I am sick of worrying about health! After living many years in other countries, I'm always struck by how obsessed Americans are about health issues. Often it's foolish and faddish; sometimes dangerous; usually stressful.
Living in a retirement community exacerbates the ever-present specter of health -- mine, yours, the country's. It doesn't matter which tv channel I watch. The commercials are geared for our aging community, so I'm bombarded with ads for caretakers, nursing homes, devices to help you sit down, get up, or an emergency service to call someone to pull you up. There are ads for problems I never knew existed. Drug commercials are sick jokes. People look happy and active, while the voice over explains the possible side effects of dizziness, sleeplessness, numbness, memory loss, and thoughts of suicide. Ask your doctor if it's right for you.
The media coverage of health care reform is definitely scary. The careers of the President, senators, congressmen and women are poised on the brink. This plan won't work; that plan is disastrous.
I had minimal or no medical insurance for most of my life since I never had a job inside the U.S. that provided health insurance. Sometimes it was frightening to know I could be financially wiped out in record time with any illness or accident. However, in retrospect, I owe my general good health to NOT having medical insurance. I didn't run to doctors for most complaints, or annual screenings of this or that body part. From years of traveling in the "less developed" world, I was used to self-diagnosis and treatment, and continued that behavior when back in the U.S.
I've been on Medicare for a couple of years now, but I still don't rush to the doctor. Undoubtedly, I've been lucky, but I've also been careful and have tried to get to know my own body and what it's trying to tell me. Medical care, and the misuse of drugs has always seemed like a dangerous swamp I definitely wanted to avoid getting mired in.
Conflicting advice on how to stay healthy or the options for treating all sorts of medical problems confounds the mind and unbalances the psyche. When I stress out over aches and pains and the "what ifs?" I catch myself and convince myself there's plenty of reason not to panic in advance. Some days that approach works better than other days. But one thing I am sure of is that the stress of worrying over getting sick is most likely the biggest killer of all.
Egyptian rulers spent most of their time, energy, and resources preparing for the afterlife. In our modern world, many people spend more time worrying about their health than enjoying it. My preference is to put my energy into living rather than worrying about dying.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Monday, December 14, 2009
I Should Have Been a Dancer
The very first time I knew I wanted to be a dancer, I was in grade school and had accompanied a friend of mine to her ballet lesson. While I watched, I wished so hard to be in that class. My parents cut short any thought of a dancing career by simply saying that they didn't have the money for lessons. Instead, I faithfully went with my girlfriend and longingly watched from the sidelines.
In my teen years, I did some Israeli folk dancing and enjoyed teenage dances. In my mid-20s, I took belly dancing at our local YWCA. People said I was pretty good at it, and my mother-in-law and I had great fun making a costume for me. I dabbled briefly with classes in African and Caribbean dancing. But I only stayed on the fringes of dancing. Unfortunately, I didn't have any innate talent for it.
In a time of restlessness in the late 1980s when I was getting ready for another change in my life, I listened just about every night to The Four Seasons and invariably saw and felt myself lighter than air dancing to that inspiring music. Occasionally, I actually got up and tried to dance, but the vision in my head of dancing was far different from the reality, and much less satisfying.
Several years passed, along with my youth and agility. I was 56 and living in a retirement community that offered many classes. I signed up for a Joy of Dance class. The teacher was a former professional dancer who could still dazzle at 88. When she danced, the years melted away. I did feel a joy in dance, but much muted not only by a lack of talent, but also a lack of energy and mobility. Unlike my enduring aged teacher who still dances in her 90s, I was, alas, past my prime.
The older I become, the more interested I am in the mind-body connection. How even more wonderful than I imagined when I was young would it be to feel in tune with my body like a dancer does! That's the truest mind-body connection to me. So, I content myself with feeling my mind-body connection best when I'm doing yoga, or swimming rhythmically and even somewhat gracefully up and down the pool. There's the now long-ago, vaguely-remembered elation of that one time in the school playground Dodgeball game when I easily managed to elude all attempts to catch me. And, yes, there was that one successful attempt at camp to get up on water skiis and fly over the water.
Mostly, I can only content myself watching wonderful dancers do what they do best on stage. This afternoon I saw a taped performance of The Hard Nut, a modernized version of the famous Nutcracker ballet. In this version by a baby boomer choreographer, Mark Morris, there were males in drag, a ballerina dancing sometimes in bunny slippers, and sometimes barefoot, along with unusual twists in costumes and plot. These were top notch dancers who looked as though they enjoyed dancing as much as I enjoyed imagining I was leaping and cavorting among them. Since this wasn't a live performance, there were comings and goings of members of the audience, a lady who just had to answer her cell phone, and a tortilla chip cruncher behind me to remind me I must be, alas, an appreciator rather than a participant.
I usually give no thought at all to the subject of reincarnation. But I have decided that I would agree to be reincarnated only if I could return as a dancer.
In my teen years, I did some Israeli folk dancing and enjoyed teenage dances. In my mid-20s, I took belly dancing at our local YWCA. People said I was pretty good at it, and my mother-in-law and I had great fun making a costume for me. I dabbled briefly with classes in African and Caribbean dancing. But I only stayed on the fringes of dancing. Unfortunately, I didn't have any innate talent for it.
In a time of restlessness in the late 1980s when I was getting ready for another change in my life, I listened just about every night to The Four Seasons and invariably saw and felt myself lighter than air dancing to that inspiring music. Occasionally, I actually got up and tried to dance, but the vision in my head of dancing was far different from the reality, and much less satisfying.
Several years passed, along with my youth and agility. I was 56 and living in a retirement community that offered many classes. I signed up for a Joy of Dance class. The teacher was a former professional dancer who could still dazzle at 88. When she danced, the years melted away. I did feel a joy in dance, but much muted not only by a lack of talent, but also a lack of energy and mobility. Unlike my enduring aged teacher who still dances in her 90s, I was, alas, past my prime.
The older I become, the more interested I am in the mind-body connection. How even more wonderful than I imagined when I was young would it be to feel in tune with my body like a dancer does! That's the truest mind-body connection to me. So, I content myself with feeling my mind-body connection best when I'm doing yoga, or swimming rhythmically and even somewhat gracefully up and down the pool. There's the now long-ago, vaguely-remembered elation of that one time in the school playground Dodgeball game when I easily managed to elude all attempts to catch me. And, yes, there was that one successful attempt at camp to get up on water skiis and fly over the water.
