I know is that sometimes I feel like the people I have loved and lost are sitting just beside me, almost palpably real.  All I know is that when my dad had a massive heart attack, which he only survived because he had it in a hospital bed, told my mom later that he had a feeling of tremendous peace while he was unconscious and no longer feared death.  All I know is that my niece says she regularly has contact with the spirit of her dead father, my brother.  All I know is that stories of NDEs are ancient, real, and becoming more and more accepted as fact in mainstream circles,  rather than the crackpot meanderings of a psychotic mind.

When religion asks us to have faith, tells us that the unanswerable questions are the "Mystery", I actually believe that to be true.  While I don't think we've figured it out yet, I have faith that there is something (a lot) we don't know, and the "mystery" will remain just that until, and if, we ever get the answers from science -- or God.

So, here's what I believe, on faith and a bit of science:  There is a Source (God, if you call it that) from which the universe(s) emerged.  We are part of that.  Humans are pretty well evolved (for now) in that we are given the gift of intellect and emotion and the ability to contemplate our own mortality.  It's our job to do that -- to think and feel and question and learn, and then to further this gift of Creation by honoring the Source by living a life of Love and Service to this Creation.  I believe that some part of this Source lives in every part of the Universe -- including you and me, and that part never dies.  It moves between planes of existence most of us can only imagine in a Science Fiction-y way, but into which some people have gotten a glimpse.

I'm not sure this Source cares about the outcome of football games (obviously not, since my fervent prayers went unanswered in the Seahawks Super Bowl loss...still mourning) or even about each and every individual life.  I think we are sort of on our own as humans and while deep inside we are Love and Light and have all goodness (the Spark is not evil), we do end up making dumb decisions, experiencing terrible things, being awful to one another.  I believe we are big swirling blobs of energy -- not even solid according to that science stuff I don't understand -- and that energy can affect energy, so that "miracles" can happen where the energy gets shifted and something seemingly amazing happens (Seahawks win!!!).  I don't really get that part because there is so much seeming capriciousness involved in any given outcome, but it might explain (to our little human minds) the unexplainable.

At least I think so.  I don't know...I used to try to believe the Sunday School explanations.  Then I didn't really believe anything.  I guess at this stage of life, aging as I am and giving more careful thought to what lies ahead, I've formulated this rather interesting, ultimately comforting belief in a mix of science and spirit that sustains me.   I don't have all the details down.  I just hope everybody enjoys the music while watching the video of my life.  Maybe I'll be there too...right beside you. ©

At least, that's the view from here....

AGES AND STAGES, PART 1: PARENTING ADULTS

Here is yet another thing I never really saw coming....the Ages and Stages of adulthood.

I was all over the "ages and stages" thing when my sons were young.  I read voraciously about growth and development, what to expect at various ages, how to get my own expectations of their behavior in alignment with their social and cognitive development.  I tried at all times to anticipate, understand, to guide and to encourage all manner of expression and development.  I was a child development fanatic.  Mostly I think this had to do with how insecure and inexperienced I was; I knew I needed some training to do this job well.   I am also a 'study nut'.  I love reading and taking classes -- especially when the topic has practical applications.  Being a studious parent is like taking the theory class and immediately applying that learning in the lab.  Sometimes the lab gets messy.

But I am realizing that my studies about human ages and stages sort of ended once we all navigated college graduation and the rude awakening adjustments that went along with them finding their way to gainful employment, mature relationships, and independence from Mom and Dad.   I forgot that adults go through stages too, even though I am self-aware enough to know that certain milestones bring up some surprising emotions.

Marriage, children, empty nesting, deaths of loved ones are all life-altering.  Retirement, downsizing a home, children's marriages and grandchildren...more events that rock the status quo.  But I had seen these all as "things to deal with",  both the good and the challenging; sort of events on the surface of life, distinct from one another and once navigated, some altered sense of "normal" would return.  With the initial "off to college" empty nest, I thought I'd done my "letting go", but I realize now it was just navigating an event, not really altering my sense of self.

In a conversation with Son-Two yesterday, however, I realized I am in a full blown "stage of development" that will enable me to grow into a woman who has a different world view; a different behavior pattern; a new way of thinking and being beyond the immediacy of a life event.

Two major family events are happening within three weeks -- the birth of Son-One's first child and Son-Two moving out of our home.

I realize I am struggling with being the mother of adult children.  We all get along great and I'm not feeling stifled, but I'm very, very aware of walking the razor's edge of being too involved and not involved enough.

Son-One and Beautiful DIL are very independent people who rarely ask for help and don't make a habit of informal, spontaneous contact.  They are open and loving when we are together and we all have a great time, yet I don't just stop by their home at the drop of a hat (even though I have a fantasy of doing so) and they rarely come to our home spontaneously either.   I don't offer up the plethora of advice I could when I see them struggling or making decisions I know might be better made in a different direction.  I know they have to find their own way and in fact, their way may work great for them, even if different from my way.  I wouldn't want them to resent me and any "I know best" proclamations, but I also don't want them to wonder why I didn't help them or warn them about this or that. The birth of their new baby solidifies their independence -- and also makes me want to move in with them.

Son-Two has been living with us for awhile to get his financial footing, and now is moving out in two weeks to a shared house about 20 miles away from us.  I'm thrilled for him and sad for me.  He is a joy to have as a "roommate" -- considerate,  fun, conversational, helpful.  He's actually quite open to my natural inclinations to offer advice and guidance, and seems to take it in without resentment or feelings of judgement.  He often ignores me, of course.  Yesterday I was getting rather far along in my "tips for living with a new roommate" soliloquy when I realized I was talking to him the same way I did when he went off to college and not as he is now, a grown and independent young man who has an extrovert's social skills that outstrip my own.

