I don't think, in 1968 when I was put in the yearbook as "Best All Around", that I was supposed to take it quite so literally. This morning I feel like a Thanksgiving turkey, stuffed and trussed.
I'm going in for my yearly physical this afternoon. I really like my doc, who is within a couple of years of my age and has been with her (younger) partner for the same length of time that Jill and I have been together. Over the years I've seen her go through various phases and regimens to deal with unwanted pounds, as have I. But still, when I step on the scales this afternoon, I know it'll be time for a come-to-Jesus-meeting.
Never, in my wildest dreams, did I think I would attain this august age and still harbor the same thoughts and feelings about body size that have haunted me all my life. Think about it. When I was young, back in the olden days, recordings were played on vinyl. I even had my own, very snazzy, battery powered record player. We also had a reel to reel tape recorder and lots of reels of tape. I skipped over 8 tracks, though I knew about them, and went straight to cassette tapes. Then what? CDs I guess, and on to all the electronic gadgets of today. The point is, all these different devices for recording sound, and the ones that came before them, have become obsolete. Old cassette tapes are filling the dump, vinyl records gather dust in the attic, most of these old things can't even be played anymore, either because they're degraded or there's nothing to play them on. But you know what's survived, intact, at full volume? The endless voice loops in my head.
Enough, already. Yes, I've read all the stuff, all the books, all the webpages, all the articles, all the theories. Well, not all of them. I'm sure there's enough still out there to distress me the rest of my life. I've had endless conversations, friends constantly recommend whatever lifesaving technique they're currently using. I've been up, down, up, down, off the merry-go-round, back on the merry-go-round. I wake up in the night and scare myself silly with threats of diabetes, heart attacks, hip replacement, stroke, cancer. I resolve, scold, soothe, exercise, cry, pretend, ignore, meditate, visualize, diet, not-diet, follow programs, make charts, harangue, and (momentarily) accept ---- all to no avail. Still the tape goes round and round. Why is this the only recorded voice that never goes away?
This morning, against every instinct in my body and mind, I got up before the sun rose and drove the five miles to walk with friends. By the second lap, my back was hurting. By the fourth lap, it was killing me and I bailed out. Would I have been better just sleeping in? I've been packing and moving boxes all week and I'm tired and sore. But this is my constant fight with myself, the feeling that the barbarians are at the gate and if I don't fight them off with everything, I'll be overrun. And even so, the little buzzards are sneaking in the back gate and feeding me Halloween candy!
What brings me to this pass? I do know I'm not alone. Now that we have 100,000 channels again (a whole 'nother story) I see commercials and mainline tv for the first time in 3 or 4 years. That's enough to make a girl want to throw in the towel. I've been watching voluptuous dames from the 30s and 40s black and white movies the past few years. Now, there are some REAL women!
"And acceptance is the answer to all my problems today. When I am disturbed, it is because I find some person, place, thing, or situation --- some fact of my life --- unacceptable to me, and I can find no serenity until I accept that person, place, thing, or situation as being exactly the way it is supposed to be at this moment." p417 Alcoholics Anonymous
I've been reading that book for almost 31 years. You'd think it would have sunk in by now.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Friday, October 21, 2011
How much are we worth?
I've noticed that we have many ways to speak about money without really doing so. We say that people are well off or comfortable, that they have fallen on hard times or are struggling.There is a reticence about money and finances that belies the overall emphasis which equates worth as a person with financial status.
Somehow, the belief is afoot that the richer you are in bank account and material assets, the better a person you are. If you are worth your salt, you have "stuff" to show for it. And God loves you more.
The schizy thing about that is the reverse: if you are poor, there is something wrong with you. If you were a moral, "good" person, you would be blessed by wealth. So obviously, being poor means that you're not in God's good graces. You're an unrepentant sinner.
Now I know that such thinking, in most circles, is not openly espoused, and is often denied outright. In fact, since it's not polite to talk about money -- or at least it didn't used to be -- most such judgments are silent, or whispered among friends. Aloud, we often hear of the nobility of character that comes with poverty: "Her house was shabby, but sparkling clean." "He had mended clothes, but worked hard to overcome his difficulties." Of course, the assumption behind such statements is that with hard work and good character, the reward will be . . . riches!
What leads me to think about such things right now is the dismantling of my mother's material world. As she prepares to move in with us, she has to pare down her belongings once again. Five years ago she owned a beautiful four bedroom home on a wooded acre. It was filled with a limetime's worth of things, collected from living in Europe for 31 years. She took only the most precious things with her to the Independent Living Community, distributing much of the antique furniture and family pieces among children and grandchildren. Now even those will have to go. She's moving into one bedroom. We already have all the dishes and furniture we can handle and then some. Many things will wind up in my sister's new house. Mom's actual belongings will be reduced to the clothes, furniture, papers, pictures and knick-knacks that will fit in her room.