Mostly, I can only content myself watching wonderful dancers do what they do best on stage. This afternoon I saw a taped performance of The Hard Nut, a modernized version of the famous Nutcracker ballet. In this version by a baby boomer choreographer, Mark Morris, there were males in drag, a ballerina dancing sometimes in bunny slippers, and sometimes barefoot, along with unusual twists in costumes and plot. These were top notch dancers who looked as though they enjoyed dancing as much as I enjoyed imagining I was leaping and cavorting among them. Since this wasn't a live performance, there were comings and goings of members of the audience, a lady who just had to answer her cell phone, and a tortilla chip cruncher behind me to remind me I must be, alas, an appreciator rather than a participant.
I usually give no thought at all to the subject of reincarnation. But I have decided that I would agree to be reincarnated only if I could return as a dancer.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Howard's End
A memorial service is not an appealing way to spend a sunny afternoon. However, one of my yoga classmates passed away very suddenly last week. He was 73, and was seemingly in enviable good health. I knew him casually only through yoga classes, but I was drawn to pay my respects because he had been a good guy, bringing a welcome and humor to every class.
This was an informal gathering of friends and relatives with no set service. I'd never been to his home before, or met his children or grandchildren. And I'd never seen family photos of him as a young dad. Going to share the afternoon with some other yoga buddies and Howard's family and friends made me aware of Howard in a much broader dimension. In classes, we only get to know a certain side of someone's life. And, if we meet them when they're old, there is so much about their earlier years we never learn.
In all the classes I've taken, and all the classmates I've had since my college years, only a very few of them became long term friends whose lives I entered in more than a one-dimensional way. Most have been friendly faces to say "hi" and possibly a little more to. But not really friends.
As I looked over Howard's home, wife, children, grandchildren, friends, and photos, I thought of what I knew about Howard and pondered how much I didn't know about his life, his thoughts, what had been important to him. I casually wondered what such a gathering would be like for me -- what people would share about their relationships with me, what they would think of my home, and old family photos. They might wonder why I had more friends than relatives, what had been important to me, and who I had been under the wrinkles of the years.
I've had so many deaths to deal with in the last dozen years of my life, I've become more resigned to accepting its inevitability, my own mortality, and am more curious about what I didn't know about the people who have passed through my life.
This was an informal gathering of friends and relatives with no set service. I'd never been to his home before, or met his children or grandchildren. And I'd never seen family photos of him as a young dad. Going to share the afternoon with some other yoga buddies and Howard's family and friends made me aware of Howard in a much broader dimension. In classes, we only get to know a certain side of someone's life. And, if we meet them when they're old, there is so much about their earlier years we never learn.
In all the classes I've taken, and all the classmates I've had since my college years, only a very few of them became long term friends whose lives I entered in more than a one-dimensional way. Most have been friendly faces to say "hi" and possibly a little more to. But not really friends.
As I looked over Howard's home, wife, children, grandchildren, friends, and photos, I thought of what I knew about Howard and pondered how much I didn't know about his life, his thoughts, what had been important to him. I casually wondered what such a gathering would be like for me -- what people would share about their relationships with me, what they would think of my home, and old family photos. They might wonder why I had more friends than relatives, what had been important to me, and who I had been under the wrinkles of the years.
I've had so many deaths to deal with in the last dozen years of my life, I've become more resigned to accepting its inevitability, my own mortality, and am more curious about what I didn't know about the people who have passed through my life.
Friday, December 4, 2009
A Name for Myself
I went to see a movie tonight at our Film Club called "Brideshead Revisited." I went to see it mainly because my son had changed his first name to Sebastian because of the book of the same name by Evelyn Waugh. He said many of his friends had told him that Sebastian in the book reminded them of him. I had read the book years ago because I wanted to understand him better. He hadn't confided much about his adult life to me. He also changed his middle and last names, but he never explained why.
Probably I had been his model for changing names. After I had separated from my husband and expected to divorce, I decided I wanted a new last name. To my surprise, I found out that changing one's name to any name is legal, as long as you don't use it for fraud. I felt giddy with the possibility of taking ANY name I wanted. I decided I wanted a name that sounded good with my first name, was easy to spell, had a meaning (at least to me), and was unusual. After spending my married years with a common last name that ran for pages in any U.S. phone book, I wanted a name that would stand out in any list. But what name out of an infinite number of names that fit those criteria did I want?
The last trip my husband, son, and I took together was to Kenya. I had dabbled with learning some Swahili for that trip, and returned with a Swahili dictionary. Where to start with all those words in the dictionary? I thought it would take me ages to land on a name I wanted from the swarm of black ink on those pages. But no! It was easy - perhaps fate led me to it. When someone asks you in Swahili "How are you?", the reply is usually "mzima." The "m" at the front shows that you are asking about a person. I knew that "mzima" would not work in western society, but I was drawn to the definition of "zima" which meant "whole or well."
Ah! In 1979, I was neither "whole" nor "well" because of my impending divorce. In truth, I felt less than half a person without my husband. And I certainly didn't feel "well" because I knew I was the one responsible for the divorce. I wanted to feel "whole" and "well," but I knew there would always be a "hole" in me without the man who had loved me since I was a teenager. The technical part of changing it wouldn't be difficult, but would I be able to grow into the name I chose for myself?
In most cultures, changing one's last name voluntarily is incomprehensible. It represents one's family roots. However, I felt I had not lost my roots, but rather gained an identity of my own. Zima, a word rather than a name in Swahili, is unusual and doesn't appear in any great number anywhere I've seen. People with a Czech background think I'm Czech because "zima" means winter in their language. There is a Zima Station in Siberia. And, of course, Zima beer (now no longer made)was popular years after I took that name. But Zima beer's popularity allowed me to buy a t-shirt and a cap with ZIMA printed on it.
In 1983, when I was making plans to become an immigrant in Israel, Zima was a name that made the person processing my application blush. Zima, with the pronunciation on the last syllable rather than the first, turned my simple name into such a dirty word that he wouldn't even tell me what it meant. He suggested I use a different spelling in Hebrew from that dirty word and strongly accent the first syllable. Interestingly, my last name never caused me any problem in Israel because my first name, Suellen, caught every Israeli's attention. Just about everyone in Israel was watching re-runs of the tv program, "Dallas." Sharing a name with a main character in "Dallas" was my claim to fame there.