I stopped mid-sentence and burst into tears.  I realized at that moment that I am just unsure how to interact with my grown sons.  Like a "mommy"?  A friend?  Hands on or hands off?  Speak up or stay quiet?  The impulse comes from a place of deep love and caring...of wanting them and the people they love to be happy and never have to suffer.  But does it also come from a place of controlling?  Of not wanting ME to feel the pain of their pain?  Is my intervention about them or about me?

This is where a new stage of introspection comes in.  I learned during the "mothering" stage of my life how to set my own desires aside in service to raising my children.  I was no pathetic, self-pitying mom, but NO ONE raises children without giving up a bit of themselves.  It is a selfless act of love, when done with one's whole heart.  Now I have to learn once and for all how to take back all the parts of myself I gave away.  My love for them will never fade, but it's time to rewrite my "Mom" job description.  It has far fewer "primary responsibilities" and is much more an "on-call" position than a full-time profession.

Finding the "sweet spot"where love and connection reside beside separation and independence is the work ahead of me.   I'm sure it will include a lot of tears, a lot of mistakes, a lot of humor, and a lot of learning.  When I explained all this to Son-Two yesterday, my tears flowed freely as I felt deeply what this change will mean to me.  Then I had to laugh when Son-Two asked, "Mom, how long do you think this stage will last?"   Good question!  It may be as challenging for those around me as for myself.  Just like those Terrible Twos...

At least, that's the view from here...©

BOLDLY GO….

Whooo Boy.  I'm trying not to go on a rant here.  Something has triggered my ire and I want to write about it without sounding defensive.  I might not be able to.

Here goes.  Why is "old" so bad?   Why do we nip, tuck, tweak, dye, and lie it away?  Why is "old" synonymous with infirmity, ignorance, sedentary pursuits, lack of curiosity, and inability to continue to grow in meaningful ways?

I saw this on Facebook today.

I completely understand the sentiment behind this little graphic.  I actually agree with it in intention, but whole-heartedly disagree with the duality with which the idea is presented.

My adventure these days is to find my comfort zone, at all times and in all places, after spending much too much of my life "acting as if", being someone I thought I should be, or what others wanted me to be, or going and doing to such an extent that I was generally overwhelmed and exhausted.  Is wanting to live in my comfort zone a sign of "growing older", no longer willing to push the envelope of "adventure"?  I don't think so.

Are elders unable to be bold?  Is boldness only allowed when one is trekking the Himalayas? Or was my elder mother acting out a kind of boldness when she moved from her large home, selling most of what she had and leaving a lifetime of familiarity behind, to move 2000 miles closer to me?  She didn't see that as an adventure, for sure.  She saw it as a step toward dependence and she resisted it, but with boldness she did it anyway, knowing it was for the best.  She was growing older, but definitely not by any definition moving into her comfort zone.

I think we are all terrified of aging.  I think we project ourselves into that nursing home bed, moaning and groaning, drooling on our hospital gowns, staring at the ceiling, ignored.  Well, maybe that will happen.  Maybe it won't.   Watching my mother age was like watching the most courageous act of will, of surrender, and of grace I've ever seen.  They say getting old isn't for sissies and I think that's true.  You want adventure?  Try being discriminated against…being called "geezer", "hag", "granny" (not as an honorific, but as a pejorative); try being dependent upon others who are too friggin' busy with their adventuring to be present for your final act of courage.

Here's what's bold for me, at 64.  Embracing my age.  Not denying or covering up.  Making friends with a body that is changing in predicable ways.  Undertaking a spiritual practice, with Yoga and meditation, that allows me to gain strength, balance, insight, and peace.  My "call" is to pursue a quest of comfort with aging.  But I don't think it's a passive pursuit.  I think it's pretty damn bold and adventurous to face reality and embrace life here, now, with grace and humility, with curiosity and challenge, with commitment and fortitude.

At least, that's the view from here…. ©

ADJUSTMENTS MUST BE MADE

Once a month I facilitate a group called WISE -- Women Investigating, Supporting, and Exploring -- a gathering at my Unitarian Universalist church for women over 60.  We investigate what it is to be an "elder", how our culture views us, and what we can do to bust a few myths of aging. We support each other with sharing of  joys and sorrows, challenges and victories. We explore where we are and where we are going next, setting goals, making plans, making peace, and still raising our fists, fighting to the end for a better world.  We laugh a lot too.  

Yesterday we exchanged recipes, which is about the most traditionally "old lady" thing we've ever done.  We had a blast, each pulling a recipe out of a passed basket, then listening as the person who brought the recipe told the story behind it; why it was special to her.  We also talked about what kind of Christmas we are having this year:  Joyous, Lonely, Cranky, Broke, Sick…  there are all kinds of responses to this season, not all of them Merry and Bright.  Our minister gave a really good sermon on this topic right before our WISE gathering.

Something that came up for one woman was acknowledged by many.  There comes a time, often, when we are no longer the hub of the magic.  We are "retired" from being at the center of the festivities, as kids marry and move away, go to the in-laws instead, or just decide they don't really like Christmas.  Maybe we've lost a spouse, or have moved to a smaller house, or just don't feel like continuing with all the hoopla.  Sometimes Christmas sucks.

We decided there is a degree of freedom in stepping back, but there is also the possibility of a great deal of grief when our role changes, often not of our choosing.

