Category Archives: meditation

If you thought you knew…

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I thought I knew about aging. After all, I turned 60 a full decade ago. In kindness to my knees, I stopped teaching hip hop and aerobics. Took up yoga instead. Out of kindness to my brain, I became more selective about the books I read and the movies I see. Out of kindness to my heart, I stopped following the news. Out of awareness of the generation gap and changing society, I became more curious about how my grown children were making child-rearing and professional decisions and less opinionated about all that.

I thought my practice of acceptance of the aging process in so many areas was pretty admirable.

Aching knees, varying levels of lower back pain, a 15-year acquaintance with sleep problems, sight issues.

Check, check, check, and check – all accepted graciously.

I think of myself as an optimist but not disconnected from reality. I realize that sickness and death are inevitable. Looking around me at friends with cancer, MS, joint replacements, and a general decrease in energy, I sometimes wondered what awaited me…specifically.

But no more than the occasional and very brief thought.

And then over a period of a week my quadriceps decided to work at 25% capacity and provide unwelcome pain, my shoulders and collarbone joined the party, and my knees refused to be left out.

I went from 90% mobility to 20% mobility over that week. One morning it took me twenty minutes to get dressed. Pain moved in as a permanent body mate.

I felt and walked like a 90-year-old woman…and not a healthy one.

In the past ten days, I’ve seen my family doctor 3 times. I began a series of tests for everything imaginable. Being fortunate enough to live in a country with excellent national health insurance and health care, the bureaucracy is daunting but the availability and affordability are there.

I’ve gone through the process of learning to let go of activities I love like a ninja on steroids. I haven’t driven to visit with grandchildren or taught a yoga class in over a week. I haven’t met friends for coffee, shopping, or a museum visit, either. My walks have gone from 4 or 5 kilometers a day to 1 kilometer on a flat surface…on a good day. Cooking, which I love, has become the simplest preparation with the least standing time. And sometimes I leave the whole thing to my very supportive, caring husband.

I love to read, but when that’s pretty much the only thing I can do it gets old. I love to watch tv series, but I’ve discovered the limits of that, too. I’m super appreciative of my friends who drop by to chat, pick up a few things at the grocery store for me, or just check in to see how I’m doing.

I’m pretty careful about the meds I’m willing to use and how much. I’ve always been very stringent with things like ibuprofen and even simpler pain medications. My pain threshold is pretty high. I went from an ibuprofen or two a week, to one a day, to two a day, and then on to something stronger. Waking up to debilitating pain in so many joints and muscles every day has turned me into a junkie for the 3-7 hours of significantly decreased pain that a Naxyn 500 pill can give me.

My kids are great. They call. They listen. They’re supportive.

The hard truth of this thing, though, is that all of the wonderful people in my life give me a big morale boost and are very logistically helpful, and necessary, but ultimately pain is an individual experience.

Twenty years of meditation and learning Eastern philosophy have been helpful to me in so many areas of my life. And I’m finding that they get me through the occasional moments of deep feelings of loss – loss of mobility, loss of the activities I love, loss of comfort in my body – and allow my natural optimism to revive from occasional panic.

Exercising my deep, mindful breathing muscles and doing a lot of acceptance, living in the moment, and letting go. My ego gets in the way from time to time and the monkey chatter gets really loud, but so far I mostly can reach that sweet spot of equanimity.

Hopefully, we’ll get to the bottom of this. Find a diagnosis and management plan that works. Hopefully, I’ll be able to go back to some or all of the activities I love. Hopefully, we’ll still make that 4-month trip to India in late February.

Meanwhile, it’s been one of life’s toughest lessons yet and I’m grateful for all the many blessings in my life that are coming to my aid.

Loss and The Two Arrows

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There are a bunch of things that no one tells you about aging. Or maybe they tell you but it goes in one ear and out the other. Not relevant. Things that register in the way the laws of physics register – ya da ya da ya da.

As I turned 60 and even more after 65, I became aware of the physical aches and pains that go along with aging and, in my case, are the price for having jumped and danced around and, taking advice from The Eagles, taken my body to the limits for decades. I remember an orthopedist once telling me to keep teaching hip hop, hiking, and doing whatever I loved because ultimately even sedentary people have joint aches and pains…but they have a lot less fun getting there. I totally agree. Even on the mornings that my knees wake me up with a call for help.

It’s some of the other things about aging that I never gave much thought to (or any).

  • finding conversations of people under 40 uninteresting
  • having read every permutation of book and movie plots ad nauseam
  • being cold (or hot) when no one else is
  • losing friends to illness, lack of mobility, or death
  • aging differently from significant people in my life

YIKES!!

It turns out that an inevitable part of aging is loss and grieving for those losses. Big losses and small losses. And some losses are harder than others; not necessarily the “big” ones.

We all do it differently. And it all looks different on other people.

I remember having no regrets at 50. Ha!

I remember letting go of hip hop and aerobics in the blink of an eye. Didn’t seem like fun anymore. Traded my spandex for yoga pants happily.

I remember not even entertaining the notion of a sedentary life requiring programmed exercise. Counting steps? Furthest thing from my mind.

I remember a time when illness and death weren’t even a tiny part of my thoughts.

I’d read about (other, much older) people complaining that many of their friends had fallen by the wayside one way or the other. I’d heard them extolling the virtues of cultivating younger friends to combat loneliness. Scroll up – in one ear and out the other.

My partner “lost” his mother 10 days ago. My mother-in-law died. She wasn’t a nice person. Not a good mother. A narcissist. She was lively and charismatic and loved to be the center of attraction, but her children and friends paid a heavy price. She had dementia for the last five of her 93 years and didn’t recognize my partner or his sister who, in spite of a complicated and challenging relationship, made sure her last years were comfortable. If emotions were rational, no one would mourn her death. But if emotions were rational they wouldn’t be called emotions.

emotion – derived from the Latin term emovere;

to agitate or stir up. The affective aspect of consciousness

My parents are both long gone. My father died thirty years ago and my mother about twenty. Fortunately for me, I made my peace with both of them while they were alive. They weren’t partners in the process, but the possibility of relating to them with equanimity in life was a blessing.

My partner wasn’t so fortunate.

Watching his mourning process has been thought-provoking and, yes, emotional. A loss of innocence. A loss of possibility. A loss of the luxury of avoidance. A recognition of the loss of reconciliation. A loss of the comforting delusion of immortality.

My mother had bi-polar disorder. The shadow of her disease lurked everywhere. Sometimes it blotted out all joy and normalcy; sometimes it was a vague and disquieting sadness in our house. It was always a sense of waiting for the other shoe to fall. I was entrusted with her care from a very young age. I gained confidence and self-esteem that’s served me well throughout my life. I also harbored resentment and fear of chaos in the world.

I used to imagine myself a very small figure, wrapping my arms around my knees, head bowed, before a huge Mr. Clean-type genie, rising out of a magic Aladdin’s lamp, arms folded, scowling down on me. I didn’t understand the image or why it recurred so consistently and persistently throughout my life.