The years, miles, and experiences since 1979 allowed me to grow into the wholeness and wellness of my name, Zima.
Probably I had been his model for changing names. After I had separated from my husband and expected to divorce, I decided I wanted a new last name. To my surprise, I found out that changing one's name to any name is legal, as long as you don't use it for fraud. I felt giddy with the possibility of taking ANY name I wanted. I decided I wanted a name that sounded good with my first name, was easy to spell, had a meaning (at least to me), and was unusual. After spending my married years with a common last name that ran for pages in any U.S. phone book, I wanted a name that would stand out in any list. But what name out of an infinite number of names that fit those criteria did I want?
The last trip my husband, son, and I took together was to Kenya. I had dabbled with learning some Swahili for that trip, and returned with a Swahili dictionary. Where to start with all those words in the dictionary? I thought it would take me ages to land on a name I wanted from the swarm of black ink on those pages. But no! It was easy - perhaps fate led me to it. When someone asks you in Swahili "How are you?", the reply is usually "mzima." The "m" at the front shows that you are asking about a person. I knew that "mzima" would not work in western society, but I was drawn to the definition of "zima" which meant "whole or well."
Ah! In 1979, I was neither "whole" nor "well" because of my impending divorce. In truth, I felt less than half a person without my husband. And I certainly didn't feel "well" because I knew I was the one responsible for the divorce. I wanted to feel "whole" and "well," but I knew there would always be a "hole" in me without the man who had loved me since I was a teenager. The technical part of changing it wouldn't be difficult, but would I be able to grow into the name I chose for myself?
In most cultures, changing one's last name voluntarily is incomprehensible. It represents one's family roots. However, I felt I had not lost my roots, but rather gained an identity of my own. Zima, a word rather than a name in Swahili, is unusual and doesn't appear in any great number anywhere I've seen. People with a Czech background think I'm Czech because "zima" means winter in their language. There is a Zima Station in Siberia. And, of course, Zima beer (now no longer made)was popular years after I took that name. But Zima beer's popularity allowed me to buy a t-shirt and a cap with ZIMA printed on it.
In 1983, when I was making plans to become an immigrant in Israel, Zima was a name that made the person processing my application blush. Zima, with the pronunciation on the last syllable rather than the first, turned my simple name into such a dirty word that he wouldn't even tell me what it meant. He suggested I use a different spelling in Hebrew from that dirty word and strongly accent the first syllable. Interestingly, my last name never caused me any problem in Israel because my first name, Suellen, caught every Israeli's attention. Just about everyone in Israel was watching re-runs of the tv program, "Dallas." Sharing a name with a main character in "Dallas" was my claim to fame there.
The years, miles, and experiences since 1979 allowed me to grow into the wholeness and wellness of my name, Zima.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
The Canine Contribution
In grammar school, I convinced my mom to let me take in a dirty, hungry, very tired stray dog. In 1988, at the age of 45, I was taking care of a neglected stray in an Israeli-Arab village. In between, there had been other canine companions in my life. Although they were quite different in looks, temperament, and personality, they were invaluable life teachers. From them, I learned the true depth of a best friend, loyalty, responsibility, loving and taking care of an "other" in the world. They were my first encounters in life with death and loss and grieving.
In 1999, when my father and I moved together into a retirement community after my mother's death, the first home I instantly loved and wanted was one that had a large patio that I thought would be perfect for a dog. My dad had lived in apartments for many years that didn't allow dogs, and he always missed having one. Finally!
However, my dad died only four months after we moved in. I thought about getting a dog, but several aspects of being a dog owner stopped me. First, it means being more tied down and complicates traveling jaunts. Then, there's the potential danger factor. My dad had suffered a broken pelvis by a too-playful big dog that jumped on him. I saw a lady who was badly bruised because her dog took off after something and dragged her behind on his leash. I've met elderly people who were badly injured by falling over their dogs who were underfoot. Since I've fallen twice in the last two years (not because of dogs) and broke a knee each time, I know falling isn't a simple matter as a senior.
Then, there is the high expense of veterinary care to consider. Keeping myself healthy is challenging enough without having to think of what it takes to keep a dog healthy in terms of proper exercise, diet, and care. There are programs for being a foster caretaker to a dog, which means I wouldn't have to pay vet expenses, but that also means having to say goodbye after a brief acquaintance. Of course, there's the nuisance problem for my neighbors if I end up with a barking dog.
But the biggest problem I can't figure out how to deal with is the coyote factor. I live in an area where coyotes live because development has given them no choice. I live on the ground floor, with a patio that has a wall, but is not enclosed. One of my friends had the terrible experience of coming home one day to find her chewed up dog on the bloody patio. I don't have the money or the interest in enclosing my favorite indoor-outdoor patio with an overhang and just enough wall for privacy, but not protection from hungry coyotes smelling dinner.
Still, I think of my adventures with Whitey, Ski, Taffy, Woosha, and Pancho at different stages of my life. Whitey was the beautiful dog I saved. Ski was the golden dog who loved to run free. Taffy was very neurotic and very lovable. Woosha gave me warmth and comfort in a cold trailer on the grounds of an Israeli boarding school. Pancho wanted to be by my side at all times even though such a friendship was not acceptable in the Israeli-Arab village where we lived. They were all strays. They were all mutts. Somehow we found each other. And connected.
Maybe, some day ......
In 1999, when my father and I moved together into a retirement community after my mother's death, the first home I instantly loved and wanted was one that had a large patio that I thought would be perfect for a dog. My dad had lived in apartments for many years that didn't allow dogs, and he always missed having one. Finally!
However, my dad died only four months after we moved in. I thought about getting a dog, but several aspects of being a dog owner stopped me. First, it means being more tied down and complicates traveling jaunts. Then, there's the potential danger factor. My dad had suffered a broken pelvis by a too-playful big dog that jumped on him. I saw a lady who was badly bruised because her dog took off after something and dragged her behind on his leash. I've met elderly people who were badly injured by falling over their dogs who were underfoot. Since I've fallen twice in the last two years (not because of dogs) and broke a knee each time, I know falling isn't a simple matter as a senior.
Then, there is the high expense of veterinary care to consider. Keeping myself healthy is challenging enough without having to think of what it takes to keep a dog healthy in terms of proper exercise, diet, and care. There are programs for being a foster caretaker to a dog, which means I wouldn't have to pay vet expenses, but that also means having to say goodbye after a brief acquaintance. Of course, there's the nuisance problem for my neighbors if I end up with a barking dog.