My "kids" still come to our home for the holidays and I am grateful for that.  Yet there are times when I feel sad about losing the place of importance and primacy in my grown sons lives.  We were so close when they were young and my life pretty much revolved around them.  Gladly so.  Yet, the successful outcome of all of those years of dedication is bittersweet…they grew strong, independent, and capable of creating families and lives of their own.  

There are times when I miss the "old days" and indulge in a bit of longing for more closeness and intimacy at times.  I feel a little sorry for myself and that feels good -- to acknowledge my sadness and aloneness.  Then I dust myself off and realize the days of holding them in my arms, tousling their hair, hearing their most secret hopes, dreams, frustrations and griefs may be gone, but...

My job isn't really finished.  I continue to teach and show them the way, just as I always have.  I continue to model for them what I hope for them to experience as "elders" -- a life that is lived at a slower pace, but one still filled with passion and purpose.  

I can still reach out to them in ways they can accept now -- with a text or a phone call or a Facebook post, a small gift, a word of encouragement, a reminiscence, a loving hug, a weekly family dinner.  I am there for them, a constant in their busy lives, even when they don't notice.

I am there, just as they will be for their own kids, in some far-off future Christmas season when they will shed a tear, too, for what has passed, what has changed when they are no longer the Center of the Universe for their grown children.

And that's as it should be; it's just hard sometimes.  Our work is to acknowledge new realities and adjust accordingly, with love for them…and ourselves…at Christmas and always.

At least, that's the view from here… ©

AGE -- A STATE OF MIND

This month has been crazy busy.  First there was sleep-over camp (well documented in my previous post), then we continued the deep dive into a huge building renovation project at our UU Fellowship (it's an old building needing constant attention to much deferred maintenance and rather lax tidiness standards -- a group of us are seeking to rectify this), and now we are prepping for an 11-day vacation, to commence next week.

In the midst of all of this, we celebrated our 42nd wedding anniversary -- or as Hub said, "42, with a year off for 'bad behavior'".  Yes, I guess we qualify the total number of years of married bliss by mentioning in passing that year of living apart back in 1978, but it was so long ago….

Anyway, "the kids" were all here for weekly Family Dinner the night before our anniversary and I commenced to announcing that it seems impossible for me to fathom that we've been married for as long as one middle-aged lifetime when the reality is that Hub and I look and act so incredibly youthful!  Why, one would guess our ages to be a mere 42 years old!

I said that we are now almost the age my parents were when our sons were young.  I asked if they thought of my mom as being "old" when she was a really only 65.  The two sat there in silence.  I prompted again…"She was so young!  She didn't seem old, did she?"  Again, silence.  Then a mumbled, "Um, yeah."

"Really???" I said.  "But 65 isn't really that old!"  Son-Two looked at me and said, "But Mom, we thought you and Dad were old too -- and Grandma was really old!"

Hmmm….I understand.  They were just children with no idea about the trick of internal perspective being at complete odds with external appearance.  In their 20's now, they likely still don't get it.  But they will.

I remember my mom saying to me, in her late70's or so, that she wondered who that old lady was looking back at her in the mirror.  She said she didn't feel old at all.  At 63, I'm having the same experience.  I'm shocked at times by the sags, the wrinkles, the crepe-y skin, the bumps and age spots that are starting to emerge.  My body is in full rebellion from my mind.  Candlelight is my friend, as are long sleeves, a sturdy bra, and "tan in a bottle" lotions.

One day recently when 4-1/2 year old Angel was here for a sleepover, she asked me where my mother lived.  I told her my mother had died and I miss her very much.  She said, "Why did she die?" so I explained that she got pretty old and got sick and her body was tired and needed to rest forever.  (I really don't know how to explain death to a 4 year old without it sounding super scary.)  Angel said, "I hope you don't die soon."  I was taken aback.  "Why, Angel honey, I'm not going to die soon…why would you think that?"  She looked at me very seriously and said, "Well, you are getting pretty old too."  I was somewhat surprised to hear her say this -- I'd just crawled all over the floor with her, waited on her almost constantly for snacks and toys, played hide and seek in the yard for a good long time…me, old???  "Hmmm..what makes you think that?" I asked.  "Well……you've got those lines all over your face."  Busted!

To my beautiful granddaughter, so new to this world, so perfect in every way, I am "getting pretty old".  She can tell by looking….which actually makes me a little happy.  Aging is natural and normal and important.  It is the signal that life is moving along as it should.  Of course I seem "really old" to her.  Of course her parents are old too (at 28).  It's the Circle of Life, right?

There is no point in trying to trick ourselves, our children, our grandchildren, or the neighbors.  I don't love my 'lines' or my graying hair, or the sags and imperfections, because they remind me this body won't last forever.  But I do love my mind and my heart and my soul -- all of which are ageless and all of which are really who we are -- not this skin we walk around in.  If I keep exercising those inner traits, keep challenging, keep learning, keep growing, I'll be forever young to the end, no matter what this crazy body decides to do with itself.

At least, that's the view from here…. ©

WISE TO BE W.I.S.E.?

Why do women squabble and quibble?  Do men do this?  If we are dabbling in stereotypes anyway, I suppose men do have their career hierarchies, muscle mass, and penis size issues to deal with.  But, being a woman, I think I have a pretty good view from the front on a lifetime of tits (haha) for tats that females seem to bandy about.  And we all have our Egos which, poor things!, just insist on having their way.

So, over the weekend I was at a party when a woman from my church, maybe 10 years my junior, and whom I admire for many reasons, said she needed to talk to me about something.  That "something" was the name of the women's group I've facilitated for over 4 years.

