Category Archives: Searching for Wisdom

personal growth stories

The Quest

When does an obsession start? Who really knows, but you may wake up one day and find yourself in the middle of one. It starts slowly, maybe even with a reasonable idea, but then it overtakes you. It happened to me this autumn—I became obsessed with seeing the glory of leaves changing color. This is a story that is enhanced by pictures, some of those enhanced as well, as you will see.

It started in mid-September when we were in Seattle visiting our daughter and grandkids. I took the three-year-old for a walk and we collected leaves that had already fallen.

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Later, when our grandson was playing in the band during their high school football game, I scouted for changing leaves.

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But it was too early for Seattle, which would be glorious by October.

I told myself that it was fine—I was just warming up my skills because we were to leave ten days later for a trip that would begin in Quebec. We’d board a cruise ship in Montreal, traveling on the “Fall Medley Cruise” up the St. Lawrence Seaway to the Atlantic Seaboard. “Mother Nature’s Paintbrush,” the cruise line’s brochure said. “Imagine a land so transformed by color that even the commonplace becomes extraordinary. A walk through the woods is like stepping into an autumnal kaleidoscope.”

Maybe it was this description, which started me on being a crazy person. I fell for the hype, hook, line and sinker. I expected to draw my curtains in the morning and be presented with the kaleidoscope described. Not to be. Quebec was a jewel: charming and unique. But the trees were green.

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On the train to Montreal, I was encouraged when I saw patches of changing leaves along the tracks. But it turned out that was an anomaly.

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It was chilly and crisp, but the leaves were proudly green.

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I was still hopeful. With the cold temperatures, the leaves had to turn soon, I thought. And we were going way north to Nova Scotia, so that would certainly do the trick, right? Wrong.

IMG_6653Above is what we saw. Below is what we could have seen.

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It was when we were in Maine that I became aware I was obsessed. We’d had a tour guide take us to Kennebunkport from Portland, Maine so we could visit friends and eat at the Clam Shack, which has the best fried clams anywhere in the world. On the way back, I saw some trees along the highway that were crimson. “Stop the car,” I yelled. As I stood on the side of the highway, I saw my traveling companions shooting me questioning looks. The question: Has she gone nuts?

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It wasn’t as if I hadn’t had this happen to me before. I remember being in Boston one year at Halloween. “All a yuz shouda been herah last week,” I was told.

On our return to the West Coast, we stayed a couple days in Seattle. “Finally, “I said to my husband, “we’ll see some autumn color.”A day earlier, maybe. But a storm had blown in and blew the leaves off most of the trees. I know because I took a walk with my camera to find them. An hour later, I returned, with little to show for my effort.

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Finally home, my neighbor made me feel a lot better about all the greenery we’d seen. “One year when we were back there, the leaves were so technicolor, you needed sunglasses,” he said. I’m sure he’s still wondering why I doubled over in laughter.

I did a little research on Fall Foliage, which, BTW, has become big business for the Northeast. Cruise ships disgorge hundreds of Medicare Tourists daily during this period—we were as numerous and pesky as fleas on a barn dog. I had evidence that I wasn’t alone in my quest for florescent foliage. You can even download an APP that will keep you updated as to when the leaves are reaching their peak.

But why is this so unpredictable? New England Fall Foilage Central says “the unpredictable factors that influence the rate at which leaves change colors are rain, the amount of sugar in the leaves, the number of daylight hours and temperatures….The three-day weekend around the Columbus Day holiday is often associated with peak foliage in Massachusetts, New York, Connecticut and Rhode Island, but there are no guarantees.”

Really? Thanks for the heads up!

And by the way, the photo below was taken on October 15!Screen Shot 2015-10-18 at 1.30.49 PM

Black Lives Need to Matter

 

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So many White people are upset with the Black Lives Matter movement. “All lives matter,” a friend said to me the other day at coffee. “Why are those people so divisive?”

At yoga, the instructor asked, “Why did they interrupt Bernie Sanders and Jeb Bush? It’s so rude.”