But the biggest problem I can't figure out how to deal with is the coyote factor. I live in an area where coyotes live because development has given them no choice. I live on the ground floor, with a patio that has a wall, but is not enclosed. One of my friends had the terrible experience of coming home one day to find her chewed up dog on the bloody patio. I don't have the money or the interest in enclosing my favorite indoor-outdoor patio with an overhang and just enough wall for privacy, but not protection from hungry coyotes smelling dinner.
Still, I think of my adventures with Whitey, Ski, Taffy, Woosha, and Pancho at different stages of my life. Whitey was the beautiful dog I saved. Ski was the golden dog who loved to run free. Taffy was very neurotic and very lovable. Woosha gave me warmth and comfort in a cold trailer on the grounds of an Israeli boarding school. Pancho wanted to be by my side at all times even though such a friendship was not acceptable in the Israeli-Arab village where we lived. They were all strays. They were all mutts. Somehow we found each other. And connected.
Maybe, some day ......
Friday, November 20, 2009
Then and Now
Admittedly, the "good old days" had their problems, but, when I compare my childhood to my young grandchildren's lives, I feel I got the better deal. My average day in grade school was to walk to school and back, change clothes, have a snack, and go out and play until dark. There were either lots of kids to play with who were also outdoors, or wiggling under a fence to the wilderness beyond, often alone. The wilderness I explored was a buffer zone between our housing development and an airforce base. We never got close to where the army housing or planes were. There was just swamp and flowers and small wildlife, and what then seemed like a huge hill to run up and roll down. I'm sure that was where I began to develop my lifelong love of nature.
My grandchildren are driven to school and back. Playmates come over by pre-arrangement with parental supervision. Their homes and backyards are their playgrounds, unless mom drives them somewhere else for an activity. There is little, if any, exploration on their own in untamed nature.
My generation was lucky in another way. I've always loved the sea. In my lifetime, I've swum in oceans and lakes all over the world. But today I only go to the ocean to admire its beauty and vastness from the shore. Even if the water looks okay, I know that human pollution has now made it uninhabitable even for fish. I volunteer in a hospital for wild seals and sea lions and have no illusions about what humans have done to their home -- the ocean. Tonight we docents at the marine mammal center attended a continuing education training. The word of the evening was ACIDIFICATION -- how the carbon dioxide of the world's emissions is ending up in the oceans. And the results are being recognized in the scientific world as disastrous.
So, perhaps my grandchildren and their children will never be able to see salmon coming back to spawn, miraculously-colored corals in the seas, find truly amazing living worlds within a small tidepool, or be able to experience one of my most memorable experiences ever -- spending the afternoon in a lagoon in Baja California surrounded by mammoth gray whales who actually wanted to interact with us. They may never be able to see the majesty of blue, blue glaciers as I've been able to get close to.
I was an environmentalist before I even knew there was a word for it. I spent endless hours worrying over the environment, until one day intuition told me that it was humans who would eventually disappear because of their own ineptitude and/or unwillingness to coexist with nature, but nature would regenerate and survive.
And so I have calmed down about the human destruction of nature, but have become more concerned about all that my grandchildren, and their children will miss.
My grandchildren are driven to school and back. Playmates come over by pre-arrangement with parental supervision. Their homes and backyards are their playgrounds, unless mom drives them somewhere else for an activity. There is little, if any, exploration on their own in untamed nature.
My generation was lucky in another way. I've always loved the sea. In my lifetime, I've swum in oceans and lakes all over the world. But today I only go to the ocean to admire its beauty and vastness from the shore. Even if the water looks okay, I know that human pollution has now made it uninhabitable even for fish. I volunteer in a hospital for wild seals and sea lions and have no illusions about what humans have done to their home -- the ocean. Tonight we docents at the marine mammal center attended a continuing education training. The word of the evening was ACIDIFICATION -- how the carbon dioxide of the world's emissions is ending up in the oceans. And the results are being recognized in the scientific world as disastrous.
So, perhaps my grandchildren and their children will never be able to see salmon coming back to spawn, miraculously-colored corals in the seas, find truly amazing living worlds within a small tidepool, or be able to experience one of my most memorable experiences ever -- spending the afternoon in a lagoon in Baja California surrounded by mammoth gray whales who actually wanted to interact with us. They may never be able to see the majesty of blue, blue glaciers as I've been able to get close to.
I was an environmentalist before I even knew there was a word for it. I spent endless hours worrying over the environment, until one day intuition told me that it was humans who would eventually disappear because of their own ineptitude and/or unwillingness to coexist with nature, but nature would regenerate and survive.
And so I have calmed down about the human destruction of nature, but have become more concerned about all that my grandchildren, and their children will miss.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Out of Step with My Lost Son
There was no birthday party for my son today. He died two weeks before his 35th birthday in 2003. It is not natural for a child to die before the parents, and so mourning for a child has a particular pain to it that other deaths in the family do not have.
I once thought of writing something about my son and me. Although I didn't get very far with the writing, the title came to me quickly -- Out of Step -- because that best described us and our relationship. Each one of us was out of step with society's norms and expectations, and with each other.
In the 1970s, there were heated debates in multicultural circles about whether it was better for all cultures in America to merge into a tasty soup, or maintain certain characteristics as in a stew where a carrot remains identifiably a carrot, a potato stays a potato, etc. Which was better for America? For the individual? For the ethnic group?
At the time my husband said he was ready for a child, I was 25. Influenced by the plight of foster children because I had been a foster care social worker, and touched by the dire predictions of Zero Population Growth, I said I wanted to adopt a child that needed a home rather than create a biological child. He agreed, and within three months or our application, we had our beautiful honey-colored toddler. We had asked for a "hard to place" child, and mixed black/white children past infancy was the largest group needing families at that time.
Soon after, black social workers in California felt that transracial adoptions were bad. Even no permanent home was a better fate to them than white parents who, by virtue of being white, wouldn't be able to adequately prepare their black children for being black in America. While not taking back black children that were already adopted, they stopped white adoption of black children dead in its tracks. And there it lay for years during the intense era of black power and fighting for Civil Rights. All of this seems so odd now given the many changes in adoption, transracial adoption, intermarriage, and the significant number of mixed black/white children in the U.S. today.