We call ourselves the W.I.S.E. Gathering -- Women Investigating, Supporting, and Exploring.  It's a group formed to give voice and visibility to women over 60.  So yeah, we card at the door; gotta be 60.  We love welcoming those into our midst who have "come of an age" to join in.  Initially we got some guff for what some called our practice of age discrimination (there were numerous other all-ages women's groups and gatherings, just sayin'), but that criticism has largely passed, I think.  Yet now I was hearing this:  It's really the name of the group that is the rub.  "If you are the WISE women does that make us (younger women) the "dummy" women?"

My initial thoughts, upon hearing this were along these lines:  "Hmmm…no, of course not!  Hmmm…I feel bad about this.  Hmmm...this is pissing me off.  Hmmm….interesting that I am being triggered by this feedback.  Hmmmm…what the hell?!?"

I was determined not to be defensive, to breathe, breathe, breathe, and keep listening.  The name, it was suggested, should be something like "Silver Sages".  (Uh-huh, not too keen on using stereotypical physical characteristics as an identifier, but maybe that's just me.)  The rationale she shared is that wisdom can be gained at any age, but you have to be old to be sage.  My take?  Semantics.

But I have been pondering this ever since.  I am sort of amazed that some women in my congregation are annoyed by our group because of a word, one that in traditional cultures is an honorific used to denote an age and stage of life.  I agree, age does not automatically confer wisdom.   I know some batshit crazy and very unwise women of all ages.  

Yet…having lived a long time means having (usually) gathered the experiences and perspectives that seem to even out the psychological volatility and emotional vulnerability of a more youthful age.  It seems to focus one in a way that was not possible when younger.  There is time to reflect, to see the end times not that far away, to wrestle with the urgency of life and to do the work and feel the joy that commands our immediate attention.  But this time of inner exploration can often force us into a state of marginalization by our culture (and our friends and families.)  There is a drive to "keep busy" so we can still feel vital and be seen as such.

So what jazzed me about starting this group was to keep us more than "busy" with kitchen duties and social event organization and book club facilitations -- all incredibly noble and worthy pursuits, but not at all the complete picture.  I was starting to see a "kindliness" veneer slapped over the fire I knew was still smoldering.  I wanted to make a place where we could shout out our anger, pain, sadness, and JOY at living fully, completely, and meaningfully as Elders.  I wanted to create a place where the word "elder" didn't get mistaken for "elderLY".

At our first meeting 4-1/2 years ago I expected maybe 5-6 curious women to show up.  The small room overflowed with 24 women -- and we have averaged about 18 for each session since.  Struck a nerve, apparently.  Filled a need, apparently.  We did a little consciousness-raising exercise that first afternoon.  I asked women to shout out cultural stereotypes of aging women.  The list we came up with consisted of 24 negative characteristics and 8 positives.  After meeting together monthly for 8 months, raising consciousness, rejecting society's biases, and forming a sisterhood of women sharing passions, activism,  hopes, and dreams, we looked at the stereotype exercise again.  By our last gathering of that first year we had accumulated 81 positives against 39 negatives!

And to me that was what this is about:  remembering who we are.  Or maybe for the first time affirming who we are.  At 63 I am among the youngest in our group.  That means that most are a good deal older than those who take exception to our name.  It seems there is never an end to discrimination against women, both overt and covert, but for most of the women in our group they came of age at a time when women were denied so much in so many ways it's almost comical to think of it (if it wasn't so sad.)

I became an adult in the early 70's -- a time that swept me up in women's liberation activism and created opportunities that were unheard of for women 10 years my senior at the same age -- and not even recognizable to women 10 and more years younger, who reaped some of those benefits.  (I will never forget a woman in her early 30's who publicly thanked me and my age cohorts for the work we did that allowed her to take so much for granted in her own life -- to play sports, go into a non-traditionally female career, to own her own home.)

Reading Mark Nepo's "Finding Inner Courage" this morning, I ran across his reference to psychologist Erik Erikson and his work on identifying psychological stages of development.  The task of old age (he says 65 and over) is to "find meaning in the whole of one's life in the face of one's immanent death, and the good outcome (of this search) is expressed in the virtue 'wisdom'."  We are doing this work together in W.I.S.E. and I hope I don't sound defensive when I say that whatever wisdom we have come by, those of us born before 1954, was hard won and ours to embrace in a name that affirms.

And I know well that all of us, regardless of age and regardless of what name we give to our gathering spaces, need a place to come together to do the work of our distinct ages and stages of development-- honoring, supporting, and cheering each other on wherever we are.  Maiden, Mother, Crone, or Wise Woman, Sage, Elder…we're all in this together.  Let's get on with it.

At least, that's the view from here…. ©

MY STINT AS FIRST LADY

Had breakfast with a BFF this morning and told her, "I'm even sick of myself…I can't imagine how everyone else must feel!"  And then I went on to compare myself to Hilary Clinton.  Because we have both been First Ladies…she was and I am.

Well, I gave myself the moniker when Hub became President of the Board of Trustees at our Unitarian Universalist Fellowship last summer.   As First Lady I have no official duties, but I do feel it is my job to support the President and not schedule our weekly Family Dinner with our grown sons on Board meeting nights.  I also help write his monthly newsletter column because I can do in 20 minutes what would take him hours, so it's in my own self-interest, really.  I prefer to hang out with him rather than have him hunched over the computer.  I serve as a sounding board when he has a challenge or the germ of an idea.  We talk and talk and plan and organize and prepare and brainstorm and try to find consensus and middle ground with any plan or problem, keeping in mind the policies already in place, the interested parties and who will be effected, those who will be pleased, those who will be disappointed or angry.  We try to be patient and set aside our own agendas for the greater good of the whole.  He works hard at his Presidential tasks, some part of every day, and it seems we both spend an inordinate amount of time on Fellowship business.  It's all rather exhausting sometimes and I have taken to wondering what we will do and talk about when we don't do and talk about "the Fellowship"so much anymore.