Imagine him with a turban, beard, and ferocious expression

The image vanished, never to return again, once I worked through my relationship with my mother. It was a loss I recognized with gratitude. I forgave my mother, without her permission, and realized one day that I felt a loving, empathetic sadness for her; a brilliant woman whose life was taken from her by a crippling disease no one understood at the time. A tragic loss. No second chances.

Not so with my mother-in-law.

The frightening image my partner has of her is his to tell, not mine, but he has one no less frightening than mine.

It’s difficult to accept that a person can be unkind, cruel, and totally lacking in compassion. How much more so when it’s your parent; the person entrusted with your care, emotional and physical? It’s tempting – no, imperative – to search for an underlying reason to shed a more sympathetic light on such a parent.

He searched. We searched. The round of reasons we tried to fit into the square peg bulged and defied imagination.

Ultimately, the physical loss of his mother grew into the loss of innocence. The first kind of loss is met with a simple grief. She was, after all, turning 93 two weeks later and hadn’t been herself for years. The second kind of loss is far deeper and creates a grief that is painful at any age, but magnified at 70, after so many years of pretending, ignoring, excusing, and hoping.

Two of our sons were at their grandmother’s funeral to support my partner and express their respect for family ties. When I talked to our older son before he left to meet us at the airport, he asked how his father was doing. I explained that he had many unresolved issues with his mother and now they’d never be resolved. I added how important it is to confront unfinished business with a parent in life. Hint, hint. (He moved on.)

There’s a lot of loss involved in aging. Loss of a parent. Loss of freedom from pain. Loss of mobility. Loss of long term friends. Loss of mental acuity. Loss of hearing. (Shall I go on?)

A Buddhist parable addresses the problem of suffering. It describes the two arrows in every difficult situation in life. The first is the arrow of pain, in this case loss, and the second is the arrow of suffering. The first is inevitable but the second is optional. It’s the arrow we shoot into our own hearts with our reaction to the inevitable losses that come with aging.

So many circumstances are beyond our control. My mother’s disease; my mother-in-law’s nature.

We can only prepare ourselves by nurturing our souls. By taking a deep dive into ourselves and becoming familiar with the particles of a higher power which exist inside each of us. By honing our ear to hear the pure voice of equanimity which resides there.

Many years ago I weighed the option of starting a hospice center. I had a conversation with the man who created a small hospice center in Jerusalem. At the time he was in his early 80’s. He exuded empathy and kindness. We spoke after I took a tour of the center with a staff member. I was surprised to see that each of the rooms had two residents. I asked the founder of the center if it was disturbing for the residents to witness the death of their roommate. His answer equally surprised me. He said that with the work done with the residents, every death since the center’s inception had been peaceful, and inspired serenity in those who witnessed it.

Choosing equanimity isn’t a one shot deal, and it’s not easy. It takes diligence and practice and work. Committing ourselves to the effort doesn’t ensure total success, or success every time. But to quote a poet by whom many of our lives have been enriched, Mary Oliver,

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

Is There a Spiritual-Material Spectrum?

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Rishikesh is one of seven holy cities, Sapta Puri, in India. Aside from being alcohol-free and vegetarian, the city is a spiritual center, pilgrimage location, yoga and meditation center, and home to many Sadhus.

A Sadhu is a religious ascetic who has renounced the worldly life. He often lives on the street, with only the essential belongings for survival – his clothing, turban, towel, sandals, and beggar’s bowl. He is dependent upon the good will of others to provide him with enough money to buy sustenance-level nourishment each day.

On my way to yoga in the morning, after crossing the Ram suspension bridge, which is blessedly motorcycle-free at that time of day, I meet only cows, dogs, and Sadhus, all waking up after a night spent outside.

Sadus may be said to be at one side of the spirituality-materialism spectrum. As I wait for my sweet yoga teacher, Gagan, to arrive on his motorcycle, sharing the pergola which overlooks the Ganges with the same Sadu each time, I can often hear a passing Sadu chanting quietly or not at all quietly.

“Ram. Ram. Ram. Ram. Ram. Ram. Ram.”

Though they’ve renounced family, home and worldly endeavors and accoutrements, I’ve noticed that they tend to hang out in twos, threes, and fours – a social group of sorts – and they gather their few belongings safely around them or cover them with a tarp on a nearby bench. Some take advantage of government incentives and work at ashrams where they receive food and shelter in return.

As my yogi says, human nature is one of collecting: things, acclaim, friends, knowledge, money. Another distinction between other animals and the human animal.

We ate dinner with a group of 20 strangers in Delhi not too long ago. Nice people. Friendly. As travelers are wont to do, people spoke freely about their lives, philosophies, travels, and families. The two men who sat closest to us got into a long conversation (with my partner) about their various, and, it turns out, multitude of real estate investments all over the world. The ones they sometimes live in, the travails of having renters, the value and tax issues of different locations.

Neither was Bill Gates but neither was a Sadu either.

We’ve been in India for over three months now. It’s a long time to be out of mainstream living. With each day that our work commitments, family and friend socializing, and community presence gets further away, our bonding to each other and our investigation of personal values and beliefs becomes more intriguing. There’s more time spent observing, thinking, integrating and softening.

It could be that the inherent nature of India is friendlier and more conducive to this transformative process. It could be that an extended period of free time would create the possibility of this process anywhere.

In India specifically, as we travel, meeting other travelers, shopkeepers, restaurant and guesthouse staff, yoga practitioners, musicians, and language teachers, we can’t help but observe their everyday life and that of passersby. Some of them become a regular part of our day for the week, two or three that we are in their vicinity. We seem to be seeing the spirituality-materialism spectrum in real time.

Spirituality is in the air.

From JP, the owner of our guesthouse near Munnar, who gets up at 4 am each morning for 20 minutes of yoga, to the shopkeeper in Rishikesh who closes his shop at 10 pm, bends down 3 times to kiss the step in front of his shop door, touches the doorframe and then his forehead before getting on his motorcycle to head home, to the clearly well-to-do middle-aged Indian couple who travel to The Ganges to dip themselves in holy water annually, to my lovely harmonium teacher who has a smile for the pesky monkey who pushes open her door when she shakes her head in that ubiquitous, multi-meaning Indian wag and says “He, too, is one of the gods’ creations.”


The human nature of collecting is evident, too.

The same people mentioned above charge money for their goods and services. In general, they unabashedly charge foreigners more – sometimes shocking attempts to charge 10 times more. A Sadu might complain about a donation of 10 rupee (“But a chapati costs 20!”). One South Indian man we befriended had a candid conversation with us about his constant efforts to accumulate more wealth. The yogi with whom I practiced four years ago didn’t charge money (he reluctantly accepted my ‘donation’ of $75 for 10 classes) and this time made his charges clear before we began (less than $6/class).

So where does each of us choose to be on this spirituality-materialism spectrum?