Time passed, our son grew handsome and tall. None of us was prepared for the divorce. At that time, I did not understand why it was happening, but I knew I was responsible for it. I almost drowned in the guilt of destroying what I had worked so hard to build. And my son never really forgave me. Weakened by the strength it took for me to leave, I accepted my 13-year-old son's decision to remain with his father. It is more common now for fathers to take care of their children after divorce, but it was quite unusual in the late 1970s.
Over the next several years, from Israel, China, and all the other countries I lived in or visited, I kept writing even after he said he wanted no more contact with me. There were occasional uncomfortable visits when I returned to the U.S. or he traveled to where I was. He grew even taller, more handsome, and strong. When I no longer knew where he lived, his dad sent my letters on to him. I was often exuberantly happy in my now worldwide life of challenge, travel, and adventure. But guilt was always my tucked-away traveling companion.
Out of the blue, five years after he had shunned all contact with me, and 14 years after he was found to be HIV positive, he called me. He was cool and detached, and I wasn't really sure why he had called. He said he may or may not call again. A few weeks later, his dad called to say that he was in the hospital diagnosed with the progression of HIV into AIDS. He quit work and became housebound. When my phone sometimes rang at 1:30 a.m., I had mixed feelings. I knew who it would be, but also knew that he would speak to me like a petulant teenager, taking up the relationship from the age I had left him.
He made a last trip to see me. He was still tall and handsome, but far from strong. He was as breathless as an old, old man. Instead of trying to talk, he gave me a page from his diary written three years earlier. It said, "So, now I'm wondering why I've been thinking about mom so much the last ten to eleven months or so. There's no anger there. Actually, I've thought how fortunate I've been. She really was a terrific mother! She taught me to 'see' more and how to be open to the unknown. I have mostly very good memories of childhood (mostly = 85%), so many opportunities sent/brought to me. A multitude of seemingly unimaginable, once-in-a-lifetime experiences. Is it possible there were too many? Find myself acutely aware of constant introspection: Why so much? (So much more?)"
The closest moment on that visit was when I read to him while he was in the emergency room awaiting transport to a hospital better able to deal with his rapidly deteriorating condition. Still, he lived another year and continued to call occasionally. He never gave me his phone number or invited me to his apartment. But, after he died, I went with his dad to take care of his belongings. There, in his apartment, I got a glimpse of the man he had grown into that he had not allowed me to know. Each section of each room was artistically arranged like a series of vignettes of what had been important in his life. I read letters from his friends which allowed me to know how others had perceived him. And, carefully placed on his desk, tied with a decorative string, was a package of all the opened letters I had sent him.
Since then, I have felt closer to him in death than I did for the majority of his almost 35 years. In an old film canister, his ashes travel with me so I can spread them in beautiful places I visit. The little mementos I took from his apartment now bring him permanently into my home. Guilt still mingles with tears for my son as my life winds down.
I once thought of writing something about my son and me. Although I didn't get very far with the writing, the title came to me quickly -- Out of Step -- because that best described us and our relationship. Each one of us was out of step with society's norms and expectations, and with each other.
In the 1970s, there were heated debates in multicultural circles about whether it was better for all cultures in America to merge into a tasty soup, or maintain certain characteristics as in a stew where a carrot remains identifiably a carrot, a potato stays a potato, etc. Which was better for America? For the individual? For the ethnic group?
At the time my husband said he was ready for a child, I was 25. Influenced by the plight of foster children because I had been a foster care social worker, and touched by the dire predictions of Zero Population Growth, I said I wanted to adopt a child that needed a home rather than create a biological child. He agreed, and within three months or our application, we had our beautiful honey-colored toddler. We had asked for a "hard to place" child, and mixed black/white children past infancy was the largest group needing families at that time.
Soon after, black social workers in California felt that transracial adoptions were bad. Even no permanent home was a better fate to them than white parents who, by virtue of being white, wouldn't be able to adequately prepare their black children for being black in America. While not taking back black children that were already adopted, they stopped white adoption of black children dead in its tracks. And there it lay for years during the intense era of black power and fighting for Civil Rights. All of this seems so odd now given the many changes in adoption, transracial adoption, intermarriage, and the significant number of mixed black/white children in the U.S. today.
Time passed, our son grew handsome and tall. None of us was prepared for the divorce. At that time, I did not understand why it was happening, but I knew I was responsible for it. I almost drowned in the guilt of destroying what I had worked so hard to build. And my son never really forgave me. Weakened by the strength it took for me to leave, I accepted my 13-year-old son's decision to remain with his father. It is more common now for fathers to take care of their children after divorce, but it was quite unusual in the late 1970s.
Over the next several years, from Israel, China, and all the other countries I lived in or visited, I kept writing even after he said he wanted no more contact with me. There were occasional uncomfortable visits when I returned to the U.S. or he traveled to where I was. He grew even taller, more handsome, and strong. When I no longer knew where he lived, his dad sent my letters on to him. I was often exuberantly happy in my now worldwide life of challenge, travel, and adventure. But guilt was always my tucked-away traveling companion.
Out of the blue, five years after he had shunned all contact with me, and 14 years after he was found to be HIV positive, he called me. He was cool and detached, and I wasn't really sure why he had called. He said he may or may not call again. A few weeks later, his dad called to say that he was in the hospital diagnosed with the progression of HIV into AIDS. He quit work and became housebound. When my phone sometimes rang at 1:30 a.m., I had mixed feelings. I knew who it would be, but also knew that he would speak to me like a petulant teenager, taking up the relationship from the age I had left him.
He made a last trip to see me. He was still tall and handsome, but far from strong. He was as breathless as an old, old man. Instead of trying to talk, he gave me a page from his diary written three years earlier. It said, "So, now I'm wondering why I've been thinking about mom so much the last ten to eleven months or so. There's no anger there. Actually, I've thought how fortunate I've been. She really was a terrific mother! She taught me to 'see' more and how to be open to the unknown. I have mostly very good memories of childhood (mostly = 85%), so many opportunities sent/brought to me. A multitude of seemingly unimaginable, once-in-a-lifetime experiences. Is it possible there were too many? Find myself acutely aware of constant introspection: Why so much? (So much more?)"
