Ah! My Cherie. There you are. I've been waiting for you. I love the way you turn me on. You have the cutest smile of anticipation that roams across your face when you tickle me with your fingertips.
Forgive me. I feel playful tonight. Oh, there's that questioning look that makes your forehead wrinkle and your eyes squint when you're trying to think something out. And - there it comes, your tongue touches your lips in concentration. But, now I can sense the tingle of your growing anxiety.
Oh, your rough tone of voice tells me you're getting angry. But then your eyes look down and I can feel a wave of sadness and even dismay come over you. Oh dear! I think I've gone too far. I can see tears welling in your usually bright brown eyes.
I'm sorry. I was just joking. I didn't really mean to upset you. Really I didn't. Can you forgive me? No, don't go! Please!
Okay, okay. I'll be waiting for you tomorrow -- same time, same place. I know you'll come back again -- just like you do every night.
It isn't my fault you don't understand me and why I do what I do. You humans invented us, but we have become so much smarter than you!
Adieu -- 'til tomorrow night.
**This was written by my computer to me after a particularly trying night when the computer wouldn't do anything I wanted it to. Ever have such a night with your computer?
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Friday, January 22, 2010
The Positive Side of Pessimism
I was raised by a very pessimistic mother. She passed it on to me. As I grew, I realized that being pessimistic made her very unhappy. So, I lived for a good deal of my life as a pessimist in hiding. Most people saw me as very optimistic. I was pretending, but it worked fairly well for years. Then, I kept hearing how important optimism was to one's mental health. Being healthy emotionally and physically is my prime goal in life, even moreso now that I'm a senior. So, for the past several years, I have been making a sincere attempt to be a true optimist.
Today, however, I felt happy that I remain still a pessimist at heart. It's less stressful. While being overwhelmed by the tv reports of the incomprehensible sorrow of Haiti, and the scenes of masses of mud and water gushing everywhere in southern California, I also got a letter informing me I have basically lost a large sum of money in a limited partnership gone sour. This was a much-needed chunk of money for retirement, but unlike an IRA, was all after tax money. My immediate response was not surprise, sadness, anger at my financial adviser, ranting and raving against the rich bankers and the poor economy, or fear for my financial future. It was simply, “I expected it.”
Whatever the problem, I have noticed my distinct tendency, in spite of my optimistic intentions, to think ahead quickly to the worst case scenario. So, when my dividends from this “investment” dropped precipitously in 2009, I told myself that any money I'd ever see from that investment would be lagniappe – a wonderful word I learned when I lived in New Orleans. It means basically “something extra and unexpected.” Instead of taking comfort in the soothing words of my forever optimistic financial adviser, somehow jumping ahead quickly to expecting the worst actually helps to soften the blow.
I have no doubt I will continue to work on becoming truly optimistic, but I'm pessimistic about my chances.
Today, however, I felt happy that I remain still a pessimist at heart. It's less stressful. While being overwhelmed by the tv reports of the incomprehensible sorrow of Haiti, and the scenes of masses of mud and water gushing everywhere in southern California, I also got a letter informing me I have basically lost a large sum of money in a limited partnership gone sour. This was a much-needed chunk of money for retirement, but unlike an IRA, was all after tax money. My immediate response was not surprise, sadness, anger at my financial adviser, ranting and raving against the rich bankers and the poor economy, or fear for my financial future. It was simply, “I expected it.”
Whatever the problem, I have noticed my distinct tendency, in spite of my optimistic intentions, to think ahead quickly to the worst case scenario. So, when my dividends from this “investment” dropped precipitously in 2009, I told myself that any money I'd ever see from that investment would be lagniappe – a wonderful word I learned when I lived in New Orleans. It means basically “something extra and unexpected.” Instead of taking comfort in the soothing words of my forever optimistic financial adviser, somehow jumping ahead quickly to expecting the worst actually helps to soften the blow.
I have no doubt I will continue to work on becoming truly optimistic, but I'm pessimistic about my chances.