When Mom's father died in 2000, at the age of 98, we took his belongings back to my aunt's house to look at and give to people who wanted them. By that time, all that was left were a couple of cardboard boxes of things and some map cases with old maps. We found his weather diary where he recorded the weather every day for years, often along with one sentence about what happened that day. There was a wooden box with various mementos --- love letters to Grandma from before they were married, his mother's wedding ring, small tools and a few pictures. His life had been full. He'd owned houses and cars and a business. But in the end, he had a box with precious reminders and little else.
I've been thinking a lot about the conditions of life and of death. I picture a baby sliding into the world, all slippery and naked and helpless --- and unknown. As that baby grows into a child and then an adult, many things come along and stick around, but in the end, no matter how the end comes about, there's not one single thing that can make the trip over. We go out with the same thing we had when we arrived. Nothing. You really and truly can't take it with you. No matter how much you accumulate, no matter how awesome your house is, or your clothes or your car, regardless of who you marry or what a great musician you are, in the end it all goes by the wayside. We slip out as we slipped in.
At that point, I hope somebody remembers me kindly. I hope there will be little reminders of my having been here --- at least for a little while. We have my Great-Grandmother Mimi's parlor chairs in our front room. They probably belonged to her father first. They're just chairs --- nice, carved, needlepoint, mid-19th century chairs, really, just furniture. What makes them special is the story of who owned them, who passed them down, the family that preserved them, the people who sat in them, the love and continuity that they represent. They could be any old chairs, but they're not. They're Mimi's chairs, and I remember Mimi.
Somehow, the belief is afoot that the richer you are in bank account and material assets, the better a person you are. If you are worth your salt, you have "stuff" to show for it. And God loves you more.
The schizy thing about that is the reverse: if you are poor, there is something wrong with you. If you were a moral, "good" person, you would be blessed by wealth. So obviously, being poor means that you're not in God's good graces. You're an unrepentant sinner.
Now I know that such thinking, in most circles, is not openly espoused, and is often denied outright. In fact, since it's not polite to talk about money -- or at least it didn't used to be -- most such judgments are silent, or whispered among friends. Aloud, we often hear of the nobility of character that comes with poverty: "Her house was shabby, but sparkling clean." "He had mended clothes, but worked hard to overcome his difficulties." Of course, the assumption behind such statements is that with hard work and good character, the reward will be . . . riches!
What leads me to think about such things right now is the dismantling of my mother's material world. As she prepares to move in with us, she has to pare down her belongings once again. Five years ago she owned a beautiful four bedroom home on a wooded acre. It was filled with a limetime's worth of things, collected from living in Europe for 31 years. She took only the most precious things with her to the Independent Living Community, distributing much of the antique furniture and family pieces among children and grandchildren. Now even those will have to go. She's moving into one bedroom. We already have all the dishes and furniture we can handle and then some. Many things will wind up in my sister's new house. Mom's actual belongings will be reduced to the clothes, furniture, papers, pictures and knick-knacks that will fit in her room.
When Mom's father died in 2000, at the age of 98, we took his belongings back to my aunt's house to look at and give to people who wanted them. By that time, all that was left were a couple of cardboard boxes of things and some map cases with old maps. We found his weather diary where he recorded the weather every day for years, often along with one sentence about what happened that day. There was a wooden box with various mementos --- love letters to Grandma from before they were married, his mother's wedding ring, small tools and a few pictures. His life had been full. He'd owned houses and cars and a business. But in the end, he had a box with precious reminders and little else.
I've been thinking a lot about the conditions of life and of death. I picture a baby sliding into the world, all slippery and naked and helpless --- and unknown. As that baby grows into a child and then an adult, many things come along and stick around, but in the end, no matter how the end comes about, there's not one single thing that can make the trip over. We go out with the same thing we had when we arrived. Nothing. You really and truly can't take it with you. No matter how much you accumulate, no matter how awesome your house is, or your clothes or your car, regardless of who you marry or what a great musician you are, in the end it all goes by the wayside. We slip out as we slipped in.