The closest moment on that visit was when I read to him while he was in the emergency room awaiting transport to a hospital better able to deal with his rapidly deteriorating condition. Still, he lived another year and continued to call occasionally. He never gave me his phone number or invited me to his apartment. But, after he died, I went with his dad to take care of his belongings. There, in his apartment, I got a glimpse of the man he had grown into that he had not allowed me to know. Each section of each room was artistically arranged like a series of vignettes of what had been important in his life. I read letters from his friends which allowed me to know how others had perceived him. And, carefully placed on his desk, tied with a decorative string, was a package of all the opened letters I had sent him.
Since then, I have felt closer to him in death than I did for the majority of his almost 35 years. In an old film canister, his ashes travel with me so I can spread them in beautiful places I visit. The little mementos I took from his apartment now bring him permanently into my home. Guilt still mingles with tears for my son as my life winds down.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Friday the 13th
It is that day in American culture that feels rather creepy to many people. Gory horror stories connected to Friday the 13th are plentiful. Numbers are meaningful in other cultures - good luck numbers and bad luck numbers - but Americans generally shun 13. You can't find a 13th floor in some buildings, or even an apartment 13.
I, on the other hand, feel a certain connection to Friday the 13th since I was born on one. It has always felt like a happy day to me even though I must admit I can't remember anything particularly lucky or unlucky happening to me on a Friday the 13th.
But I do remember a very unusual Friday the 13th. I was flying back from Asia. I left on Friday the 13th, and since we gain a day flying from Asia to the U.S., I arrived early on Friday the 13th. I wonder when I'll ever have two Friday the 13ths coming together again.
So, Happy Friday the 13th!
I, on the other hand, feel a certain connection to Friday the 13th since I was born on one. It has always felt like a happy day to me even though I must admit I can't remember anything particularly lucky or unlucky happening to me on a Friday the 13th.
But I do remember a very unusual Friday the 13th. I was flying back from Asia. I left on Friday the 13th, and since we gain a day flying from Asia to the U.S., I arrived early on Friday the 13th. I wonder when I'll ever have two Friday the 13ths coming together again.
So, Happy Friday the 13th!
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
To Drive or Not to Drive
I am reluctantly forced to face this question now. My 1993 car needs some expensive repairs. I ask myself, "Do I need to drive?" It is just about a given in California that everyone needs a car. Unreliable and inconvenient bus schedules back this up. I have elderly neighbors who can't see well, hear well, or turn their heads easily who still drive. In their 80s, 90s, and even 100s (yes, it's true), they can't understand why a reasonably fit 66 year old would voluntarily give up driving without a fight. The most told jokes in my retirement community have to do with seniors driving.
I survived very well without driving for many of my nomadic years in China, Taiwan, Macau, and Korea. But, of course, they had significant alternative forms of transportation. My local transportation options around where I live are hourly buses around the community and surrounding stores where I live, and a subsidized taxi voucher service where $40 buys me $100 worth of rides within my county. Then, there is the well-known Bus 11 (as it was called in Israel) which meant walking where one needed to go. I did do a lot more walking when I didn't have a car. And I like walking. Hmm! At this age of my life, would walking as transportation help or hurt my arthritic knees?
I'm not foolish or brave enough to ride a bike sharing the same roads as cars. But what about an environmentally-friendly motorized tricycle that would allow me to carry home groceries? Weather isn't particularly a problem where I live. I could cross the busiest streets and get to most of the places I go rather than riding along them. Or, a popular option where I live would be a golf cart. We have special paths just for golf carts, and our city is planning more. But it wouldn't get me everywhere I regularly go.
Although I got my license at the age of 16, I've never enjoyed driving. My father's words to his newly-licensed daughter -- "Remember, you have a murder weapon in your hands" -- have had a chilling effect upon me to this day. And, although I hear well and can easily turn my head to look behind me, I know my vision and my reaction time are not what they were. Until recently, I was aghast to see night lights radiating like colorful sparkling diamonds. But then, I found out it was a coating on my glasses that had become scratched and was distorting everything. Better now, but still not the sharp night vision of yesteryear. Talking to a friend today about an elderly driver knocking her mother's walker right from under her in a parking lot reminded me once again that I live in the most dangerous driving (and walking) radius possible because of all the elderly drivers who won't give up their keys. I definitely don't wish to be one of the ones who lives to regret not giving up driving earlier.
What to do?
I survived very well without driving for many of my nomadic years in China, Taiwan, Macau, and Korea. But, of course, they had significant alternative forms of transportation. My local transportation options around where I live are hourly buses around the community and surrounding stores where I live, and a subsidized taxi voucher service where $40 buys me $100 worth of rides within my county. Then, there is the well-known Bus 11 (as it was called in Israel) which meant walking where one needed to go. I did do a lot more walking when I didn't have a car. And I like walking. Hmm! At this age of my life, would walking as transportation help or hurt my arthritic knees?
I'm not foolish or brave enough to ride a bike sharing the same roads as cars. But what about an environmentally-friendly motorized tricycle that would allow me to carry home groceries? Weather isn't particularly a problem where I live. I could cross the busiest streets and get to most of the places I go rather than riding along them. Or, a popular option where I live would be a golf cart. We have special paths just for golf carts, and our city is planning more. But it wouldn't get me everywhere I regularly go.
Although I got my license at the age of 16, I've never enjoyed driving. My father's words to his newly-licensed daughter -- "Remember, you have a murder weapon in your hands" -- have had a chilling effect upon me to this day. And, although I hear well and can easily turn my head to look behind me, I know my vision and my reaction time are not what they were. Until recently, I was aghast to see night lights radiating like colorful sparkling diamonds. But then, I found out it was a coating on my glasses that had become scratched and was distorting everything. Better now, but still not the sharp night vision of yesteryear. Talking to a friend today about an elderly driver knocking her mother's walker right from under her in a parking lot reminded me once again that I live in the most dangerous driving (and walking) radius possible because of all the elderly drivers who won't give up their keys. I definitely don't wish to be one of the ones who lives to regret not giving up driving earlier.
What to do?
Thursday, November 5, 2009
CURLING UP WITH A GOOD BOOK
Although I made sure the book I wrote (Memoirs of a Middle-aged Hummingbird) is available on devices like Kindle and Sony Reader, I still like to curl up on a couch or bed, or best of all on the chaise lounge on my plant-filled patio, with a good book. Entering the world the book presents to me, I travel vicariously, happily, and inexpensively to the realms of fiction and non-fiction. Sometimes the book presents totally new worlds to me, and sometimes it reminds me of people and places I have personally known.