Monday, January 18, 2010
A Night in Haitian Hell
One group of people I've always admired are the aide workers who volunteer to go into unbelievable situations at the most critical times. This small piece of creative non-fiction is dedicated to them.
A NIGHT IN HAITIAN HELL
For a moment – just a moment, he knelt down and held his head in despair. For a fraction – just a fraction of that moment, he allowed a wave of helplessness and hopelessness to carry him along. Every facial muscle tensed, and just the tiniest, smallest groan leaked out of his mouth.
He looked around at the flapping walls of this makeshift hospital littered with the barely alive. But there was still some breath of life within the heaps of misery laying on the ground. And he was a doctor, after all. He was also a news reporter for a major tv channel, but that didn't matter now. What these suffering earthquake survivors needed were doctors and medical supplies.
But where were they? The doctors who had operated on and given some care to these patients during the day had been loaded onto buses and taken away because of a security scare – of what, where, why, he didn't know. The only thing he was absolutely sure of at that moment was that the lives of these pitiful patients were all in his hands now, and for the whole night at least.
He sighed, took a deep breath, wiped the incredulity from his face with one hand, then waved his exhaustion away with the other hand. He bent down to check the wounds of a patient. There was no logic or reason that could make any sense of what was happening. The only thing he could truly count on was the medical knowledge in his brain and hands.
I followed him around, filming his lonely vigil. I had no medical skills to offer, but I needed to record the pathos playing out that long dark night. My prying video caught first the pain of the bleeding young man he was examining, and then the grimace of empathy on the doctor's face. There were no words to accompany the scene of him cradling a two-week-old baby boy, holding his tiny body tight to prevent death from snatching him away. My pictures often blurred with the tears in my eyes, especially when I taped a teenage girl touching his face gently in an international sign of “thank you.”
Would the morning light bring the other doctors and supplies back? Would we survive the night from the dangers that had driven them to abandon their patients? Working in tandem, he doctored and I photographed wordlessly through the lonely night, through the absurdity of it all. The only comfort we could offer each other was our physical presence. He saved lives and I visually documented his dogged heroism for millions of you tv viewers to see on the next day's news. The night passed, but the many big and small ways it scarred both of us were permanent. We never spoke of that night again.
A NIGHT IN HAITIAN HELL
For a moment – just a moment, he knelt down and held his head in despair. For a fraction – just a fraction of that moment, he allowed a wave of helplessness and hopelessness to carry him along. Every facial muscle tensed, and just the tiniest, smallest groan leaked out of his mouth.
He looked around at the flapping walls of this makeshift hospital littered with the barely alive. But there was still some breath of life within the heaps of misery laying on the ground. And he was a doctor, after all. He was also a news reporter for a major tv channel, but that didn't matter now. What these suffering earthquake survivors needed were doctors and medical supplies.
But where were they? The doctors who had operated on and given some care to these patients during the day had been loaded onto buses and taken away because of a security scare – of what, where, why, he didn't know. The only thing he was absolutely sure of at that moment was that the lives of these pitiful patients were all in his hands now, and for the whole night at least.
He sighed, took a deep breath, wiped the incredulity from his face with one hand, then waved his exhaustion away with the other hand. He bent down to check the wounds of a patient. There was no logic or reason that could make any sense of what was happening. The only thing he could truly count on was the medical knowledge in his brain and hands.
I followed him around, filming his lonely vigil. I had no medical skills to offer, but I needed to record the pathos playing out that long dark night. My prying video caught first the pain of the bleeding young man he was examining, and then the grimace of empathy on the doctor's face. There were no words to accompany the scene of him cradling a two-week-old baby boy, holding his tiny body tight to prevent death from snatching him away. My pictures often blurred with the tears in my eyes, especially when I taped a teenage girl touching his face gently in an international sign of “thank you.”