Does being a Sadu, at one side of the spectrum, preclude a bit of materialism? Does being Jeff Bezos preclude a smidgen of spirituality? (btw, did you know that there is not one woman on the list of the top ten richest people in the world?)

Gagan believes that it’s easier for those who have wealth to take on spirituality. Perhaps this originates from his vantage point as a Sikh yogi whose path of relative poverty and practice was inherited, clear from the age of 10. Perhaps he envisions those who have large bank accounts as having the luxury and ease to choose to invest time in introspection and seeking spirituality.

It seems to me, from my vantage point of never having had to concern myself with the possible absence of my next meal or a roof over my head, that it’s easier for those who have not been educated to chase ever-improving material circumstances to take on spirituality.

Clearly Gagan and I bring different life experiences to our sense of things.

Seane Corn is one of the most famous (and wealthiest) yoga teachers in the world. Her net assets are reported to be over 20 million dollars. Not anywhere near Bill Gates’ estimated 100 billion dollars, but still not too shabby. While her exhibition-type, extreme style of yoga is not my cup of tea (maybe I just wish I could have her flexibility), I’ve admired her for years for her tireless work for altruistic causes. Her organization, Off the Mat into the World, offers yoga practitioners the opportunity to volunteer to build community centers in Africa, train young people to teach yoga and meditation in their villages and towns, and offer online courses for leadership initiative. A vegan, Seane teaches 250 days out of the year, and, when not teaching, calls a tiny yurt in Southern California home.

Miriam (not her real name) is a talented artist, living in a rural area of Israel. Her husband of 25 years is most often in the US where he teaches religious studies in a small community where there would be no religious learning if he didn’t offer it. They have little in the way of material wealth, other than the modest, heavily-mortgaged home Miriam lives in, and, sadly, have no children. Their daily lives are committed primarily to the deepening of their spiritual lives and sharing what they believe are their God-given talents – painting and teaching. Miriam offers half-day and full day retreats for women, providing spiritual, artistic and nutritional nourishment, charging on a sliding scale according to means. Her walls are covered with her beautiful original works, into which one can gaze, imbued with Kabbalist and/or personal spirituality.

(not Miriam’s work)

Most of us are neither Seane Corn nor Miriam. We’re neither millionaires nor Sadhus. Some of us may not give a second’s thought to spirituality or ethical behavior or the meaning of life; others may think about it fleetingly or in depth once a week, or at random times.
All that stuff has been in my thoughts for as long as I can remember. Sometimes it led me to political activism, sometimes to volunteer work, sometimes to prayer, sometimes to regrets, sometimes to books, sometimes to an open heart.
I’ve been blessed with 3 months of unrestricted time, a partner who’s happy to listen to and share philosophical thoughts, and surroundings that welcome it all.

We live in an age of moral subjectivism, relative realities, political correctness – some may be tempted to call it an age of wishy-washiness. We hear that there’s no objective right or wrong, better or worse, too much or not enough. It’s all what you choose for yourself. The glorification of the individual, regardless of…well, pretty much anything.

But, hand on heart, don’t we all actually know what having enough looks like? I’m guessing it doesn’t resemble Jay Leno’s collection of cars or Imelda Marcos’s shoe closet. It most probably isn’t even reflected in most American’s refrigerators or leisure time.
I’m a member of a FaceBook group of people traveling in India. Recently there was a post about whether or not to tip in India, and how much. Some of the responses were eye-openers. From ‘Indians don’t tip.’ to ‘It’s good enough to round up.’ to ‘They earn so little that 10 rupee significantly increases their income.’ (10 rupee is the equivalent of 15 cents)
Seriously, guys!?
Then there’s the feeling that we’re too busy to walk the breast cancer marathon or visit the aunt who’s broken her hip or volunteer at the literacy group downtown.

We each choose our own path, even though sometimes it doesn’t feel like it. We have internal voices that may sound a lot like one of our parents, our seventh grade teacher, our partner, our eighteen-year-old self, our rabbi, our neighbor, or all of those people and others besides. Voices that narrow our choices to, well, theirs. Or what they wish they’d chosen.

Confusing…and noisy. Hard to hear our own internal voice with all that racket going on.

Gagan shared his own belief about all this choosing, whether it’s about spirituality, materialism, or how much time to look at a screen of some sort. If you never regret your choice, your choice is good. (I wish you could see his expression and hear his voice as he says that.)

When I pushed him…what about an addict who ends up dying from his addiction?

The answer – If the addict dies with no regrets, then the choice is good.

Say whaaaat!?

That’s going too far for me, but I get it when he elaborates and adds that trying to guide someone else’s path is like trying to steer a passing car. Unless the driver pulls over, stops, and asks for directions, your shouts will just make you hoarse.

I’ve spent many hours perfecting work and making deadline only to find that the client didn’t bother to provide necessary material – and didn’t care. I’ve spent money and time fulfilling a promise that the person on the receiving end, it turned out, didn’t value much, or may have even forgotten. I’ve worried about people’s “wrong” decisions that turned out not to be so disastrous in the long run, or even had their positive aspects.

So if I believe people are happier with spirituality in their lives, authenticity, or altruism, or other people, I choose to resign as one of those internal voices that points it out.

I’ve chosen to integrate those attributes into my life and to respect your right to choose to integrate some, all or none of them into yours.

No regrets.



Nature or Nurture

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Suspend the usual platitudes and accepted opinions of the social groups to which you’ve assigned yourselves. Mission accomplished? Now read on.

We’ve seen many beautiful animals over the past 10 weeks in India.

India really knows how to create and maintain national parks the way they should be. The kind where tourists are only allowed in a tiny percentage of the park lands and animals live in the rest according to their natural instincts and behaviors, without threat or fear of their main predator – us.

As it turns out, India also really knows how to create and maintain zoos the way they should be. The kind where the animals have enough space to live their lives as comfortably as possible, while being protected from their precarious reality out of captivity.

Of course the Saraus Crane, that very tallest of birds, might prefer to fly free, and that Bengal Tiger might prefer to roam the tropical and subtropical rainforests chasing prey, but their natural habitats are, sadly, disappearing or have become too dangerous for them.

We humans have been responsible for many of the causes of extinction and the threat of extinction for many members of the animal kingdom (though certainly not all). We have become one of the major causes of their comeback, too.

Wolves and buffalo, verging on extinction in the ‘60s, have made a valiant recovery as a result of protection laws passed in the ‘80s. Severals kinds of frogs, antelope, birds, turtles, and leopards have been saved from extinction by zoos. Yep, zoos.

Seeing wild elephants from a safe distance in Periyar Park creates a very different visual than seeing elephants in the Mysore zoo. That difference makes it tempting to condemn the zoo concept.

But that condemnation could paradoxically lead to the extinction of a large number of animal species.

I admit to some of my very best memories being the Macaws at the clay lick in the Amazon, the playful Otter family in their natural waters near Sandoval, the Blue Boobies on the cliffs in the Galapagos, the warm weather Penguins in the Patagonia plains…you get the picture.