At that point, I hope somebody remembers me kindly. I hope there will be little reminders of my having been here --- at least for a little while. We have my Great-Grandmother Mimi's parlor chairs in our front room. They probably belonged to her father first. They're just chairs --- nice, carved, needlepoint, mid-19th century chairs, really, just furniture. What makes them special is the story of who owned them, who passed them down, the family that preserved them, the people who sat in them, the love and continuity that they represent. They could be any old chairs, but they're not. They're Mimi's chairs, and I remember Mimi.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Come what may
I'm runnin' on automatic today, nose in the air to sniff the changes I sense coming. It looks like Mama is going to have to move. The family is circling the wagons to see what we can do. It's not a surprise. We all knew it was coming. There's a level of denial that is very helpful for dealing with a long term illness like Alzheimers though, and I've taken full advantage of it. So yes, I'm taken aback.
With my history of depression, the very thing that propelled my retirement this year, I always keep a sharp lookout for hints of a relapse --- overly sensitive feelings, too much sleep, dragged out energy, dwelling on death ---- and have been ticking them off as they arise. I'm on the alert though not falling down a hole. But sometimes . . . sometimes life IS depressing. Sometimes that's the appropriate response.
You know what happens as the pile of years behind you grows larger than the pile ahead? Your perspective changes. I've seen cycles go round and round in public and private life. Every generation has its own discoveries to make and, unfortunately, has wheels to reinvent. No matter how much experience resides in the elders, some lessons only take when they're learned through experience. So I look behind me and see the swell of new, energetic, young people coming down the path, and I look ahead and watch for signposts that will help me discern the way, and mostly I feel the comfort of being in the middle of the herd, a part of humanity, one of many. But sometimes, I just feel alone.
When sad things are happening, how do you not feel sad forever? How do you move through the tears and believe that there's sunshine further along? I have spent a lifetime learning all the strategies and wisdom that philosophy, friendship and therapy can provide. But there's no shelter from the pain of living and loving and losing them both.
This too shall pass.
With my history of depression, the very thing that propelled my retirement this year, I always keep a sharp lookout for hints of a relapse --- overly sensitive feelings, too much sleep, dragged out energy, dwelling on death ---- and have been ticking them off as they arise. I'm on the alert though not falling down a hole. But sometimes . . . sometimes life IS depressing. Sometimes that's the appropriate response.
You know what happens as the pile of years behind you grows larger than the pile ahead? Your perspective changes. I've seen cycles go round and round in public and private life. Every generation has its own discoveries to make and, unfortunately, has wheels to reinvent. No matter how much experience resides in the elders, some lessons only take when they're learned through experience. So I look behind me and see the swell of new, energetic, young people coming down the path, and I look ahead and watch for signposts that will help me discern the way, and mostly I feel the comfort of being in the middle of the herd, a part of humanity, one of many. But sometimes, I just feel alone.
When sad things are happening, how do you not feel sad forever? How do you move through the tears and believe that there's sunshine further along? I have spent a lifetime learning all the strategies and wisdom that philosophy, friendship and therapy can provide. But there's no shelter from the pain of living and loving and losing them both.
This too shall pass.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Don't feed the dog raisins
Rules are made to be broken.
Color inside the lines.
Don't trust anyone over 30.
Never mix, never worry.
I've been taking inventory of the rules filed away in my mind and it's nothing short of alarming. No wonder I get to feeling paralyzed sometimes. It is truly impossible to follow all of the laws, by-laws, suggestions, rules and principles that have accumulated over the years. Do you suppose there is a special container in some part of the brain for storage of these maxims?
It's enough to make a person throw the whole package overboard and start from scratch. How would I go about that? It would take knowing myself well enough to sort the wheat from the chaff.
You must eat 24 grams of fiber every day.
150 minutes of exercise per week is an absolute minimum.
The body requires 8 hours of sleep per night.
Floss daily.
Every time I look at the news online or pick up a magazine, there's yet another miraculous cure or life-extending practice being touted. Forget everything you thought you knew about ... (cancer, alzheimers, obesity, addiction, baldness, night-blindness) ... this singular suggestion will trump them all.
Potatoes make you fat.
Short people live longer.
Laptops cause cancer.
It is as though, even knowing that nobody --- NOBODY --- gets out of this alive, the drive toward immortality and perfection is intrinsic in every exhortation from Weightwatchers to Pat Robertson. Somehow, if I only do this, think that, imagine the other, read, pray, meditate, jog, play, admit, surrender, I will escape the only known outcome for being alive ----death.
Living by the rules may make things easier. I don't want to have to consider every step, every action. That would be paralyzing, too. But living by somebody else's rules, without consideration, not only ties me up in contradictions, but absolves me of responsibility.
I was only following orders.
The boss told me I had to.
The Bible said so.
Because I'm your mother, that's why.
I cannot escape the necessity of doing the work. I can listen, I can consider, and sometimes I can even imitate, but ultimately, I have to take responsibility for my own rules of the road. And that road, like it or not, leads to the ending place.