Would the morning light bring the other doctors and supplies back? Would we survive the night from the dangers that had driven them to abandon their patients? Working in tandem, he doctored and I photographed wordlessly through the lonely night, through the absurdity of it all. The only comfort we could offer each other was our physical presence. He saved lives and I visually documented his dogged heroism for millions of you tv viewers to see on the next day's news. The night passed, but the many big and small ways it scarred both of us were permanent. We never spoke of that night again.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
The Stink of Money
My temper flared at the bank today where I went on an errand for a small non-profit organization I belong to. In spite of all their advertising that they were a local bank interested in the surrounding community, the bottom line was that their bottom line expectations weren't being met by the paltry sum and use of our organization's checking account. Their interest in the people of the community was actually in the money of the people in the community. Somehow, this perfectly obvious fact managed to surprise me. I'm sure my anger was not only at the rude clerk, but at how money has managed to become the end all and be all of so much of life today, as well as the yardstick for measuring a person or organization's value.
I've never had a good relationship with money. Mostly during my life, I haven't thought of it much at all. Escaping the United States long ago, where money has long been King, aided my not thinking about money. At the age of 40, with a pack on my back, and holding a bag in one hand, I started more than 16 years of wandering the world. I wasn't penniless, but how I managed to visit so much of the world on the little money I had and the small money I managed to earn along the way, will forever remain a mystery. I'm sure some of the travelers I met had more money than I did, but we were all somehow economically equals in the rooms of youth hostels. Our most interesting conversations were about our travel adventures, not money. When we did talk about money, it was how to stretch our travel dollars.
When I went to China in 1988, I entered a world where just about everyone was poor. There was an underlying capitalistic spirit, but it was muted at that time of China's history. Being poor was okay there, and $5 a night could buy me poor, but decent lodging.
When I went to Bali in 1989, and then again in 1995, I was in a magical place of nature's kindness and beauty. Balinese people lived very modestly. Their joy was a lifestyle of being intertwined with nature. Yes, there was a place where you could pay $100 a night for a luxurious room, but I never stayed in such places. I was happy in simple homestays, sometimes with a cold shower on the roof looking out upon the terraced rice fields and mountains.
China has changed greatly as money became accessible beyond most people's wildest dreams. Bali has changed too, but I hope not too much. The U.S. remains obsessed with money -- making it, saving it, spending it, preserving it. It's hard trying to get through a day in the U.S. when money doesn't come up in some way. I sometimes feel more lost in my native country than I did walking through small villages in China and Bali.
I've never had a good relationship with money. Mostly during my life, I haven't thought of it much at all. Escaping the United States long ago, where money has long been King, aided my not thinking about money. At the age of 40, with a pack on my back, and holding a bag in one hand, I started more than 16 years of wandering the world. I wasn't penniless, but how I managed to visit so much of the world on the little money I had and the small money I managed to earn along the way, will forever remain a mystery. I'm sure some of the travelers I met had more money than I did, but we were all somehow economically equals in the rooms of youth hostels. Our most interesting conversations were about our travel adventures, not money. When we did talk about money, it was how to stretch our travel dollars.
When I went to China in 1988, I entered a world where just about everyone was poor. There was an underlying capitalistic spirit, but it was muted at that time of China's history. Being poor was okay there, and $5 a night could buy me poor, but decent lodging.
When I went to Bali in 1989, and then again in 1995, I was in a magical place of nature's kindness and beauty. Balinese people lived very modestly. Their joy was a lifestyle of being intertwined with nature. Yes, there was a place where you could pay $100 a night for a luxurious room, but I never stayed in such places. I was happy in simple homestays, sometimes with a cold shower on the roof looking out upon the terraced rice fields and mountains.
China has changed greatly as money became accessible beyond most people's wildest dreams. Bali has changed too, but I hope not too much. The U.S. remains obsessed with money -- making it, saving it, spending it, preserving it. It's hard trying to get through a day in the U.S. when money doesn't come up in some way. I sometimes feel more lost in my native country than I did walking through small villages in China and Bali.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
In Retrospect
It's that time of year that makes me look both backward and forward. Where have I been this last year? Where am I going next year? I'm at that stage of life where years are more precious because I have fewer of them left. I feel more urgency to fit in the "have to's" as well as the "want to's."