But I’m happy that the Golden Lion Tamarin, once almost extinct, is thriving in captivity so that my grandchildren can get acquainted. Same for the California Condor and other majestic beasts.

Sometimes generally accepted ideas need to be re-thought.

Just saying.

But what about the family?

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This trip started out as one of those ‘round the world’ tickets where you have to keep traveling in one direction – east or west – and can’t cross any specific ocean more than once. I must’ve played with that planning tool on the Star Alliance site for twenty hours or more over the course of several months.

Tel Aviv – St. Petersburg – Mumbai – all over India – China – Bora Bora – Alaska – Oregon Coast – California – Salt Lake City – Mount Rushmore – The Badlands – New Mexico – San Antonio – Fort Lauderdale – New York City – Toronto – The Bay of Fundy/Nova Scotia – Iceland – Tel Aviv

Juggling weather, direction, time.

How much is too ambitious? Australia, yes or no?

Should we rent an RV to travel around the US? A car with motel stays? Flights for the long bits?

But then the time came to make real decisions like renting out the house for the year and what to do with my yoga studio and my husband started hemming and hawing. There were hesitant chords of concern about leaving our lives for so long. I tried to ignore them. Gloss over them. Treat them like background noise.

A year. Twelve months.

I had to admit to myself that it was sounding like a really REALLY long time to me, too.

The house wasn’t the problem. Neither was the studio. Though I love both.

It was the kids, the grandkids, and the friends who have become no less our family in the 30+ years that we’ve shared a life.

So twelve months became ten months became six months and here we are with the second month of our six-month trip drawing to a close.

In this technological era, it’s pretty easy to keep in touch with people. We share our amazing surroundings and the interesting people who inhabit them with a WhatsApp group for our English-speaking friends daily. We post on FaceBook for our Hebrew-speaking friends or send separate WhatsApps or emails. We send messages to our family WhatsApp group, too, and keep in touch with them with video WhatsApp weekly when we can find a strong enough WiFi connection, or with audio WhatsApp when we can’t.

We spoke with our youngest son and his wife yesterday from an isolated snack food kiosk in the jungle as they drove home from an office party in Silicon Valley, California.

We remember the days, not too long ago, when we sat in Internet Cafes, paying for the internet per minute and waiting endlessly for the atrociously weak and slow connection. Then there was Ko Mak, an island in Thailand, where we had to hike an hour to the other side of the island daily for the only internet connection because I had left Israel in the middle of interviewing candidates for a position and had to go over resumes.

Earlier there just was no internet – impossible for our grandchildren to envision – so we made the occasional phone call when we could.

It seems that most of the important people in our lives are healthy and major crisis-free so far during this trip.

Before we left we knew that one friend was scheduled to have a small, probably cancerous, tumor removed from her kidney, and after we left we received the good news that all had gone well with her surgery.

One granddaughter had an ugly eye infection that seemed to linger endlessly. Endlessly finally came to an end after way too long a time for my taste. Her swollen-closed eye then returned to normal.

The worst of it so far has been a shocking but benign head tumor with sudden, unexpected, surgery that’s meant weeks of rehab for a neighbor who’s like a younger sister to me. That was a tough one because I knew that my presence could’ve been important for her morale, but, thankfully, her recovery seems to be going well.

Life is full of surprises – big and small; pleasant, unpleasant and neutral – and they don’t cease when we’re far away from our usual haunts.

So here’s the deal.

Relationships with people are one of the most important ingredients in the tasty soup of life. There’s our relationship with ourselves; our inner world. The one we take with us wherever we go, whether it’s to the living room or to India. Then there are all the others.

The ones we choose; the ones we’re born into; the ones we birth; the ones we marry into; the ones we grow into because of circumstances; the ones who are part of the landscape of our lives.

There are even relationships we’re semi-unaware of until they’re brought to our attention.

There are close relationships and casual relationships. There are close relationships that become casual sometimes and casual relationships that become close at others.

There are relationships that take us by surprise and relationships like old slippers – comfy and constant.

But there’s one reality of important relationships that my husband has pointed out to me many times – they have a past, a present and a future. If one of those elements is missing, the relationship is a like the one with that second grade teacher you had in elementary school. She may have been one of the most significant people in your life when your were seven but she’s only a fond memory today.

Anyone who knows me knows that I’m a relentless technological freak. I love the newest, the most creative, the most surprising new concept, gadget or app. I’m that person that buys the out-of-the-box FaceBook solution for neck tension and was one of the first to contract out administrative projects to freelancers online fifteen years ago. I never give up communicating with people in the Mayalayam spoken and written on my translation app in spite of dozens of puzzled expressions. I trust Uber and Waze and UpWork.

I prefer email and WhatsApp to phone calls or personal business meetings. If you WhatsApp me, chances are you’ll get an immediate reply sixteen or seventeen hours out of twenty-four, even from the tropical jungle of Kerala.

And yet.

I’ve learned to embrace another reality about relationships.

The important ones cannot, ultimately, be sustained with technology. They can be maintained temporarily in a loving electronic space when watered sufficiently – pardon the mixed metaphor – but they will eventually rise from the lower berth to the 3rd tier berth of relationships and become your second grade teacher.

It’s true of best friends, of sisters, of kids, and probably most of all of grandkids, who have the disadvantage of being too young to have solidified any relationship enough to withstand the loss of perpetual physical proximity.

I love to travel. Someday I may not be able, physically, to climb into a train berth or even get on a plane to travel to another exotic location, but I’m guessing I’ll become an armchair traveler. Meanwhile, I look forward to the next four months in India, a week in Greece with my daughter and granddaughter in July, and am already planning to rent a little place for three months in Guatemala next winter.

But I won’t be fiddling with that ‘round the world’ Star Alliance again in anticipation of a year of travel. I have a feeling that I won’t even be looking at six months again. I’m so happy that we grabbed the opportunity to take this incredible journey. I’m seriously enjoying every single day.

While I tend to feel ageless, I am aging. But that’s not the thing. It’s not fun to do many things I used to have fun doing but I’ve barely noticed that I’ve stopped doing them. I’ve moved on to things I may have once thought slow or unexciting and get a huge kick out them now.

The thing is that all the people I love are aging. Yep, even Alex, our youngest grandchild. And certainly our family-like-friends who have almost seventy years on her.

I want to be IN those important relationships. I don’t want a single one of them to become my second grade teacher and I don’t want to be theirs.

I’m so grateful that I’ve birthed, married into, grown into, chosen, and been brought by circumstances into relationships with multi-faceted, quirky, wonderful people whom I love and, wonder of wonders, love me back.

One of the best things about my life is that I’m fortunate enough to live in time that I can nourish both my love of travel and my love of relationship, if I can only remember to balance them and adjust to the times. After all, I could’ve been born under a bridge in Mumbai.

Happy Monday to all from 20 kilometers from the middle of nowhere.