It was hard to quiet my mind after her question. During the class, my brain worked over time figuring out what was happening and where I stood. I must admit I’m a Rodney King kind of person–my knee jerk question is always “Why can’t we all just get along?” And I was raised to always be polite, always.

But there comes a time when you don’t have the leisure for good manners. The leaders of the Black Lives Matter Movement feel that is now. They don’t want another Sandra Bland to die because of police brutality. Or a Michael Brown or Freddie Gray.

Yes, all lives matter, but historically in America, Black lives haven’t. Black Lives Matter is a movement that wants to shake up the status quo NOW so more Blacks don’t die. It’s specific because it needs to be.

The grass roots movement was co-founded by three black activists: Alicia Garza, Patrisse Cullors, and Opal Tometi after the July 2013 acquittal of George Zimmerman in the shooting of Trayvon Martin. After the 2014 deaths of Michael Brown and Eric Garner, the Black Lives Matter movement gained momentum. In both cases, grand juries didn’t indict the officer and no charges were brought. The conclusion to not only the Black community: Black lives don’t seem to matter and the justice system is skewed. Two tools, which are making this obvious to everyone, are cell phone videos and social media. You can’t argue with what has been recorded and social media is spreading the word.

peaceful march.

peaceful march.

Black Lives Matter seems to be focused right now on getting Presidential candidates to develop policies that will ensure racial justice. An excellent goal, but are they going about it the right way?

In August, in my hometown of Seattle, Bernie Sanders’ speech was disrupted by a group who walked onstage, grabbed the microphone from him and shouted at the audience that they were racists and White Supremacists. Sanders looked bewildered, but the next day issued a racial justice policy.

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Hillary Clinton’s bodyguards weren’t having it, but she did meet privately with the leaders of the Black Lives Matter protest. She told Julius Jones, a Black Lives Matter activist, “I don’t believe you change hearts. I believe you change laws, you change allocation of resources, you change the way systems operate.”

Clinton defines the practical, but I believe changing hearts should not be overlooked. Shouting, “All whites are racist!” may feel good in the moment. Disrupting political meetings may make demonstrators feel powerful when they’ve only felt powerless before—but is this how to create lasting change? It’s got shock value, but is it detrimental to the end goal of not only saving black lives, but making black lives worth living? Or does it allow Fox News to target it as a Murder Movement, suggesting it promotes cop killings?

Three Black Lives Matter leaders

Three Black Lives Matter leaders

 

In a television interview I watched, Alicia Garza, Patrisse Cullors and Opal Tometi discuss their goals. Articulate and well spoken, I was convinced by their arguments. I now wear a pin that shows I support the Black Lives Matter Movement.

Black Lives Matter

Black Lives Matter

This is more of what we need. Don’t make me defensive by calling me a white supremacist—I am not a George Lincoln Rockwell. It’s the events that have knocked off my rose colored glasses, not the violent protests. Now continue to show me, educate me, open my eyes. Then use me and my resources, white though they may be, to help bring about necessary change.

 

 

Grand Theft Auto: Not the Game

 

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My car was stolen about a month ago. My husband had driven it down to Palm Springs to get it serviced where we bought it…and to play a little golf and visit with one of his best buddies. He stayed at a hotel in Indian Wells and when he got up in the morning, the car was gone from the lot. Security cameras showed a man trying the door of several cars and finding mine open, getting in and driving away.

Later that day, none the wiser, I called my husband to see how his day was going.

“Good,” he said. “Except for one thing.”

“Everyone okay?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah, everyone’s fine,” he said. I could hear his friend laughing in the background and I smiled.

“That’s the good news,” Moe continued.

“So what’s the bad news?”

“The bad news is your car got stolen.”

“Really?” I said, barely reacting. For some reason it didn’t faze me.

“Yeah. The police think it’s probably long gone,” he said.

But it wasn’t. Ten days later, the police saw the car parked along a street in Palm Springs and went to investigate. The driver jumped out of the car and sprinted down the street. The police gave chase and caught him.

When they called to notify us, they said the car was a mess but mostly intact. By then, I was looking at other cars—I wanted a small sedan and was narrowing my choice. (I must admit to being a little disappointed that the car hadn’t gone to a chop shop.)