I spend many hours a week exercising -- circuit training, yoga, cardio work. I can't say I enjoy any of it except for yoga and swimming, yet I do it (mostly) uncomplainingly because it allows me to move with more agility than I could otherwise. It's a "have to" rather than a "want to." And without doubt, it's a habit I must continue into future years.
Although the most exercise accomplishes now is damage control as my body deteriorates, I have seen some increased flexibility in yoga. Surprisingly, I also had a breakthrough in meditation. Stopping one's brain from jumping from thought to thought is a goal in quieting the mind. They recommend techniques like letting each thought fall over a cliff. I've rarely accomplished it, but a couple of times in just the past weeks, I became blissfully aware that my mind wanted to settle into nothingness, with deep breathing my only occupation. It was wonderful.
This year I felt some mental forward momentum that made me more alert, aware, and interested. Starting this blog was part of it because I settled into being a senior hummingbird instead of just an over-ripe middle-aged hummingbird well past my prime. My sincere thanks to my readers!
I also took on two new class challenges -- clay sculpture and fiction writing. In my childhood, I must have missed clay sculpture in school and camp. Because of writing my book, Memoirs of a Middle-aged Hummingbird, I was able to join the National League of American Pen Women, an organization of women writers, artists, and composers. Because of getting to know artists, I wanted to experience a bit of what they did, and why.
Clay sculpture is an organic material that offers a relationship with the one molding it. This semester, I produced several pieces that survived firing, and each one has a special place in my home. I've noticed I smile each time my gaze falls upon them. I doubt I have any special talent for it, but I've joined up for the next semester to learn more techniques, and possibly deepen my relationship with the clay.
Fiction writing also surprised me. What wanted to come out in my stories was me between the ages of 20 and 40, a time of my life I never thought I'd ever write about. But, my years as a social worker, a wife and mother, and what led up to my divorce was more unusual and compelling than any make-believe story I could think up. I followed my muse somewhat unwillingly since painful memories still hurt. Perhaps I can find a new writing direction in creative non-fiction.
Another stand-out memory of 2009 was my getting together with an old friend I hadn't seen in many years. Unfortunately, a very pleasant time ended with my falling in a pretty park and breaking my right knee. Since I'd fallen and broken my left knee in 2007, falling for a second time in two years brought me to the brink of depression.
Fortunately, my 11-year-old granddaughter had long been planning a two-week visit with me. She didn't give me the opportunity to feel sorry for myself. So, I just put my energy into getting the knee back in shape. With patience and exercise, it healed. Now I've added additional reaction time and balance exercises to my routine.
A peculiar side effect of falling was that I lost my sense of smell even though I didn't hit my head when I fell. Five tries at acupuncture didn't help. Of all the senses, I guess the sense of smell is the least traumatic to lose. Occasionally, I get one strong whiff of something before the smell fades away. I most miss the smell of the salty ocean, coffee, and flowers.
But my sense of taste remains, continuing my daily confrontation with food. I've gained some unwanted weight this past year. The solid nutritional advice of Weight Watchers for the past few years helped, but not enough or long enough. I'm back to where I was (sigh)!
I'm a year older. A year wiser?
And on to 2010! What lies ahead??
As I ponder, noises wash over and around me. Gathered in a house perfect for crowds, the many adults speak only Chinese. The innumerable children, my granddaughter among them, look Chinese, but speak only English to one another. The gathering brings together parts of my unusual multicultural life. Once again, I am the only non-Chinese in the group. But rather than my being in China now, these Chinese are living in the United States. The bridges I worked hard to build, and then maintained and nurtured for 20 years, are still strong.
I know that not only in 2010, but for years to come, China, my Chinese friends, the six Chinese children for whom I'm their American grandma, whether here, there, or somewhere else in the world they migrate to, will be in my life. It's familiar and comfortable, yet dynamically changing from year to year.
I'm ready for 2010. Are you?