Of Beaches, Lakes and Rivers

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The word ‘traveling’ has nine letters and just as many aspects to the activity the word describes. There’s the actual mode of transportation involved which can fill hours, days, or even weeks,

seeing the sights, experimenting with new food, learning about new cultures, seeking spirituality, discovering history, embracing nature, deepening your understanding of yourself, your travel partner, and your relationships with both, opening your heart, your mind…YOUR EYES.

As the husband of my cooking teacher, who spent years on the sea as the captain of a commercial vessel, told me, “Life is like a book. Those who don’t travel are always reading the same page.”

At the risk of offending all too many of you, I have to admit to agreeing with that statement to some extent, but will rein in my judgey side a bit and add that there’s plenty to learn from our everyday lives in our very own homes, too. We just have to do it. Harder than it sounds.

But that’s another story.

I could write an entire blog – or three – on each aspect of traveling, and might do just that, but this one is about an epiphany I’ve had as I’ve moved from my western, Israeli, specifically ideology-driven, life, to crowded Diwali Mumbai, the vast sandy beaches of Goa, the serene backwaters near Alleppey and now to the hill station, tropical green mountain area near Munnar.

I get into the vibrancy of the city-even Diwali Mumbai with all the millions- the constant movement, lights, traffic, endless options and continual visceral stimulation. There seems to be no limit to the number of shops I enjoy entering. I’m happy walking for hours down busy streets, wandering through museums – both conventional and quirky – waiting in winding snake lines of multitudes of people to see the most touristy of sights or hop on the boat, tuk-tuk, or train at the end of the crowd. I have no problem with getting lost for a while or not understanding or being able to make myself understood. It all works out in the end.

I’m attracted to drama, and there’s plenty of that to be observed in the city. Participation voluntary. For the most part.

Over the past eight weeks we’ve gradually made the transition inland. From waves crashing onto the rock barrier thirty meters from our balcony and dolphins playing twenty meters beyond that, to the gurgling stream just outside our backyard tropical mountain surroundings. We were somewhat prepared by the serenity of Kerala’s backwaters, running alongside the noisy towns of Alleppey, Ernakulum and Fort Kochi, as well as the steadily deteriorating road between Kochi and Pallivasal near Munnar but nothing can really prepare you for the quiet here.

Being isolated in nature is something that has to be experienced.

We made a conscious decision to settle into our new environment and let it settle into us. No martial arts performance yet. No trip into the town of Munnar. No tea plantation or spice garden tour. Just nature and quiet and us.

It took 24-hours for the monkey chatter to subside.

My yoga practice has been evolving…getting better and better.

I experienced a meditation so deep two days ago that it scared me a bit. The pang of fear brought me to the surface so fast I thought I’d get whiplash. Fear of what? Who knows.

Yesterday’s yoga, just before dusk, was the best yet. Fluid. Soothing and refreshing simultaneously.

At one point I felt I wanted to continue forever.

And then it was just the right moment to finish.

There’s such an awareness of productivity – accomplishing things – in the city.

There’s more an awareness of being out here.

Is there a productiveness in being? Can there be?

Since getting more involved in Eastern Philosophy, yoga and meditation, I find that there’s far less drama in my relationship with the people I love. I’ve integrated the concept of non-grasping without really making an effort to do so. It’s just happened with all the reading, thinking and practice of the past two decades. I worried that it was too much. That I’d become too detached from the lives and challenges of the people I love.

He asked me to close my eyes and try to take myself back to the time when there was more drama and intensity in my relationships. It took a minute of my precious 15 minutes with him but I was able to do it.

Then he asked me to return to a more recent time, with less drama in my relationships and, after a minute or two, asked what I felt in those moments as opposed to the previous ones.

I didn’t have to answer out loud. I opened my eyes to the answering smile on his face.

I love the city. I love the satisfaction of completing many, many tasks during the day. Love noise and crowds and shops and movement.

My body and soul are nourished by nature, by being, by deep silence.

Shabbat Shalom – Peace to us all.

The Quality of Sleep

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Some people get into bed at night, fall asleep immediately, and wake up in the morning refreshed.

My husband is one of those lucky people.

We have good friends who go to sleep relatively early and sleep until 10 a.m. if their schedules permit.

I’m not one of those people.

I’ve always been a night person. I’m happy and productive until well after midnight. Two a.m. is the witching hour for me – that hour that marks the border between being able to function well the next day and resigning myself to a zombie day. I’ve trained myself to get into bed by midnight in order to rise at 7 and join my partner for the breakfast he pampers me with, once I smell the wafting scent of coffee.

I no longer fight my inability to fall asleep quickly. Over the years I’ve accepted that resting with my eyes closed during those minutes or hours that I wake up in darkness, dawn far away, can replenish my body, instead of bringing the frustration and monkey mind of trying to bully my way into sleep.

Every now and then – sometimes even once a week – I have nights with virtually no sleep. Those nights are still difficult. I have a bag of tricks that includes breathing techniques and imagery, yoga nidra and other relaxation strategies, but there are nights that nothing brings sleep or rest. I might end up taking half a sleeping pill – that always works – or deciding that the next day will be a lost day. Either is okay; neither is good.

India is a busy, hectic place. Even in villages, the noise level is beyond…well, beyond anything experienced in the western world. There always seems to be something happening: a festival, a rally, a parade, a celebration, a call to worship. In Mumbai, Delhi and other big-beyond-imagination cities, the traffic never ceases. I mean, never.

In the beach towns in which we’ve chosen to begin our six-month adventure, there’s a different rhythm.

For two weeks in Morjim Beach, in Northern Goa, we joined the few people there half an hour before sunset to wait for the big event of the day. Gradually, Russian tourists and Indian residents made their way from their places of refuge from the heat to the kilometers-long, clean, sandy beach for nature’s daily phenomenon. The burst of orange that invariably accompanied the sinking of the sun into The Arabian Sea never failed to mesmerize. The wispy cloud formations lit by the hues of light thrown off with the sun’s seemingly-reluctant relinquishment of energy differed each day, but never failed to enchant.

We could both feel our inner pace slowing daily; our minds becoming less cluttered.

Each beach has its own ambience. Its  own sound. Its own flora and fauna. Each place we stay has its own staff, each with his or her own unique personality, and its own daily sights.

It takes a couple of days, and an open mind and heart, to adapt to new surroundings. To see that the curt, expressionless hotel manager makes it his personal mission to insure your enjoyment and welfare. To realize that anything lacking in your room can easily be obtained by graciously asking for it, and anything that can’t be obtained in this manner isn’t a necessity. To learn the possibilities nearby, how to navigate your way to and from them, and how to balance doing with being.

Thumboly Beach is not Morjim Beach.

Below our second-floor balcony is a sandy yard with a hammock, some tree stump seats, and a raised cement platform where I do my daily yoga and meditation. Beyond the wood-slat fence, with its greenery, is a walkway of sand and spotty grass where solitary villagers or small groups of school children can be observed passing by from time to time.