I do find my own ongoing activities are consuming me at the Fellowship too.  I could list all the things I'm deeply involved in, organize and facilitate regularly or occasionally, and some where I dabble at the edges.  There are the long-term commitments and the ad hoc committees.  There are the one-time deals and the once in a while tasks.  Really, I feel I could fill a page with it all.  Which is the problem….and the reason I (and others, no doubt) are a bit sick of me.

I'm of two minds about this. Sometimes I feel way out of balance; like I've taken on too much and the feelings of frustration that creep up at times are a good indicator that this is so.  I get all control-y and piss-y when I just want to get the job done, forgetting the delicate interplay between the task we may all agree upon (if we've gotten to consensus at all) and the "right" way to accomplish it and when.  I feel way out of balance; like when I wake in the middle of the night worried about a comment I made, how someone might be miffed with me, what color to paint the meditation room, or which playlist to prepare for the Ecstatic Dance group.  I feel way out of balance, when I find myself making six 20 minute one-way driving trips to the Fellowship within 4 days all for legitimate reasons to show up for things I was committed to.  I feel way out of balance, as stated earlier, when Hub and I cannot spend more than 15 minutes in conversation without some mention of our church life.

On the other hand, I truly love this community.  I am retired from paid work. I have ample time, some skill, an obvious interest -- indeed, a passion for making our Fellowship as welcoming, vibrant, and  challenging (in a good way) and spirit-filled as I can.  I feel an obligation during this season in my life to take my turn doing this work.

I think back to those who were in this position when we first came to the Fellowship 23 years ago.  They were then at the age and stage of life that we are now.  I was so impressed with their creative energy, their dedication and tireless work.  As they eased somewhat out of that season of their lives, we've grown into it.  Others will come after us….I am certain.  Part of my motivation is to help ensure that this special Fellowship that means so much to so many of us will continue to grow and prosper and when I am an elder (even more elder than now) others will be ready to lead.

So, I thought of the "you get two for the price of one" partnership that has been Bill and Hilary Clinton and understood on a comparatively teeny-tiny scale that when two people are dedicated to the same cause, the same community, the same hope for the future, there will occur times of annoyance and impatience and over-exposure on all sides.  When Hub's presidency year ends, and his past-president duties are complete after next year, we may have to take a bit of a Sabbatical to get this all back in balance.  But for now, sick of me or not, here I am.  I'll just try my best to be nice about it.  And hope I see more people walk toward me on Sunday mornings than away.

At least, that's the view from here…. ©

Not familiar with Unitarian Universalism?  Check out the UUA website:  http://www.uua.org

MALFUNCTION

Here's a "Testimonial" I presented as part of a Women's Service at my church last Sunday:

***********************************************************************

First of all I’m annoyed that no one sees my red hair.  I complain about this a lot.  I mean, are people blind???  My hair is bright red!  It’s beautiful!  Everyone has told me this since I was 2 years old.  I don’t understand....

Next, I’m annoyed that they’ve started making jeans in weird sizes that don’t fit.  I mean, really, I can try on 20 pairs of jeans and not one, NOT ONE, fits anymore.  Why, back 30-40 years ago I could find a decent pair of jeans that fit like a glove!

Also, the entire skin care industry is tanking.  I slather on cleansers, toners, serums and various moisturizers, per manufacturers' exacting instructions and what happens?  I still see wrinkles!  It seems my skin is sagging a bit in the neck region.  Again, what’s with these products?  I’m calling for a recall!

Also, and this is really serious -- there are now more calories in food than there used to be.  I eat exactly the same amount of bread and cheese and cake but somehow the scale is showing weight gain.  That can’t be right.  Of course, it may be the scale; I’ve heard they can go bad and need recalibrating.

Someone suggested to me recently that all of these annoyances may be age-related.  Hogwash!  There are plenty of people out there my age and older who do not experience these changes.

Their hair is the same vibrant color it was in their 20’s.  Their skin is tight and taut and not sagging anywhere; in fact, in some cases, their faces barely move!  They have not gained an ounce of weight as they aged -- some have flatter tummies and impossibly perkier “other parts” than ever.  Their clothing fits perfectly.

So, obviously, there is combination of malfunction of my body and the industries in place to support it.  In our society, in the 21st century, there is absolutely no reason, we are told, for a person of advancing age to have to look like they look.  None at all.  

Unless, of course, looking like we look is some form of statement about self-acceptance; some form of protest against the cultural romance with youth; some crazy personal demonstration of the cumulative effects of a lifetime of love, challenge, joy, grief, hard work, and laughter that carves lines into our faces, causes gray hairs to sprout from our heads, and encourages us to embrace our imperfect bodies.

We all want to look our best, to look as “good as we feel” some say.  There is nothing wrong with a good haircut, flattering clothing, a little body adornment.  What is wrong is the message that we are not good enough just as we are, especially as we grow older in this youth-obsessed culture.  So next time you look in the mirror, don’t think “malfunction”.  Instead, smile and say, “Hello Beautiful!”

At least, that's the view from here....©

FOR WHAT IT'S WORTH

"Write what you know," they say.  Well, the dearth of posts this month would indicate I don't know much.  This affliction is commonly known as writer's block, I guess.  And some teachers say there is no such thing.  Just write.