I spend many hours a week exercising -- circuit training, yoga, cardio work. I can't say I enjoy any of it except for yoga and swimming, yet I do it (mostly) uncomplainingly because it allows me to move with more agility than I could otherwise. It's a "have to" rather than a "want to." And without doubt, it's a habit I must continue into future years.
Although the most exercise accomplishes now is damage control as my body deteriorates, I have seen some increased flexibility in yoga. Surprisingly, I also had a breakthrough in meditation. Stopping one's brain from jumping from thought to thought is a goal in quieting the mind. They recommend techniques like letting each thought fall over a cliff. I've rarely accomplished it, but a couple of times in just the past weeks, I became blissfully aware that my mind wanted to settle into nothingness, with deep breathing my only occupation. It was wonderful.
This year I felt some mental forward momentum that made me more alert, aware, and interested. Starting this blog was part of it because I settled into being a senior hummingbird instead of just an over-ripe middle-aged hummingbird well past my prime. My sincere thanks to my readers!
I also took on two new class challenges -- clay sculpture and fiction writing. In my childhood, I must have missed clay sculpture in school and camp. Because of writing my book, Memoirs of a Middle-aged Hummingbird, I was able to join the National League of American Pen Women, an organization of women writers, artists, and composers. Because of getting to know artists, I wanted to experience a bit of what they did, and why.
Clay sculpture is an organic material that offers a relationship with the one molding it. This semester, I produced several pieces that survived firing, and each one has a special place in my home. I've noticed I smile each time my gaze falls upon them. I doubt I have any special talent for it, but I've joined up for the next semester to learn more techniques, and possibly deepen my relationship with the clay.
Fiction writing also surprised me. What wanted to come out in my stories was me between the ages of 20 and 40, a time of my life I never thought I'd ever write about. But, my years as a social worker, a wife and mother, and what led up to my divorce was more unusual and compelling than any make-believe story I could think up. I followed my muse somewhat unwillingly since painful memories still hurt. Perhaps I can find a new writing direction in creative non-fiction.
Another stand-out memory of 2009 was my getting together with an old friend I hadn't seen in many years. Unfortunately, a very pleasant time ended with my falling in a pretty park and breaking my right knee. Since I'd fallen and broken my left knee in 2007, falling for a second time in two years brought me to the brink of depression.
Fortunately, my 11-year-old granddaughter had long been planning a two-week visit with me. She didn't give me the opportunity to feel sorry for myself. So, I just put my energy into getting the knee back in shape. With patience and exercise, it healed. Now I've added additional reaction time and balance exercises to my routine.
A peculiar side effect of falling was that I lost my sense of smell even though I didn't hit my head when I fell. Five tries at acupuncture didn't help. Of all the senses, I guess the sense of smell is the least traumatic to lose. Occasionally, I get one strong whiff of something before the smell fades away. I most miss the smell of the salty ocean, coffee, and flowers.
But my sense of taste remains, continuing my daily confrontation with food. I've gained some unwanted weight this past year. The solid nutritional advice of Weight Watchers for the past few years helped, but not enough or long enough. I'm back to where I was (sigh)!
I'm a year older. A year wiser?
And on to 2010! What lies ahead??
As I ponder, noises wash over and around me. Gathered in a house perfect for crowds, the many adults speak only Chinese. The innumerable children, my granddaughter among them, look Chinese, but speak only English to one another. The gathering brings together parts of my unusual multicultural life. Once again, I am the only non-Chinese in the group. But rather than my being in China now, these Chinese are living in the United States. The bridges I worked hard to build, and then maintained and nurtured for 20 years, are still strong.
I know that not only in 2010, but for years to come, China, my Chinese friends, the six Chinese children for whom I'm their American grandma, whether here, there, or somewhere else in the world they migrate to, will be in my life. It's familiar and comfortable, yet dynamically changing from year to year.
I'm ready for 2010. Are you?
Friday, December 18, 2009
Stressing Out About Health
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.
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.
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.
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