The apparel is of unending wonder and fascination.

Many men wear baggy shorts made of a large cloth tied in a mysterious way which provides modesty in spite of the tie in front that they open frequently to readjust, and a looseness essential in the humid heat of Kerala by the sea. Others wear a long skirt wrapped around their lower bodies.

Women wear colorful saris or leggings with a tunic on top. They even go into the water dressed this way – but only to their knees. Their modesty is a constant, although their midriff is bare in their saris and partially exposed. Shorts and bathing suits are nowhere to be seen. If on the beach in Tel Aviv women show the maximum amount of skin possible, here women show the least.

Beyond the path is a wall of rocks and boulders set up as a barrier between the village structures and the sea. The waves constantly break onto the rock barrier; sometimes in a gentle lullaby; sometimes with louder music; sometimes crashing with an impressive exhibition of spray. My afternoon yoga is usually accompanied by that drama.

Beyond the waves, the calm, flat Arabian Sea is dotted with fishing boats. Some are barely big enough for one person and his fishing nets; some for three; in darkness, some are big enough for fifteen. Early in the morning we can stand on the beach and watch the fishermen pluck the fish caught in their nets. The catch is never large – 20 kilo on a good day – and the fish are never big. It’s incomprehensible how they make a living from this work. We don’t have a grasp of their reality, though, so it may make perfect sense in their world.

Breakfast arrives on our balcony table at 7-ish every morning and dinner at 8-ish every evening. The creator and carrier of our vegetarian meals is a young man, Veejay, whose wife and five-year-old daughter live a 3-day train ride from here, near the border of Bhutan. The language he shares with the owner of the hotel (for lack of a better word) is Hindi, though his native language is Nepalese and the owner’s is Mayalayam.

Veejay is a vegetarian but accustomed to very simple food. He makes a huge effort to provide a variety of vegetarian meals for us and succeeds admirably. Even when the food is not exactly what we might choose, his intention is so pure that we’re happy to eat with gusto.

His work is endless. He lives onsite and is available 24/7 to provide refreshments, call a tuk-tuk or try to rouse the WiFi. If we were ever lackadaisical about Shabbat, watching people here work every day, all day, has reminded us to be grateful for the wise decision made thousands of year ago in Judaism to set aside 25 hours for rest and spiritual nourishment. The concept, the necessity for such a time and the benefit it brings, was unheard of back then and is still unheard of in India, other than among the Christians.

Our host, Anthony, is a very special person. Born and raised in this small fishing village, his father was a fisherman and, growing up, Anthony loved nothing more than going out on the boat with him. A bright and curious mind has made him an eclectic adult with a well-respected past as a career officer in the anti-terrorist section of the Indian army. He retired as a colonel after 24 years, most of which was spent in Kashmir, the region of continual conflict and terrorism.

Our long conversations include history, not exclusively Indian history, philosophy, science, religion (he’s a Christian with some Hindu undertones), sociology, politics, and ethics. He’s well-versed in current events and spent time in Israel on pilgrimage. He had words of praise for Israeli organization, cleanliness and ingenuity, and said that when he crossed the border into the chaos of Egypt he felt at home.

He has three businesses and has to travel much more than he’d like as a result, but is never happier than when he’s close enough to the sea to hear the waves lapping the shore. He keeps working in spite of yearning for the sea, to maintain employment for his 90 employees. He believes that a person has no self-respect without employment, and finds personal fulfillment providing opportunity for his neighbors. His plan is to work until his 60th birthday – he’s 49 today – and then sell off his businesses to remain within earshot of the waves until the end of his life.

When my husband expressed his fascination with the fishing boats, Anthony called a fisherman friend and hopped – happy as a child – into a small, 3-person fishing boat with his friend and my partner for an hour at sea. I watched as they returned to shore, Anthony paddling, his bare upper body glistening, a big smile on his face. Did I mention that he’s quite beautiful?

But about the sleeping thing.

There’s virtually no internet here. Just enough to entice you into attempts to be online.

I had several logistic necessities to be accomplished online and couldn’t complete any of them, even in the wee hours when the WiFi is at its strongest. I spent one night in a futile attempt, giving up only at 3 a.m. to toss and turn, sleep elusive, my mind dashing from train tickets unreserved and cell phone data packages unrenewed. Breathing didn’t help. Nothing helped. I gave up into the reality of a sleepless night and may (or may not) have dozed off for a short while here and there.

The next day we were able to renew the cell phone data and take care of a few other errands in town. With that off my mind, falling asleep came easily but waking up several times a night came just as easily. Each time, I heard the gentle music of the waves 30 meters from our bed, and drifted back into a peaceful sleep.

Each night since has been the same.

In the morning, I open my eyes only after my ears have opened to the sound of the waves. I feel rocked awake in nature’s arms just as I’m rocked to sleep in the dark of night to the same music.

This morning I awoke to that primordial sound of comfort and a minute later found myself contemplating, with reluctance, our departure from Thumboly Beach four days from now. I gave myself a mental shake to return to the present moment – wherein I’m still in Thumboly Beach and still accompanied by The Arabian Sea.

Our next stop is The Pimenta Cooking School. A cooking course I’ve been looking forward to for months.

My guess is that the sound of The Arabian Sea will be part of me until the end of my conscious life.

In the midst of my cooking course, surrounded by Indian cooking utensils, spices, vegetables and the incredible array of non-wheat flours, I’ll probably have a moment here and there of regret that I’ll be moving on from that kitchen experience at some point down the road.

The bittersweet flavor of traveling. And of life.

Change is a wonderful thing. As I’ve mentioned before, I’m a change junky.

I love my life at home. I love my family, friends and students, my house, studio, and community, and, yet, I get itchy after a while. It might take 6 months or a year, and planning my next trip may keep the itch at bay for months at a time, but the world and its infinite wonders call me louder and louder until I have to go.

Feeling full of gratitude for each moment in this amazing world of ours.

 

 

Anyone can Detox on Morjim Beach

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I think that after those last few days of stomach butterflies at home leading up to our departure from life as we know it, we chose well with Mumbai as our first stop. The drastic difference of Morjim Beach from those days of checking off the last items on our “to do” list would’ve have been too great a shock to our systems. Mumbai, with its crowds and our 17,000 steps-a-day touring, was a perfect jumping in point.

The five days of incredible Mumbai, with its teeming population of 22 million and the additional Diwali festival crowds, may sound even more hectic than organizing our life to exist without us, but the contrast between colorful India, spicy Indian food, traditionally clothed people passing us on the street and our own reality in Israel made it perfect.

Five days was enough.

We chose Morjim Beach in Northern Goa for two reasons: for the promise of turtles coming ashore to lay their eggs (which hasn’t happened yet) and the claim of serenity and lack of crowds.