One of the officers asked my husband if he used drugs.

“Why?” Moe asked.

“It’s just a formality, sir,” the man said. “We found a considerable amount of drug paraphernalia in the car.”

“Well, if you consider aspirin and ice creams to be drugs, then I do,” Moe said, laughing.

The car was taken to an impound lot and then towed to the dealership because the key was gone, (which is somewhat of a mystery. How was the guy driving the car if he had no key?) Several other parts of the car were gone, as well as all our personal belongings. For my husband, it was devastating. His new golf clubs were MIA.

Yesterday was the first time I’d seen my car since it was stolen. And the reality set in. On the surface, the car looked great. It had been detailed so it looked new. But for me, my car is like a second home. The center glove box contained a small pharmacy of dental products, acid reducers, eye drops, hand creams, etc. I had two of my best pairs of sunglasses in the regular glove compartment, with some cash hidden behind them. (You never know when you might get stranded without your wallet.)

I began to feel as if I’d been burglarized—violated—in some way, as if a stranger had pawed through my underwear.

I opened the trunk to see if the thief had truly taken all the bags I’ve collected in my travels that I use for the grocery store. Gone. The earthquake emergency kit was taken—even the license plate was stolen and the 20-year- old remote for the garage that barely worked. The bag with jackets and hats and gloves, flip-flops and umbrella—all the miscellanea I might need someday—was gone. And the golf towel that had been my dad’s, which no one knew I’d kept to remind me of him.

What was really disconcerting was that the thief had left a bundle of clothes, and his own miscellanea behind, including small sized clothing and Little Mermaid stickers.

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There’s a t-shirt that must have been his—I can tell how big he is.

 

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I began to wonder if he and his family had been living in the car? Using it as a drug den? I was totally creeped out.

Today is better. I still don’t feel like it’s my car, but I’m sure that will come with time. Meanwhile, the trunk of my car is clutter free!

Onward.

p.s. Moe says I should write the thief a thank you note. Because of him I got around to installing the garage door  remote feature in my car.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Unconscious Racism: Let’s Move Forward

When Barack Obama was elected President I thought it was a signal that racism was dead. I thought so much had been accomplished but that’s because my rose colored glasses were firmly in place. It’s taken cell phones with cameras to uncover the truth about how Blacks are treated by police in this country. But it’s not only police brutality at play here. After several months, I’m beginning to understand that our societal core is racist.

Let me see if I can start to explain white privilege.  It’s so integral in American society that we don’t even perceive it. It is not overt—I don’t think it is even conscious. Let’s begin with the color of our skin.

 

Natural Nude?

Natural Nude?

Last night I was on a website that sells clothing. I was looking at underwear. Because I’m writing about the years I taught at Meany and about race in our country, I’ve become more cognizant of what is “natural” in America. And here on the website was a fine example: I had only one choice of color for my sports bra: “natural nude”. It is a beige or light tan color. In other words, if your skin is not of that color, you are unnatural? In one sweep of the language, all people of color are excluded from the societal norm when buying this product.

This is only one way people of color are marginalized in our society, and you may say that it’s not that important. But the constant bombardment of such messages takes a toll. I can relate somewhat during the Christmas season. As a Jew, I am not part of the celebration. When the “National Christmas Tree” is lighted, I feel that even though my grandparents all immigrated to the United States over 100 years ago, perhaps I am not a real American.

 

The 88th Annual National Tree Lighting, sponsored by UL, stays safe and bright with over 750 lights and 500 ornaments on this year's tree.  Photo courtesy of Charlie Samuels/UL.

The 88th Annual National Tree Lighting, sponsored by UL, stays safe and bright with over 750 lights and 500 ornaments on this year’s tree.

Jennifer Holladay, in her book, White Anti-Racism Activism, says: “White skin privilege is not something that white people necessarily do, create or enjoy on purpose….White people receive all kinds of perks as a function of their skin privilege.”

She then gives some examples.

“• When I cut my finger and go to my school or office’s first aid kit, the flesh-colored band-aid generally matches my skin tone.