I've tried.  I've been journaling, free-writing, taking a writer's workshop weekly, reading a lot, meditating, chanting...  Nadda.  Nothing.

Here's what I do know:  "Somethin's happenin' here; what it is ain't exactly clear..."

I have felt at loose ends in my life before, but never like this.  Never so loose it feels like I am untethered and slowly lifting off from the solid ground I've always stood on.  I feel like I am standing beside myself, watching me go through the motions of my life, but I have no attachment to it; it just is.

I want to believe I am entering a state of Buddha-nature enlightenment because I am a good student and what takes many lifetimes for most Boddhisatvas, I am accomplishing within about 2 years of intermittent meditation and sporadic study.  Boom! Done!

Or maybe I'm depressed and this lack of attachment is the familiar draining of joy and meaning I know so well with my history of falling into the black pit of despair periodically.  But it doesn't feel like that.

I don't feel hopeless or unworthy.  In fact, the opposite -- I feel like I am everything, all the time, and nothing, none of the time.  (No!  I am not "high"; no matter that weed is now legal in my state, I gave it up several growth and development lifetimes ago and have no interest in becoming reacquainted.  Obviously my own inner reality is trippy enough!)

My overwhelming desire, impulse, longing is to pull in and get super quiet and super intentional in my life.   I am unnaturally delighted on days when there is nothing at all on my calendar.  I do want to go out and see things and experience things and hang out with people -- in limited quantities.  Sometimes I wish I could wear Harry Potter's invisibility cloak at social events; I'm there, but you can't see me or pull me out of my own experience of observation and internalization.

I have been staying home a lot more than I used to; dreading "doing" things.  That's not healthy, and I do long for novelty and interaction with the world.  One day "out" and three days "in" seems about the right ratio now.

So, has anyone diagnosed me yet?  Please?

Here's what feels right to me:  I am in transition to another age and stage -- moving into what will likely be a time of deep spiritual growth and connection to the next plane of existence. (Hopefully many years off, but it takes awhile to prepare!)   I feel a sense of wonder and delight.  I feel deeply, soulfully appreciative of the grace of living this human experience.  I have lessons yet to learn, and lessons yet to teach.  I don't want to waste a single moment on obligations to people, places, or things that do not feed my soul's desire to grow into lightness and peace.

Oh, this sounds very woo-woo, yes?  And yet....

That's the view from here...©

ROCKIN' in my chair N' ROLLIN' my yarn ball

This is what it comes to, I guess.  I am 62.  Do the math.  I was in my 20's in the 70's -- the days of sex and drugs and rock n' roll.  I did some damage.  And OK, looking back, I could have been a wee bit more cautious.

In the intervening years, I did grow up, learned to be responsible and accountable, and loving of those other than myself.  I had a job, raised kids, took care of aging parents and nurtured a marriage.  Settled down, in other words.

Settled WAY down, as it turns out.

On Monday I decided to curtail the sweet tooth I'd indulged over the holidays and cut back on my mochas too.  I did great for 3 days.  But today I was out shopping mid-day for yarn to crochet a "throw" for an upcoming fundraiser at my church.    And I got hungry.  I should not leave the house on an empty stomach because I tend to get a little shaky when my blood sugar plummets.  So, what to do?

Well, you know what is on every corner, luring me like the Sirens in the Odyssey....that wily green-haired mermaid!  Walking through the door of Starbucks, my reusable cup in hand (save the earth!), I looked furtively about (as if anyone cared), feeling like I was walking into a crack house.  Ashamed.  Desperate.  Eager.

Here's what I ordered, my usual:  Tall, decaf, non-fat, no-whip, extra hot mocha.  Look at that!!!  There is absolutely nothing in that thing!  How could it be so wrong?!?  Right?  And I got the oatmeal cookie, because oatmeal is a health food.  So there!

But still, all the way out to the mall I felt guilty as I munched and sipped my indulgent lunch.  Oh, failure that I am!  Oh, weak-willed woman!

And as if that wasn't bad enough, I got to the check-out stand and discovered I'd forgotten my 1/2-off coupon!  Drats!!!  I actually thought of putting my yarn back, going home for the coupon and returning, which would have saved me a whopping $4.00!!!  (Um, about what I spent on the 'speed-free' coffee).  But I thought, no, it's OK.  The carbon footprint I would leave to make another trip probably is offset by the $4.00 overpayment....

Oh, it all gets so complicated!  Oh, for the carefree days of hip-hugger bellbottoms, the Doors, and a doobie!

And even more so when I re-read this post.  Let's find the key words of a changed woman:
"yarn", "crochet", "fundraiser", "church", "blood sugar", "decaf", "non-fat", "no whip", "oatmeal", "health food", "coupon", "Drats!" "carbon footprint".

I need a shot of tequila!                          

At least, that's the view from here....©

HAPPY NEW YEAR

2013....  2013????  Here's me in 5th grade (1961) when I woke up to the fact that the "1900's" would be over at some point....I sat at my desk, counting on my fingers (I got left behind in 4th grade long-division, so my fingers still act as my  personal abacus) to determine if possibly I'd still be alive in the year 2000.  I accurately determined I'd be 50 years old and I might actually live that long since I knew my grandma was over 50 at the time....
Well, I did live that long and then some.  In fact I'm still here and occasionally sit and count ahead as I did then, wondering how far into this millennium I might expect to get.   I try to be optimistic.