"Shanghai Girls," the newest book by Lisa See, recently transported me back to China. Having spent so much time in China since 1988, I knowingly nodded my head yes when it described aspects of Chinese culture I have become accustomed to, and it added details of history I had heard of before, but didn't know well. Personally struggling to try my hand at writing fiction now, I was intrigued by the characters she developed to tell her story. Since I had only one brother and no sisters, I could only imagine the strength of the relationship of the two sisters in the book (the translation of the book in Chinese is actually called "Shanghai Sisters") who shared so much love and pain spanning their childhoods and adult years.
But that's what good books do -- they engage us totally for the hours we sit with them. They allow us to enter worlds we can never participate in. They give us ideas we may never have thought of. They broaden our perspective as well as our knowledge, make us laugh, cry, wonder. In contrast to movies, books give our imaginations the opportunity to visualize the people and places in them.
Public libraries are indeed the best buy in town.
"Shanghai Girls," the newest book by Lisa See, recently transported me back to China. Having spent so much time in China since 1988, I knowingly nodded my head yes when it described aspects of Chinese culture I have become accustomed to, and it added details of history I had heard of before, but didn't know well. Personally struggling to try my hand at writing fiction now, I was intrigued by the characters she developed to tell her story. Since I had only one brother and no sisters, I could only imagine the strength of the relationship of the two sisters in the book (the translation of the book in Chinese is actually called "Shanghai Sisters") who shared so much love and pain spanning their childhoods and adult years.
But that's what good books do -- they engage us totally for the hours we sit with them. They allow us to enter worlds we can never participate in. They give us ideas we may never have thought of. They broaden our perspective as well as our knowledge, make us laugh, cry, wonder. In contrast to movies, books give our imaginations the opportunity to visualize the people and places in them.
Public libraries are indeed the best buy in town.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Ridges, Splotches, and Eruptions
It took me a long time to notice that ridges had appeared down my once-smooth shins. Eventually, I noticed that I had ridges on two of my fingernails. Why on those two and not the others? Even worse, one of them has a black line that can't be rubbed off.
Recently, there have been annoying, itchy red splotches on either side of my chin. I have found a cream that makes them disappear -- but only temporarily. Other marks come and go. Some come and stay. Pimples and blackheads no longer come, but at least they could be counted on to dry up and drop off. My new "add-ons" in my senior years don't necessarily ever drop off or disappear.
My mother and her side of the family were petite and didn't struggle with weight. I favor my father's side of the family where the women tend to the Russian peasant shape. I always thought of myself as fat because, to my mother, I always was. In fact, old photos show me as an okay weight for much of my teen and adult life -- until menopause, that is. Since I lived in Asia most of the time between 1988 and 1997, I was used to thinking of myself as fat because Asians aren't. However, when I'd come back to the U.S. to visit my parents, I noticed how fat Americans were becoming. When I eventually returned to live in the U.S., I saw myself as overweight. However, the Body Mass Index gave me a classification of obese. That horrified me.
Now, about 16 years after menopause, in spite of Weight Watchers, in spite of eliminating "bad" foods, being careful about portion control, eating less than I want and exercising far more than I want, I have remained just about the same BMI obese weight. It's been easy on the clothes budget, albeit boring.
However, there is one special time when I come in contact with the thin person I am sure is inside me. I take yoga twice a week. One class is an energetic pretzel-type yoga. The other, a relaxing yoga, allows me an enchanting 90 minutes to connect to the thin me inside.
A friend recently sent me an e-mail with a photo of a nude "child of the 60s" now in her 60s. I guessed she was about my age and weight. Although the effects of gravity have long been proven, they were glaringly obvious in this photo. Her stomach particularly drew my attention. It looked so much like an erupting volcano with lava dripping down the sides. Except for her gray hair and the tattoos still clinging to just about all her body parts, I saw we looked uncomfortably similar.
Recently, there have been annoying, itchy red splotches on either side of my chin. I have found a cream that makes them disappear -- but only temporarily. Other marks come and go. Some come and stay. Pimples and blackheads no longer come, but at least they could be counted on to dry up and drop off. My new "add-ons" in my senior years don't necessarily ever drop off or disappear.
My mother and her side of the family were petite and didn't struggle with weight. I favor my father's side of the family where the women tend to the Russian peasant shape. I always thought of myself as fat because, to my mother, I always was. In fact, old photos show me as an okay weight for much of my teen and adult life -- until menopause, that is. Since I lived in Asia most of the time between 1988 and 1997, I was used to thinking of myself as fat because Asians aren't. However, when I'd come back to the U.S. to visit my parents, I noticed how fat Americans were becoming. When I eventually returned to live in the U.S., I saw myself as overweight. However, the Body Mass Index gave me a classification of obese. That horrified me.
Now, about 16 years after menopause, in spite of Weight Watchers, in spite of eliminating "bad" foods, being careful about portion control, eating less than I want and exercising far more than I want, I have remained just about the same BMI obese weight. It's been easy on the clothes budget, albeit boring.
However, there is one special time when I come in contact with the thin person I am sure is inside me. I take yoga twice a week. One class is an energetic pretzel-type yoga. The other, a relaxing yoga, allows me an enchanting 90 minutes to connect to the thin me inside.
A friend recently sent me an e-mail with a photo of a nude "child of the 60s" now in her 60s. I guessed she was about my age and weight. Although the effects of gravity have long been proven, they were glaringly obvious in this photo. Her stomach particularly drew my attention. It looked so much like an erupting volcano with lava dripping down the sides. Except for her gray hair and the tattoos still clinging to just about all her body parts, I saw we looked uncomfortably similar.
Monday, October 19, 2009
The Computer and the Filing Cabinet
My computer managed to do much more efficiently and quickly what I have been thinking about for a few years, but never managed to do. It destroyed all my files -- without emotion, without wanting to designate which files should be saved because they might be used in the future, were interesting, or had nostalgia attached to them.
So, my old-fashioned filing cabinets remain filled with nicely labeled manila folders and a variety of facts and "stuff," some quite old and outdated, that I may or may not ever want or need again. And, I am faced with a decision I wasn't ready to make about "confronting technology" once again. Seven hours of talking to tech support in India left me very tired and frustrated. The last tech support person recommended trying to save my computer files if possible, and then buying a remote control "recovery" program and then re-installing programs. When I said I needed time to think about it, he said he'd call me the following day. He did -- at 5:30 a.m.! Apparently computer sense doesn't give one common sense. Since the computer is just about an extension of his fingers, how hard would it have been for him to find out what the time was in California?