  • When I stay in a hotel, the complimentary shampoo generally works with the texture of my hair.
  • When I run to the store to buy pantyhose at the last minute, the ‘nude’ color generally appears nude on my legs.
  • When I buy hair care products in a grocery store or drug store, my shampoos and conditioners are in the aisle and section labeled ‘hair care’ and not in a separate section for ‘ethnic products.’
  • I can purchase travel size bottles of my hair care products at most grocery or drug stores.”

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Many years ago, I’d figured out that the pinkish beige color, FLESH, in the crayon box, was racially exclusive. Same for FLESH-COLORED bandages that were beige. I’d never thought about hair products before, although I’ve noticed the special section for people of color. (I’m always so focused on finding a product that will give me volume that I don’t have time to think of anything else in the hair aisle.)

Flesh-colored?

Flesh-colored?

 

Once you become aware of this inaccurate color description, you begin to see it everywhere. In an article, “White Privlege: Flesh Colored” in The Society Pages, Lisa Wade gives more examples. One of the most ironic and outrageous is the description of First Lady Michelle Obama’s ball gown:

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Flesh-colored? It didn’t match the flesh of the beautiful  first lady!

Barack Obama, Manmohan Singh, Michelle Obama, Gursharan Kaur

As well meaning whites continue to awaken from our long sleep of oblivion, there are attempts to right this basic wrong. Here is an example:

 

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When I taught middle school in the Eighties, I tried to raise the consciousness of my students. One exercise I learned in a Graduate School multi-cultures class was this: You are sitting on a park bench and an American walks past you. Describe the American. The descriptions written offered a fascinating look into the American psyche. Most of the “Americans” were white and male, sort of like all our Presidents until Barack Obama came along.

 

 

Normal skin? Is that what an American has?

Normal skin? Is that what an American has?

 

 

The Big Fat Summer of Love: Dr. Traci Mann

This interview really resonated with me, a yoyo dieter from childhood. Growing up in an extremely critical and very loving family, I strove to live up to my parents’ and family’s expectations. I remember being about 12 and eating a piece of cheese, and my brother saying, “Cheese is very fattening.” He loved to tease me as all big brothers do, and I thought he was just giving me a bad time. But he showed me some proof. There began my illicit affair with cheese. To this day, guilt plagues me when I eat it.
Thanks for presenting the information in your interview with Dr. Mann. I try to tell people we are born being a mesomorph, ectomorph or endomorph, but now I have some ammunition that may make more of an impact. Dr. Mann said in your interview: “For years I have been studying the science of weight loss and obesity, and the evidence shows that weight is primarily genetically determined and the extent to which people can alter it is limited. Trying to live at a weight way below one’s genetic range is a recipe for misery and failure as it basically means living as if you are biologically starving. I think it is immoral to expect people to live this way for the sole purpose of achieving a weight that happens to be what our society considers attractive at this point in time.”

thisfeistyfox's avatarFattitude

FattitudeSummerofBigFatLoveV3-1After years of dieting, newbies to the world of Body Acceptance, find it very hard to wrap around the much discussed concept that, “Diets Don’t Work.” Thanks to Dr. Traci Mann of The Health and Eating Lab, however, we have hard evidence to prove such rhetoric. Dr. Mann, a widely cited expert in her field, has done copious amount of research on dieting, eating, fatness and self control and has proven, time and again, that, indeed, diets don’t work.

Dr. Mann’s book, “Secrets from the Eating Lab: The Science of Weight Loss, the Myth of Willpower, and Why You Should Never Diet Again,” explains her findings in depth and offers a breath of fresh air to anyone who has been stuck on the hamster wheel of Body Hate for any length of time.

cover@2xWhile the Body Acceptance Movement has a vast selection of wonderfully loud warriors who boisterously encourage…

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New Year Resolution Assessment

I thought that since half a year has gone by as well as my half birthday, I should assess how I’ve done on my resolutions from January. Here they are:

  1. Be happy with myself at my age.
  2. Stretch after my walk.
  3. Eat healthy.
  4. Think the thought that makes me feel good not the negative or fearful one.
  5. Don’t be the Grandiose Co-Dependent.