Expectations are problematic for travelers. We choose because we can’t stand at the intersection without choosing right, left or straight, but if we expect our lodging to be exactly as pictured/described or expect the town/beach/tourist site to be exactly what we were looking for, without leaving our mind and heart open to accepting a different reality, we’re often setting ourselves up for a bad time.

The relatively few tourists on beautiful, sandy Morjim Beach are Russian (true to what’s reported by google), and Indians. We’ve yet to meet a tourist from an English-speaking country or an Israeli. The beach is almost deserted most of the day. People frolic in The Arabian Sea from early morning until around 10, before the extreme heat arrives, and wander back down to the beach about an hour before sunset to watch the big event.

There are pubs here and there for nightlife but pulsing music is very localized and can’t be heard from our hotel.

Our first week in Morjim Beach was spent at Baywalk Goa where two exceedingly nice, polite, helpful men eased us into beach life. Breakfast was delicious. Service was immediate. Our room was spacious and had a front and back balcony. The older of the two men even showed me his yoga routine, which included an interesting pose that was new to me. The only drawback was that it was not directly on the beach (about 100 meters away) and about a kilometer down the beach from the restaurants.

We spent the weekend in Anjuna, about 30 kilometers away, where the Chabad House correspondence had prepared us for the possibility of it being non-existent that Shabbat. Not that they said that, but they just sounded flakey. As a result, we chose a more luxurious hotel ($40/nite instead of $30) with a quiet Shabbat around the pool as a possibility. In fact, Chabad House was closed and we loved our Shabbat in the pampered surroundings. There was even a surprise bonus of a wonderful Rajasthani Dance and Music performance on Saturday night. The beautiful dancer invited me to dance with her, which I did, and I had a great time.

On Friday we walked to a coffee shop/restaurant that I’d been following online and getting some India travel tips from for several months. The owners are an Israeli man, Moshe, and his German wife, Anastasia. There’s a big lending library with books in a multitude of languages in the restaurant, a wide variety of “Mediterranean” food options – all vegetarian or vegan – a space for yoga, and a bulletin board filled with notices about yoga classes, meditation groups, tai chi classes and upcoming concerts. A very comfortable, safe hang-out for travelers and people like Moshe and Anastasia who have made Anjuna their home.

I IMd Moshe after we left asking if he’d like to be interviewed for the book I’m writing about people who have stood at that proverbial intersection and chosen a path very different from their background and peers. I mentioned that we would be at our hotel all the next day because we keep Shabbat and suggested we get together on Sunday. Then Shabbat started and I wasn’t online to receive his answer.

Saturday in the early afternoon we were sitting around the pool and Moshe appeared. He had come to be interviewed. We sat and talked (mostly I asked a question here and there and he talked) for over two hours. I don’t know if his story will end up in my book – maybe – but it was interesting and I liked him. He’s been in Anjuna for almost 25 years. He’s approaching 50 years old. He sees himself as a citizen of the world and when asked to visualize his two daughters’ future (they’re now 10 and 12), he imagines they will live somewhere out there in the world – not India – and he’ll relish their happiness. Having had three children spend years each in the U.S., I could tell him that it’s much easier to relish one’s children’s happiness from closer up, but why burst his bubble. And, who knows, maybe he won’t feel that way.

Back to Morjim Beach on Sunday but to a place directly on the beach this time and close to restaurants – Ciiroc. Gershon found the manager taciturn and took an instant dislike to him. We’d checked the place out when we were at Baywalk and it seemed very nice. Little cabins surrounding a pristine pool, with comfy beds, a fridge, and pleasant porch.

Expectations.

Reality came in the form of a small(ish) cockroach prancing across the bed as we watched Blue Bloods on my iPad, an internet connection that was so slow that it was truly useless, and no cups to go along with the hot water kettle. As it turns out, though, one has only to ask and everything appears. The “taciturn” manager provides whatever we ask, including better internet by turning off and on the router whenever we ask.

The cockroach had no friends.

We’d eaten at the restaurant the previous week and already knew that they didn’t have about 3/4 of the items listed on the very extensive menu. When we tried (again) to order fish and were told they didn’t have any, the manager came over with an explanation. The fish in the market hadn’t been good that day so they were only serving it to non-guests. He hoped to have better luck the next day at the market and would make fish available to us then. A little scary for those non-guests, eh?

One important thing to note is that every single dish we ordered (that they actually had) was delicious and more than made up for the 3/4 of things on the menu that were unavailable.

We were the only customers most evenings for dinner and could only wonder at the four or five people in the kitchen. I was invited in to take a look at the kitchen and, while primitive, it was clean and a great space to prepare food.

Today we walked the other way on the divine beach and spent an hour or more investigating a rock jetty with tidal pools and many, many living things. There are four kinds of crabs here – bubbler crabs with their amazing artwork, hermit crabs who teach us an important life lesson – to be satisfied with what we have and not chase what looks a bit better – ghost crabs, and a kind of crab we saw on the rocks that Gershon has not as yet identified. The beach and shallows are populated by thousands of tiny clams that women bring their children to gather to add flavor to their soups. There are fish in the tidal pools and the inevitable birds who feast on crabs and fish.

I participated twice in a yoga and meditation class on the beach giving by a 68 year old yogi who seems to be the real deal. I could probably learn  a lot from him but each class is a basic class because he caters to the Russian tourists who come and go. Too much talking and not enough meditating or yoga for my taste. But a very cool experience.

I have to go now. It’s almost time to see the sunset.

 

 

 

Awakening Again

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I made a new friend on my walk today. We’ve met with mutual suspicion six times a week for a few weeks now. He lowers his head, looks at me surreptitiously, and keeps his distance. I keep my eye on him as I pass on the other side of the path. But today was different.

I walk for about an hour every day except Thursday, usually alone. It’s a peaceful time. I listen to a talk for part of the time, and to music the rest of the time, except for Saturday morning. Saturday is Shabbat and my time off from electronics. My Saturday walk is a little less quiet – all that noise in my head. That’s okay, too, though. My curiosity gets a kick out of all those thoughts. “What? THAT one again?”

I started this walking thing – or I should say I got back to it after a very long break – about 2 months ago. It seemed an easily accessible habit, useful for changing the sedentary lifestyle that crept up on me when I began having hip pain from my Nordic machine.

Research shows that it takes 28 days to create a habit. That seems true for my walking regime. It’s become a habit. I check the weather & my schedule to decide the best time to get out there. The time arrives and I lace up my sneakers. I connect my earbuds, choose the talk I want, slip the phone into a back pocket, and I’m out the door.

Today’s walk started out the same. Aside from a sore throat and a little cough, nothing warned of a difference in today’s walk. After almost a full day of rain yesterday – with just enough delay to allow for a walk under threatening skies – the sun warmed the crisp mid-winter air just enough to allow me to shed my down jacket after fifteen minutes.

The talk I chose was good. They always are. The winding road up the hill was pleasant – not too easy and not too challenging. It always is.