Do you suppose there are flags at the finish line? And hot dogs? And hugs?
Color inside the lines.
Don't trust anyone over 30.
Never mix, never worry.
I've been taking inventory of the rules filed away in my mind and it's nothing short of alarming. No wonder I get to feeling paralyzed sometimes. It is truly impossible to follow all of the laws, by-laws, suggestions, rules and principles that have accumulated over the years. Do you suppose there is a special container in some part of the brain for storage of these maxims?
It's enough to make a person throw the whole package overboard and start from scratch. How would I go about that? It would take knowing myself well enough to sort the wheat from the chaff.
You must eat 24 grams of fiber every day.
150 minutes of exercise per week is an absolute minimum.
The body requires 8 hours of sleep per night.
Floss daily.
Every time I look at the news online or pick up a magazine, there's yet another miraculous cure or life-extending practice being touted. Forget everything you thought you knew about ... (cancer, alzheimers, obesity, addiction, baldness, night-blindness) ... this singular suggestion will trump them all.
Potatoes make you fat.
Short people live longer.
Laptops cause cancer.
It is as though, even knowing that nobody --- NOBODY --- gets out of this alive, the drive toward immortality and perfection is intrinsic in every exhortation from Weightwatchers to Pat Robertson. Somehow, if I only do this, think that, imagine the other, read, pray, meditate, jog, play, admit, surrender, I will escape the only known outcome for being alive ----death.
Living by the rules may make things easier. I don't want to have to consider every step, every action. That would be paralyzing, too. But living by somebody else's rules, without consideration, not only ties me up in contradictions, but absolves me of responsibility.
I was only following orders.
The boss told me I had to.
The Bible said so.
Because I'm your mother, that's why.
I cannot escape the necessity of doing the work. I can listen, I can consider, and sometimes I can even imitate, but ultimately, I have to take responsibility for my own rules of the road. And that road, like it or not, leads to the ending place.
Do you suppose there are flags at the finish line? And hot dogs? And hugs?
Monday, October 3, 2011
That soft, fuzzy gaze
Today, I took off my glasses during yoga. Usually I keep them on. Understand, I take chair yoga at my mother's residence with a group of eighty and ninety-year-olds. And the teacher is no spring chicken her own self!
When I take off my glasses, everything is fuzzy and a little out of focus. I can see well enough, and as my eyes adjust, everything clears up to some degree. But it leaves me with that soft focus the camera uses sometimes in the romantic or dream sequences. Today, that's just what I needed.
Sometimes, life is a little too clear. The edges are too well defined. I can see too many details. Sometimes, I prefer to be a little blurry.
Since there were several people missing today, our instructor spent extra time with each person, helping us improve our postures. With people of such advanced age, there are many limbs that don't move well, ears that don't hear well, minds that don't understand directions. It is to her great credit that she simply takes people wherever they are and gently coaxes a little movement from reluctant bodies. As I watched her work with the woman beside me in the circle, I noticed a glow that began and grew, enveloping them both, but particularly the student, Erna's face. It was indistinct to my blurry vision, but beautiful enough to bring tears to my eyes.
It's not the first time I've been aware of the beauty of these women. I see it frequently. It is as though the outer appearances of age and the limitations of movement soften and are absorbed by a much stronger essence of that very distinct person. This class, these women, are a great gift to me. They call me forward on the path I already tread. Without even knowing, they urge me to inhabit my physical self in a new way, and expand beyond those boundaries of wrinkles and bulges and aches and pains that I focus on too minutely.
There's plenty of time for clear vision and finite thought when I'm dealing with practical realities. I'm happy to wear my glasses to drive and read. But there's also a time for melting into the beauty and radiance of the universe. Right now, I'm much the better for both.
When I take off my glasses, everything is fuzzy and a little out of focus. I can see well enough, and as my eyes adjust, everything clears up to some degree. But it leaves me with that soft focus the camera uses sometimes in the romantic or dream sequences. Today, that's just what I needed.
Sometimes, life is a little too clear. The edges are too well defined. I can see too many details. Sometimes, I prefer to be a little blurry.
Since there were several people missing today, our instructor spent extra time with each person, helping us improve our postures. With people of such advanced age, there are many limbs that don't move well, ears that don't hear well, minds that don't understand directions. It is to her great credit that she simply takes people wherever they are and gently coaxes a little movement from reluctant bodies. As I watched her work with the woman beside me in the circle, I noticed a glow that began and grew, enveloping them both, but particularly the student, Erna's face. It was indistinct to my blurry vision, but beautiful enough to bring tears to my eyes.