These are not what I remember. They are well and good, but in my mind I’d written:

  1. Write a blog twice a month.
  2. Work on the book.
  3. Do ten minutes or more of Rosetta Stone Spanish every day.
  4. Eat healthy.
  5. Stretch after my walk.
  6. Accept myself at my age.
  7. Take computer lessons.

It’s amazing what is and what we think is. Here I was supposed to be happy with myself and I was only trying to be accepting of the wrinkles, flab, and aches. Then I was feeling guilty if I didn’t write a blog every other week. As for the Rosetta Stone, a whole week could go by and I couldn’t seem to find even one ten minute segment to practicar Spanish. One good thing is that I’ve been working on my book lately with the help of an editor and mentor. It’s like a physical workout—I need a trainer or I’m not showing up. The same goes for writing my book—I now have Laura to keep me going.

To continue my analysis, I can count on the fingers of my right hand how many times I have stretched after my walk. That is sad because each time I do, my back, knee and foot feel so much better. Also when I go to my stretch class, I feel much better. Wait, can I count my stretch class? We even use the foam roller in there.

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And how about Pilates? Does that count? Those two classes keep me moving and I appreciate the instructors so much.

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I have tried harder to eat healthy but let’s face it, I will always drink Cokes and wine, and eat foods that do not enhance my body chemistry. Because, like the song says, “I’m Only Human”. And I love to eat. And I’m grateful I can. My sister-in-law’s brother gets his only nourishment through a food tube to his stomach. If that were me, and I didn’t love my children and grandchildren so much, I’d go the Kevorkian route.

I do think I made some headway on numbers 4 and 5 on the first list, without being conscious of it. I have caught myself a couple of times awfulizing or catastrophisizing and backed away from the dire thoughts. That is big for me. Last week I started going into a funk about how time is passing so quickly. My oldest grandchild is one year away from leaving home to go to college. How can it be? But, I caught myself in time and reminded myself to think thoughts that make me feel good. The melancholy dispersed much quicker. Finally, I am practicing to be less co-dependent. I’m not as sweet and compliant as I used to be. I still have trouble saying NO, but I have done it at least twice.

My plan is to combine the actual list with the one in my head for my goal setting for the second half of 2015. I’m primed for it anyway because I’ve already taken two computer lessons. Might as well continue.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Once Upon A Time: Linking Generations

Three of our grandchildren have had Heritage projects this year. It was great for us to talk with them about our parents and grandparents and our growing up years. I appreciate the schools for creating assignments like this that open lines of communication that might not have been there otherwise.

Quinn’s project was quite extensive necessitating emails with cousins and friends who are into genealogy. I even tapped into Ancestry.com. Quinn and I had gone through old pictures last summer and she’d scanned two hundred of them into the computer. (I paid her $11 an hour—minimum wage, right?) Ten of the photos were from a Family Tree project that Jennifer, our daughter, had done in high school way back when. I’d dismantled the Family Tree poster but kept the photos and information about each person.

from the 1980's Family Tree project

from the 1980’s Family Tree project

Quinn’s project was centered around where her ancestors had immigrated from to America. Most of my grandparents came from Russia so that was the country she focused on.

Shtetl

Shtetl

I had to explain that because they were Jewish, some were forced to live in shtetls, Jewish towns away from cities. All my grandparents fled from religious persecution and made their ways to America.

 

Quinn's great-great grandparents

Quinn’s great-great grandparents

The culmination of Quinn’s project was a Heritage Fair in March. The students put on an hour presentation about their different countries of origin. I was fer klempt, of course, through the whole thing. It was very touching.

Eli’s project involved interviewing me on Skype. He asked me ten or twelve questions about my parents, who are both deceased. One of the questions was: Describe your mother and then your father in three sentences. That was interesting and not easy.

My parents are on the left. My grandparents are in the middle. My uncle and aunt are on the right. This is in the Fifties.