And then I remind myself that "the future" is pretty irrelevant and TODAY is the only thing I have.  In fact, THIS MOMENT, is really the only thing I can count on.   Still, we are sort of programmed to plan ahead, set goals, project into the future, and this is all necessary if we want to live in chronos world, so, every New Year feels like a clean slate, a time to start over, to make plans, to anticipate.
This year is no different for me.  I find that on this, Day 4 of 2013, I am nearly manic with enthusiasm for the possibilities that lie ahead.  I am filled with "clutter-busting", cleaning out, getting organized energy.  List upon list of "things I want to do" are materializing -- classes to take, trips and travels to undertake, family times to plan, socializing to do, movies to see, recipes to try, projects to begin (and accomplish!)  And weight to lose. (It is obligatory to throw that in.)

This is a time of transition in my life, as the last decade has been, actually.  But this feels different.  Something has shifted again within me and I feel a movement toward more peace, less stress, more acceptance, less judgement, more equanimity, less anxiety.  I am incredibly eager to see if I am right about this. My life always surprises me and I'm never actually sure if what I think is happening really is. All of this positive thinking and eager anticipation could fly right out the window with the first emotional trauma, bout of unexplained depression (hello, old friend), or disaster of any origin.  Still, something ...something...something that feels like confidence in my ability to lean into whatever comes my way is wriggling itself into my psyche.

2013.  Could this be the year when my life feels like something I own, am responsible for, and embrace  instead of something I am enduring, fighting, and utterly confused about?

Some of the elder women mentors I've known, those in their 60's and beyond, tell me there is a definite shift in thinking/ feeling/being that occurs after 60.   Could that be what this is?  Oh, how delightful!  That is not to say there won't be pain, loss, fear, more confusion.  But there may just be a calm, peaceful, loving embrace of EVERYTHING that is life and the knowing that nothing is forever.  "This too shall pass" may be the wisest words ever spoken, as each moment passes into another and another and another....

At least, that's the view from here...©

HANDS DOWN

Son-One recently became engaged to a most wonderful young woman.  They met through mutual friends of co-workers at Starbucks.  (Another reason I love Starbucks, actually.)   To announce their engagement to friends and family near and far, my future daughter-in-law (DIL) posted a photo on Facebook (naturally) of the two of them, her hand prominently featured to show off her glittering new engagement ring.

And her hand is beautiful.  Her fingers long and slender.  Her skin flawless.  Her nails beautifully shaped and natural.  I am in awe of beautiful hands.  I notice.  I envy.

Somehow, upon my father's death...and later my mother's...my hands turned into his/hers/theirs.    Farmer hands.  Factory worker hands.  Beautician hands ravaged by harsh chemicals.  Genetically rather short and stubby, ruddy of complexion, dry, wrinkled, now a bit blotchy and splotchy, thinning skin, prominent veins.  Nails that never grow evenly and cuticles that encroach readily.

Admittedly I don't pay much attention to my hands, so mainly I am to blame for the results of this lifetime of neglect.  I really dislike getting professional manicures (I've had maybe 3 in my life).  It seems a crazy waste of money to me.  (Not to mention feeling so silly sitting there while a bored manicurist tends to my fingernails, as if this has any impact on world peace!)  And while I love buying lotions and cremes that smell heavenly, I mostly forget to use them.  Also, my health-nut friends tell me I don't drink enough water to hydrate my skin adequately (I'm working on that one).

Often, when I am aware of them at all, I feel embarrassed by my hands.  I have been known to "hide" them strategically at times inside pockets, folded demurely in my lap, snuggled in gloves.  But sometimes I gaze at them, often on the Yoga mat where my hands are RIGHT THERE UNDER MY NOSE, and I feel a grudging sense of pride and familial connection.

My parents were hard workers.  They grew up with their hands in the soil and on a plow handle in rural areas of Illinois and Indiana in the 1930's where, with their parents and siblings, they toiled to literally scrape a life out of the dirt.  They moved to the city as a young married couple and went to work in the textile industry -- Dad dyeing canvas cloth for manufacturing awnings and tennis shoes (Keds!) and Mom sewing Maidenform bras and girdles in near sweatshop conditions (occasional needles through fingers a workplace hazard).  Later she opened her own beauty shop, exposing those hands to the chemicals needed to color and curl other women's hair.  They used their hands to cradle babies, lay wood flooring, remodel houses, work on cars, repair, paint, wallpaper, cook, clean, wash, landscape.....

The hands I see on the ends of my arms are a history of my parents... and of me.  They may not be pretty, but they represent a nobility of character, I think.  A history of toil, of experience, of love.

Still, I will encourage DIL to drink plenty of water, use lots of lotion, wear protective gloves and try to take care of those lovely hands better than I have mine, but to also know they will not be perfect forever.  She has already bathed her child hundreds of times, washed stacks of dishes, wielded a hammer in their new home, planted a flower garden, steamed espresso, carried trays of food to waiting customers, and now works in a clinic where hand-washing rituals are obsessive....time will take it's toll.  And her hands will tell a story, too.

At least, that's the view from here....©

FROM TEA CAKES TO STARBUCKS

My maternal grandmother lived with us while I was growing up, having lost her husband to heart disease two years before I was born.  When I was a kid, I recall her sisters and often their daughters (my mom's aunts and cousins) occasionally coming for a weekday afternoon visit.  My maternal relatives all were of Norwegian descent and devoutly Lutheran.  So there was no foolishness, swearing, or outrageous behavior.  There was, however, genuine delight in being together, chatting about family and health and the fate of that summer's crops, this being rural northern Illinois and a family of current and former farm folk.  