It's not the first time I've been aware of the beauty of these women. I see it frequently. It is as though the outer appearances of age and the limitations of movement soften and are absorbed by a much stronger essence of that very distinct person. This class, these women, are a great gift to me. They call me forward on the path I already tread. Without even knowing, they urge me to inhabit my physical self in a new way, and expand beyond those boundaries of wrinkles and bulges and aches and pains that I focus on too minutely.
There's plenty of time for clear vision and finite thought when I'm dealing with practical realities. I'm happy to wear my glasses to drive and read. But there's also a time for melting into the beauty and radiance of the universe. Right now, I'm much the better for both.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Night of Mystery
We're venturing out to the fire tonight. We have friends who live near a big lake, way out there in the woods where there are lots of animals and other things we don't see in the city. They even have stars out there!
I don't actually think of myself as a city girl. When I was a kid, we always lived in small towns, some so small the business district was only one block long. Over the years, I've lived in some cities like Chicago and San Francisco, but the majority of my time has been spent in places small enough that Raleigh feels BIG by comparison.
Occasionally, like right now after reading about Alcott and Emerson and Thoreau, I get the notion that I could embrace the simple life, a rustic cabin in the woods, away from the sights and sounds of cars and sirens and other people. But the truth is, the country kind of freaks me out. Especially at night.
This evening, we'll gather with friends. Each time we do this it is a little different, but it is also remarkably the same. A couple of people will tend the fire --- nearly always the same ones ---- a couple will decide it's too cold outside and seek the warmth of indoors. There might be some new people, but most will be familiar faces, friends of long-standing, who have gathered for monthly potlucks for years. By this time we know a lot about each other. These nights, especially the ones around the firepit, are the times we share tremendous burdens, outrageous dreams, quiet joys and deep sorrows. To speak into this group is to be upheld by the women present.
These are the women I hope to grow old with. These are the women for whom I expect to bake casseroles, give rides, visit when they're sick and sit with when they're sad. I plan to be there in person when I can and in spirit when necessary. This is my family of choice.
Dreams and intentions spoken before the fire take on power. Sorrows and fears thrown into the fire are consumed and released. We all are witness for each other.
When all is said and done and we've eaten too much and laughed a lot and no doubt, shed some tears, the cars and pick-ups will spark to life and headlights seek out deer on the roads, as most of us wend our way back to the city. There are jobs to do and homes to tend and traffic to curse and people to meet. But each of us takes some of the mystery of a moonless night by the fire, of secrets told and lives celebrated, back to the "real lives" we lead.
So, while I'm glad we get to come home to our snug little house with a two-car attached garage with a push button opener, I'm even more glad we can wrap the cold night around us and warm ourselves at the fire with the women we love.
I don't actually think of myself as a city girl. When I was a kid, we always lived in small towns, some so small the business district was only one block long. Over the years, I've lived in some cities like Chicago and San Francisco, but the majority of my time has been spent in places small enough that Raleigh feels BIG by comparison.
Occasionally, like right now after reading about Alcott and Emerson and Thoreau, I get the notion that I could embrace the simple life, a rustic cabin in the woods, away from the sights and sounds of cars and sirens and other people. But the truth is, the country kind of freaks me out. Especially at night.
This evening, we'll gather with friends. Each time we do this it is a little different, but it is also remarkably the same. A couple of people will tend the fire --- nearly always the same ones ---- a couple will decide it's too cold outside and seek the warmth of indoors. There might be some new people, but most will be familiar faces, friends of long-standing, who have gathered for monthly potlucks for years. By this time we know a lot about each other. These nights, especially the ones around the firepit, are the times we share tremendous burdens, outrageous dreams, quiet joys and deep sorrows. To speak into this group is to be upheld by the women present.
These are the women I hope to grow old with. These are the women for whom I expect to bake casseroles, give rides, visit when they're sick and sit with when they're sad. I plan to be there in person when I can and in spirit when necessary. This is my family of choice.
Dreams and intentions spoken before the fire take on power. Sorrows and fears thrown into the fire are consumed and released. We all are witness for each other.
When all is said and done and we've eaten too much and laughed a lot and no doubt, shed some tears, the cars and pick-ups will spark to life and headlights seek out deer on the roads, as most of us wend our way back to the city. There are jobs to do and homes to tend and traffic to curse and people to meet. But each of us takes some of the mystery of a moonless night by the fire, of secrets told and lives celebrated, back to the "real lives" we lead.
So, while I'm glad we get to come home to our snug little house with a two-car attached garage with a push button opener, I'm even more glad we can wrap the cold night around us and warm ourselves at the fire with the women we love.
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