My parents are on the left. My grandparents are in the middle. My uncle and aunt are on the right. This is in the Fifties.

Another question was: If you could tell your parents three things about now, what would you say. I said, “I’d tell them that they have fabulous great-grandchildren who they’d have loved to know, and that they’d be so proud of them. I’d tell them about some of the new inventions—that I’d just texted from an airplane over the Pacific Ocean. I’d tell them about us Skyping! I’d tell them there were problems in the world that they could never have imagined.” After I’d answer his question, Eli would comment and then we’d talk a bit. I doubt I’d ever have told him these things if he hadn’t had the assignment.

Last week our oldest grandson interviewed my husband. Garrett is taking US History and they’ve actually made it through the Fifties and into the Sixties. (My US History classes barely made it past the Industrial Revolution.) Garrett wanted to know what it was really like to grow up in the Fifties.

Cool fraternity guys in the early 60's.

Cool guys in the Fifties.

Garrett also wanted to know if Daddo had served during the Vietnam War so Moe got to tell his Air Force Reserve stories—the ones that are funny and cool.

Moe in the Air Force National Guard.

Moe in the Air Force National Guard.

As I said, it’s been wonderful sharing our experiences with the grandchildren. They seem to like hearing about them, too. Yesterday I took Quinn to lunch and during the conversation I ended up telling her about the time the Black Panthers set Meany on fire when I was teaching there. Her eyes got round with astonishment. I felt a little like Sally Field: Quinn liked my story—she really liked my story!!!

Classic Fifties pose.

Classic Fifties pose.

I remember hearing that old people liked to reminisce. It’s true—I’m loving it. And loving the grandchildren for caring to listen!

 

The Autumn of My Years: Indian Summer

This morning when I was swinging a bag of trash into the garbage can, two of the landscape guys drove by in their truck. They waved at me enthusiastically and I waved back. I think of them like nephews and give them cookies quite often. When I look at them I see two Hawaiian guys in their thirties—hard workers, strong and conscientious.

As I walked back into the house, I started wondering what they saw when they looked at me. I’m not sure why I went off on this tangent, but once the thought entered my head, I couldn’t let it go. How did they see me? Did they see me, the person I am? Or did they just see an old woman? Which led to the age-old question: who the heck am I, anyway?

I must admit I’d fallen into the trap of believing everything on my driver’s license was true except the birthdate—which is the exact reverse of reality. First of all, the picture hasn’t been changed for at least ten years—no way I look like I’m in my fifties. Then, my height is off—it’s less than the 5’6” recorded. Meanwhile, my weight is more—the weight posted is what I weighed after losing 15 pounds when I had malaria.

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I realized that there was a height issue when I began showing up as the shortest person in all the photos except for my two granddaughters. (Quinn, 12, is gaining on me fast but since Joeli is three, I think I have a little time there.) I guess I’d deluded myself that yoga and Pilates were keeping the space between my vertebra open, but I was beginning to wonder what was up. I mentioned it to my son who put me straight fast: “Mom, quit kidding yourself,” he said. “There’s no way you’re 5’6” anymore.”

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Okay then—so could there be other things I’ve been kidding myself about? Although I feel like I’m 48, I’d already figured out that was impossible as that same son just turned 45. But on the days my knee or back or shoulder or ankle doesn’t hurt, I feel just the same as I did in the twentieth century. Maybe even better.

I am not the same, I know. I look at life differently in the autumn of my years. While it is still my Indian Summer, I believe one of my major jobs in life is to enjoy each day—enjoy it the way I want to enjoy it instead of doing a million things or doing what someone else enjoys. In middle age, I was a multi-tasker extraordinaire. I thrived on it or so I thought. Because in reality, I was always exhausted and at the end of my rope.

It really is much better now. I do less and enjoy it more. This aging phenomena has its rewards!

 

 

 

Genocide

Do you feel like the world has gone crazy—that it’s tilting out of control on its axis? The headlines in the news make me think I’m in the Twilight Zone and we have regressed a century or two. What happened to the progress we had made as civilized people? World War II was brutal, but hadn’t the world learned from this? It could never happen again, right? And what about the gains the Civil Rights Movement made? Were they so negligible? Didn’t we learn over the years that we were part of the same species, more alike than different no matter our race, country, religion or sexual orientation?