Around 3:00 Mom would set out "lunch" which was really an afternoon snack, consisting of maybe little tuna sandwiches (no crust), a relish tray, crackers, cheese, and of course, a pot of coffee (Folger's or Maxwell House, brewed) to go with the tea cakes.  This was the best part of the visit from my perspective.  A tablecloth appeared, the good dishes were used, and a small vase of flowers or greens sat as a centerpiece.  Everyone was in jolly humor, joking and laughing about old times and people I didn't know and complimenting Mom on her "lunch".   It felt very feminine -- like a tea party.  It was a time out of time, a break from housework and routine -- a dress-up day for accepting visitors.  I haven't thought about that in years.

But today at Starbucks, it all came flooding back for some reason.  I think it had something to do with the Elder man in front of me in line.  He had the most engaging smile and intense curiosity about this place he found himself frequenting at 2:00 on a rainy Tuesday afternoon.  He had a million questions about the "menu" and some difficulty hearing the young woman who was working the espresso machine.  By the way, these "youngers" need to speak up!  The machine was noisy, the overhead Muzak was loud, other conversations were going on all around us....

Anyway, he ordered a mocha, but wasn't quite sure what he actually received once the drink was in his hand.  He asked what the difference was between an "Espresso Mocha" and "Frappacino Mocha" and did they have both chocolate and coffee in them and why did they come with whipped cream?  The barista was less patient with his questions than she was eager to find out if he also wanted a pastry or something from the cold case.

I guess that's when the vision of my mom's old percolator popped into my head.  I can just imagine Aunt Amy or Aunt Ellen standing at Starbucks in their sensible shoes and cotton print dresses, little straw and net hats perched on their blue/gray heads wondering what in the world had become of "lunch" time?

Now the afternoon respite is a quick meet-up with a friend at a chain store coffee shop, all basically with the same decor, the same menu, the same barista staff trained to ask the same questions, the same hubbub going on as some semblance of conversation takes place in fits and starts amid environmental distractions and cell phone interruptions.  It's what we call "normal"now -- even pleasant.

I don't really harken back to those summer afternoons at my mom's dining room table.  I love Starbucks, actually.  But I could understand the gentleman's confusion and could imagine myself in his shoes.  Actually this is exactly how I feel in the Apple computer store, shopping for the latest technology -- friendly, eager to learn, slightly confused, yet willing to give it a try, and having a hard time hearing and understanding as the young expert at the "Genius Bar" glosses over my questions with a burst of jargon that sometimes sounds like Swahili to my 60+ year-old ears.

So, seeing this fellow ready to leave without ever understanding the difference between a hot mocha and a mocha frap, I stepped forward to explain it to him.   He was most appreciative.  We both decided the occasional addition of "whip" is a good thing.

At least, that's the view from here....©

"PLEASE ALLOW ME TO INTRODUCE MYSELF..."

I'm an obituary reader.  Always have been.  Probably for the same reason I love memoir.  I relish the glimpse into others' lives -- who they loved, where they lived, what they did for a living and for the world, what they learned and leave as a legacy.

Lately, I've noticed something a little startling.  Since publishing a photo with the obituary is now "en vogue", I immediately scan the photos before going back to read the "stories" and with nearly each obit I think I recognize the person!  I rarely do know them, but at first glance everyone looks familiar!  I realize this is because most are around my age or a little older...."elders" over 60.

The lie I tell myself is that I don't look my age ... certainly don't look as old as those people who regularly show up at high school reunions, Class of '68 for Hub and Class of '69 for me (yes, we were high school sweethearts).  And I want to believe I don't look the age of the people in the obits.  But the reality is, I certainly identify them as my age cohorts, or those of my parents, aunts, uncles, cousins -- people I know!

I also always look for a clue as to the cause of death.  I like it when they say what caused the deceased demise right in the first paragraph, especially if the deceased is my age or younger.  I like to think "Well, that couldn't happen to ME!"  I want to be reassured that I am living in a land where death doesn't visit.

But I also notice lately that I'm relating more and more to what did them in.  I know people with heart disease, cancer, Alzheimer's!  I know people who died unexpectedly, or in an accident, or on a trip.  Death visits all the lands in which I roam.

One time I was on a visit to see my parents when they were probably in their 70's.  My mom took a phone call and turned to my dad and said, "Honey, we lost another friend...."  I will never forget the look of grief on her face, shock and sadness on his.  I will never forget the phrase, "....another friend."  At a certain age, death comes calling with frightening regularity.

When an acquaintance around my age died suddenly a few years ago, it was a wake-up call of sorts.  So a couple of gal-pals and I got together to plan our own funerals.  It was a lark.  It was fun.  We laughed a lot and made elaborate plans for our funeral/memorial services.  Music, flowers, eulogies.  All of that needs updating now.  (I no longer think it would be "cool" to play "Sympathy for the Devil" to end the service,  no matter that I'm still a Stones fan.)

We also wrote our own obituaries.  One common thread of the obituaries I read every day is that they are relentlessly positive.  Each person was the greatest person who ever lived.  I'm sure they could also be total "shits" but who wants to remember someone's flaws and foibles?  I love that in memory, only the best traits survive -- at least in print.  I have a boxful of yellowed newspaper clippings, obituaries saved by my grandmother and then my mother, of relatives who died.  They are a treasure of family history.  They, too, were the best people who ever lived.

I also want to be remembered fondly, for being a loving wife, amazing mother, cherished grandmother, exemplary friend, devoted to my spiritual practices and my community.  (Please leave out the parts about me being a little neurotic, meddlesome, self-centered, anxiety-prone, and whiney).

Finally, I want my cause of death to be "excessive dancing" at age 106.   And if you want to throw in a little Rolling Stones tune at the memorial, well, that might be OK after all.

At least, that's the view from here....©