In most ways, I'm a straightforward person. But computers have taught me to duck, weave, and find a way around the straight on approach when I can't determine what "the right way" is. Some things seem not to matter. For example, my computer says "going to sleep" just before it turns on, but it turns on anyway. Other things it says, it means.
Although I have seen old people in my retirement community hum ahead with computer technology in amazing ways, the combination of more and higher technology presents an on-going challenge in my life. I am happy driving a 1993 car that doesn't give me too many surprises. I have a Jitterbug phone for people who don't know what to do with those many special features. And I never have to worry about it ringing in places it shouldn't because I only turn it on when I need to use it. For no reason any Jitterbug personnel can understand, it always takes dialing twice, rather than once, to make a call.
So, I cope with technology by forgiving it when it doesn't work as it is supposed to, finding an alternate way to do what the straightforward way doesn't accomplish, paying for someone else to make it work, or just deciding it's too much trouble.
Hmm! Old computer recovered? New computer? Desktop? Laptop? Well, I never really thought I could publish a book with iUniverse by doing everything on-line. But I did. I never really thought I'd be able to have a blog. But I did (http://blogs.bootsnall.com/zima) and now I'm stretching out into new territory with this blog. And yet, an electric typewriter, an electronic typewriter (anyone remember those?), a word processor, and two Web TV receivers still clutter my storage. Perhaps it's time to move on.
So, my old-fashioned filing cabinets remain filled with nicely labeled manila folders and a variety of facts and "stuff," some quite old and outdated, that I may or may not ever want or need again. And, I am faced with a decision I wasn't ready to make about "confronting technology" once again. Seven hours of talking to tech support in India left me very tired and frustrated. The last tech support person recommended trying to save my computer files if possible, and then buying a remote control "recovery" program and then re-installing programs. When I said I needed time to think about it, he said he'd call me the following day. He did -- at 5:30 a.m.! Apparently computer sense doesn't give one common sense. Since the computer is just about an extension of his fingers, how hard would it have been for him to find out what the time was in California?
In most ways, I'm a straightforward person. But computers have taught me to duck, weave, and find a way around the straight on approach when I can't determine what "the right way" is. Some things seem not to matter. For example, my computer says "going to sleep" just before it turns on, but it turns on anyway. Other things it says, it means.
Although I have seen old people in my retirement community hum ahead with computer technology in amazing ways, the combination of more and higher technology presents an on-going challenge in my life. I am happy driving a 1993 car that doesn't give me too many surprises. I have a Jitterbug phone for people who don't know what to do with those many special features. And I never have to worry about it ringing in places it shouldn't because I only turn it on when I need to use it. For no reason any Jitterbug personnel can understand, it always takes dialing twice, rather than once, to make a call.
So, I cope with technology by forgiving it when it doesn't work as it is supposed to, finding an alternate way to do what the straightforward way doesn't accomplish, paying for someone else to make it work, or just deciding it's too much trouble.
Hmm! Old computer recovered? New computer? Desktop? Laptop? Well, I never really thought I could publish a book with iUniverse by doing everything on-line. But I did. I never really thought I'd be able to have a blog. But I did (http://blogs.bootsnall.com/zima) and now I'm stretching out into new territory with this blog. And yet, an electric typewriter, an electronic typewriter (anyone remember those?), a word processor, and two Web TV receivers still clutter my storage. Perhaps it's time to move on.
Monday, October 12, 2009
MEET THE SENIOR HUMMINGBIRD
Ever wonder what happens to a middle-aged hummingbird when it gets old? I spent the best years of my life as a middle-aged hummingbird traveling the world -- Israel, China, Taiwan, Macau, Bali, Korea -- and those were only the places that I stayed long enough to live and teach. In 2006, I published a book, Memoirs of a Middle-aged Hummingbird.
During 2005, when I was writing the book, I relived those years through the details of the journals and letters. Sights, faces, smells, tastes, and experiences returned to me in vibrant, overwhelming profusion. My past and present blurred until daily chores and activities became burdensome, annoying distractions from writing. The present dimmed, my past took over, and the future went blank.
Wanting to write the book was my motivation for getting a computer and hiring someone to teach me Microsoft Word. Learning the computer skills of writing and then publishing the book through iUniverse, setting up a website for the book at www.zimatravels.com and local speaking engagements kept me busy after the book was published.
Eventually, although engaged in a variety of regular activities and daily exercise, I began to feel stuck. I had paid homage to my unusual and interesting past with the book, spent over a year doing a blog with mostly excerpts from my book on a travel website (can be accessed from www.zimatravels.com) , and did some domestic travel, but my sense of a future remained mired in the unknown. What would come next?
I spent too much time worrying about my health and money, my money and my health. Although I have no major medical problems, I fell twice in two years, breaking the left kneecap the first time and the right kneecap this past summer. I see daily exercising as damage control for aging rather than actually physically progressing in anything. I failed Weight Watchers. I lost 10 lbs. in the first four months, and then spent 3 years going up and down a few lbs. I have become discouraged fighting food every day.
At last, I'm beginning to sense a shift in my state of inertia. It's not really a long term plan, but it feels like some forward momentum is starting. I contacted a family that had shown interest in renting out my home for 6 weeks in the spring. If that plan succeeds, I'll have enough money for airfare back to Asia where I want to see several friends in China, Taiwan, and Singapore. I also plan to go to Bali -- perhaps my favorite place in the world. But more about that later when going is assured.
And I've decided to begin this blog, trying to make sense of these so-called "golden years," which seem rather tarnished to me. What to do with the time I have left? How to make them, if not as exciting and fascinating as my middle-aged years, at least meaningful and interesting? It's a question I believe many seniors face when mortality is creeping up and our lives are winding down.
My death has already been arranged -- cremation, ashes to the sea to keep traveling the world as I loved to do. But it's the in between time, between now and then, that I'm curious about. I am an older version of that middle-aged hummingbird with feet planted firmly in mid-air who hovers, drinks deeply, and then flits away, perhaps to return. I'm still an independent creature who likes to live life intensely. And, I still like to wander, wonder, and write.
I invite you to follow me on my senior hummingbird geographical, physical, emotional, and spiritual journeys to come.
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