In the era when the Berlin Wall went down it seemed like global peace and freedom from tyranny for all were right around the corner. I remember that New Year’s Eve in 1989 when we believed all things possible. We never envisioned that could include the genocides in Bosnia-Herzegovina and Rwanda in the 1990’s.

As I began writing this blog, I wanted to know when the Rwanda Genocide had occurred. I googled it and was led to the page below. I don’t remember the history books of my youth including any of these acts of genocide. Reading about them made me feel sick, but I read each one. I encourage you to do so, as well. It puts perspective on the genocidal acts in the Middle East right now. ISIS is following in the bloody footprints of their predecessors.

Man’s capacity for inhumanity seems to be inexhaustible.

Below, copied from : http://www.historyplace.com/worldhistory/genocide/

The term ‘Genocide’ was coined by Polish writer and attorney, Raphael Lemkin, in 1941 by combining the Greek word ‘genos’ (race) with the Latin word ‘cide’ (killing). Genocide as defined by the United Nations in 1948 means any of the following acts committed with intent to destroy, in whole or in part, a national, ethnic, racial or religious group, including: (a) killing members of the group (b) causing serious bodily or mental harm to members of the group (c) deliberately inflicting on the group conditions of life calculated to bring about its physical destruction in whole or in part (d) imposing measures intended to prevent births within the group (e) forcibly transferring children of the group to another group.

Recent to Past Occurrences

Getting Old is a Lot of Fun

I was in my exercise class this morning when the instructor, a wonderful woman who just turned 56, said, “Yes, we’re doing this shoulder strengthener so we won’t look old!”

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She said it as if being old was a disease we could fight against getting, as if being old was something to be ashamed of.

That stopped me for a moment. I looked around the room. Out of twenty women, I was by far the oldest. (I remember when I used to be the youngest a half a century ago, but it doesn’t seem that long.) Maybe two other women were in their sixties, but most were in their twenties, thirties or forties. Everyone looked young, svelte and strong. (They also had thick, beautiful hair, darn them.) After 3 months of consistently attending the class, I have regained much of the strength I’d lost due to inactivity after surgery and my back injury. I wasn’t having trouble keeping up with the bevy of beauties, but suddenly I felt less than capable. After doing some sit ups, I felt a stabbing pain in my back where my disc bulges between the L4 and L5.

One of my new year resolutions was to be happy with myself at my age. I have been working on that along with the barre class, yoga and Pilates. I think they go hand-in-hand. Being 69 doesn’t mean I can’t stand up straight, which is what I think the instructor actually meant this morning. I take the classes not to look better, which was my motivation when I was younger. Now, I take them so I can feel good. I’ve also been reading John Sarno’s “The Divided Mind” which details how so much of our pain starts in our unconscious emotions and burrows into our muscles. So I don’t think it was a coincidence that my back hurt so much after the “aging is a scourge” reference.

When I went to the surgeon with my knee problem last March, he showed me the results of the MRI. “Torn meniscus,” he said. Then he looked at me. “I mean, what can you expect at your age. That’s what happens when you’re 68. All of you babyboomers just want to keeping going no matter what.”

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At the time, I laughed to myself, thinking of the arrogance of youth. But I realize a year later, that his diagnosis of aging parts has affected me ever since. It’s been in my head whispering that I should be careful, that I am deteriorating, that I’m almost ready for the junk heap. And I started feeling and being weaker. My knee hurt, my back hurt, my neck hurt. “I can’t do this,” became almost a mantra. “I’m old. What do I expect?”

Well, I guess I expect a lot. Because I’m not throwing in the towel. I’m not going to be skate boarding anytime soon, but I’m going to be active. I’m going to do what I want to do—because that’s one of the best benefits of being my age. I don’t have to do anything to prove myself anymore. Getting old is a lot of fun. I know who I am and what I want. Even if my path is blocked by rocks, I’m still going to travel it.

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So there!