The difference came from inside, I guess. One of those awakenings that come upon us all of a sudden. Or it seems to be all of a sudden, but I’m betting it’s the culmination of lots of stuff. For some reason, today, after about forty similar walks, I felt how strong my legs have become and how easy my breath comes on the incline now. I was aware of my sure-footedness coming downhill on loose gravel. I realized that I was enjoying the walk for its own sake. I had a glimmer of why hikers love to hike. Today it wasn’t about being healthier or exercising my knee or my hip. Today was pure pleasure.

When I got near the top of the penultimate hill I saw the same dog I’d seen in the very same place on every walk, but this time I didn’t pass him warily. This time I approached him with my hand extended. He didn’t move. He, too, had created a habit. But he let me rest my hand on his head and, after a few seconds, his tail started wagging as I massaged his neck. It was only a moment in time. Then he went his way and I went mine.

Later, on a secluded, wooded path, I danced to “Fallin’ All in You” before resuming a sedate demeanor more suitable to a 66-year-old woman on a bright noon somewhere in January.

(please click on the photo)

Hours later I can’t stop the feelings of gratitude. Thankful for my body’s vitality (with all its aches and pains of aging, coughs and sniffles of winter) – the muscles in my legs, my lungs, my heart. Thankful for the undeveloped countryside right near my home. Thankful for the resources and the freedom to wander. Thankful for my many teachers – official & unofficial – who imbue me with the ability to see the half-full glass (and the occasional moments when I realize that it’s full).

Maybe I’ll meet my friend again tomorrow.

News Flash: Old Age is Not the Enemy

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Old Super people                            Old People iin Wheelchairs

Fight                                   Or flight?

Remember when 40 sounded old? Remember when you weren’t sure if your mother was 38 or 83 (because, hey, what was the difference?) Remember when you hoped you’d live long enough not to have to do homework? Or wait for summer to have some fun?

Okay, kids, here we are. We made it!

anxiety

NOW WHAT?!?

Truth is that it kind of creeped up on me. The 40’s were great years. And then the 50’s? Even better. And then came…THE SIXTIES.

I breezed past my 60th birthday. We had a big birthday to mark the accomplishment. But, really, I just liked having all those people in the same room – the people I love and like and some I hadn’t seen in awhile. I didn’t really think of being 60 as a big deal.

The rest of that year began what I like to think of as my period of enlightenment.

Awakening to the reality of small aches and pains becoming larger and not so easy to ignore. Awakening to an EVEN SLOWER metabolism. (how was that even possible?)

And as the 60’s progressed I couldn’t deny that I  had less energy, less ambition and less cartilage in my knees.

Old white water rafting                                                                       =   Old canoe

A new stage in life began the day I closed  my company.

Stage One

business woman>>>>>>  No work

Another stage of life began when I stopped agreeing to meet with people who just “have a couple of questions”.

Stage Two

Then another stage when the answer to “So, what do you do?” began without disclaimers.

justify

Followed by a blissful couple of years when I:

  1. wrote a book and published it.  http://www.amazon.com/Yoga-Detectives-Lesson-A-E-Prero/dp/1512109371

Yoga Wed am 002                   Yoga photos 004

2. created a yoga studio

and 3. filled it with classes

4. got into a regular habit of spending quality time with my grandchildren

036  (maybe the most fun of all)    001

And now? Now I seem to have arrived at Stage Four.

Partially I’ve arrived here on my own, in a natural kind of way, and partially I’m being dragged into it and, I admit, initially with a bit of kicking and whining, by my friends. Noooo

This is a Stage of wondering a lot about how to best do this thing called “Old Age”. Give into it? Okay, THAT sounds bad. Fight it? Hmm. That sounds tiring.

Road Lesds Traveled And I haven’t found a good guide book yet. Not on Lonely Planet or Footprint or even Google.

Oh, there are plenty of books out there on the topic. I’ve read a bunch of them. Probably the one I liked the best was From Age-ing to Sage-ing http://www.amazon.com/Age-Ing-Sage-Ing-Revolutionary-Approach-Growing/dp/1455530603/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1449132020&sr=1-1&keywords=from+age-ing+to+sage-ing+a+revolutionary+approach+to+growing+older   But I don’t seem to have many people in my life who are looking for a sage. And, truth be told, it sounds a teeny big presumptuous.

Coach?  Yuck! Gives me a rash thinking of that title. Mentor? Better but headed toward ‘sage’.

And, anyway, is this Stage about what I am for others or for myself!?

pondering

When I taught aerobics and hip hop it was all about pushing to your limit and going one step beyond.

When I teach yoga it’s more about investigating your limits and taking one step back.

But in this evolving life of mine, where old age has creeped up on me? A step forward? A step back? What does that even MEAN?

Many of us loved what Dylan Thomas had to say about it:

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rage at close of day,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light

But, you know what?, now it just makes me roll my eyes. And, hey, he was in his mid-40’s when he wrote that. I might have agreed more when I was in MY mid-40’s.

Raging and burning? Unh unh. No raging and burning for me. I have a feeling that road leads to frustration and grumpiness.

Old and grumpy

For the past 2-3 months I’ve been feeling like I’ve over-scheduled my life; like there’s not enough time to sit and write or sit and read or just sit. But facts must be faced…right?…and the fact is that I’m still teaching the same amount of classes and private lessons a week and I’m still traveling each week to visit the same number of homes to which I’ve lent my grandchildren.

It’s that bogeyman of all bogeymen…old age. I just have less energy for it all. So when I’ve finished teaching all the classes and private lessons and finished driving and playing with my amazing grandkids and finished shopping and cooking and cleaning, I’m POOPED.

Now there are some who make fun of us older people and our running out of energy mid-afternoon

Old Woman sleeping  but there can be some nice things about napping.  Old People Napping  And maybe, just maybe, that’s part of it all.

No, no, not napping. But pedaling down some of those things we love to more manageable bites.

Meditation for Elders  Old woman enjoying music   Old person reading

And maybe we can sage our way into some nourishing and gratifying volunteering  Old professors  Old knitter

Okay, so we tend to freak about forgetting a couple of details

Old person forgetting

But young people forget stuff, too, they just don’t worry about it.

Young person forgetting

And there are some great things about long term memory.

Old woman telling stories

I think I DO want to fight the tendency to decrease the size of one’s world to the boundaries of what’s familiar to me; to what’s easy and comfy. I want to fight to keep my boundaries open to new ideas and new activities, new places and new people.

But, at the same time, I want to accept gracefully my decreasing physical energy and re-direct my time to the ever-changing physical reality of old age. And, yep, I want to accept that my mind isn’t quite so quick, quite so sharp and, at times, quite so reliable.

Ultimately, I know that ‘old age’ is NOT the enemy. It’s my own fears that I need to remain mindful of and face with compassion, kindness and awareness.

Older yoga  Old women walking  Old cooking

I can hear you saying, “Yeah, right. Blah blah blah.” So here’s what I have to say to you…

mountain out of molehill

Well, maybe.

Let’s hope so!