What was lost....

You are as young as your faith, as old as your doubt; as young as your self-confidence, as old as your fear; as young as your hope, as old as your despair.  ~General Douglas MacArthur

Today is one of those picture perfect, elusive Spring days in Maine. My family often joked that Spring in Maine was a "stealth" season....not making more than one appearance between Winter and the 4th of July. Thankfully, I was able to get outside and enjoy the milder temperatures to walk my two big dogs. Instead of the usual jaunt out of our neighborhood and scramble up the hillside, I decided to shake our destination up radically. I chose another neighborhood not far from ours. The dogs thought this was Mardi Gras and enjoyed all the new schools, the squirrels they had yet to intimidate and new spots to, well, 'visit'. It was great. I ran into a woman I hadn't seen in nearly two years with her dog. We stopped to visit, let our pets touch noses while we caught up.

"I heard you'd been sick. I'm glad you're doing better, " this woman said to me.

"Me, too!," I smiled.

Then, really looking at me, shaking her head and making eye contact, she said, "You just LOOK so different. I never would have recognized you. But, at least you're alive. That's the important thing."

Stunned, I said my goodbyes and staggered off, feeling punched in the emotional pit of my stomach. I realize that I don't look 30 anymore. I also realize that I don't look like the skinny yoga instructor I was just 18 months ago. I have a closet of clothes that are too tight and a mirror that shows every inch of of my body's changes, due to surgery and the following complications. I also see that every line on my face, the worries, the pain, the fears and the anxiety I've experienced. I'm not blind, nor do I live in a bubble. I understand what I've lost. I also understand it can never be recovered, given my new set of physical limitations, as well as my age. And my unexpected conversationalist was correct. My being alive is the most important thing. I am here. I am well enough to take Dakota and Murphy on long jaunts. I am excited for my daughter's prep school graduation. I am looking forward to my 25th wedding anniversary with my husband, my son coming home from Florida and my mother spending the summer in Maine. I have many blessings to count. I treasure each and every one of them. 

And yet, this woman's comments did shine a spotlight on an issue that many women my age feel, cancer patients or not: we are no longer recognizable as the women we used to be. Oh, maybe some of us have pushed back the clock a bit and held off the inevitable. Maybe there are more magazine articles telling us that "50 is the new 30". The fact, however, is that time marches on. As Dolly Parton says, in "Steel Magnolias", "And if you're not careful, it'll march right over your face!". We may have been pretty, we have even been beautiful, we may have been sparkling, we may have been just breathtakingly, achingly young. We are no longer those dazzling girls. But, we have something pretty spectacular: we are here. We are wise. We are careful. We can see the bigger picture. We are creative. We are grounded. We are fabulous. But we still find ourselves in a tailspin when someone calls the 'smaller picture'..the one in the mirror...to our attention.

Love handles? Crow's feet? Thighs that even Buddha would hate? Bah! Humbug. We are alive. Let the young girls have their moment in the sun. Let them enjoy it. They'll cross the bridge and join us here on the other side and say, "This is scary, but it's great." It really is scary. It's scary to not recognize ourselves. But it's much scarier giving in to despair. I'd rather be who I am...with the appreciation for all I've learned along the way...than be who I was. Pretty, or not. Therefore, we can tell those belles, coming across the path towards us, it *is* great.


However, I still wish I could fit into my old jeans. Some days.

Farming, Growing Things and a Brown Thumb

I never had any other desire so strong, and so like to covetousness, as that one which I have had always, that I might be master at last of a small house and a large Garden. ~Abraham Cowley, The Garden, 1666

My Grandma Rose was an amazing gardener. She was able to take a tiny cutting from any type of plant, coax out roots from it, and then transplant it into her garden. She lived in a historic Russian Hill Victorian in San Francisco, and despite the house's many period treasures, it was her beautiful English garden that captivated me the most. In the midst of a busy urban center, she cultivated her modest backyard into an enchanted space, complete with winding walkways, unusual breeds of flowers and vegetables, and a yellow wooden playhouse that divided time between her potting shed duties, and my dolls' tea parties. Grandma's garden always had something new to capture my attention, to draw me further in and to cast a spell upon my childhood self. I found peace there during stressful times, and pure joy, during happy ones.

These memories make it all the more tragic for me that I have not inherited Grandma's gifts for plant cultivation and landscape design. Additionally, I lack even the most rudimentary of 'growing' skills. Beyond that, I seem to have become the antithesis of my grandmother: where she could breathe life into any increment of flora, I seem to be the instrument of torture and death to them. I have long joked that I am the Dr. Kevorkian of plants....they seem to find their way into my home and yard when they want to end their own lives. Once, my friend, Mary, was in the midst of a major home remodel and had to remove all her house plants from the construction zone. Mary is one of many friends who are exceptional garden enthusiasts, and her yard has been featured in the House & Garden show several times. When she asked me to mind her houseplants, I begged her to find another host family. Seduced by my bright and sunny front windows, Mary promised that I couldn't possibly kill her indoor plants, if she placed them herself and left me specific instructions. She was wrong, and they were dead within a week. We are still trying to figure out exactly what went wrong....fifteen years later. I bemoan my lack of gardening abilities. I have read books, I have taken nature walks with landscapers and consulted specialists. Everyone is left with the distinct impression that I honestly have a Brown Thumb. It's a "gift". This time of year in northern New England, many of my friends are consulting seed catalogs and beginning to get their orders placed for the coming Spring. I'm simply listening to their conversations and wondering if I missed out on learning the secret handshake in Kindergarten.

Therefore, a game on Facebook has left me particularly excited. Facebook is a social networking site through which I've been able to remain in touch with close friends and family, as well as to rekindle friendships from long ago. The game "Farmville" was initially a sore spot with me. Several of my dearest friends were posting accomplishments, winning blue ribbons and having barn raising events. They were growing everything from rice to roses, and landscaping their virtual plantations beautifully. I had to roll my eyes and wonder how my vastly intelligent, well educated and interesting pals could be so enamored by a silly game. And, then I tried it. Despite the fact that I did manage to kill my first few (okay, more like first dozen) virtual crops, I did begin to enjoy the game. The better I was able to produce my produce, and take care of my livestock, the more I was rewarded. I found that improving my farm's layout, crop rotation, and type of seeds used truly helped them to flourish and grow. With each successful harvest, I was rewarded with the ability to expand my farm and try new seeds. For the first time in my life, I've found some measure of enjoyment in watching my yield accrue. There is something deeply satisfying about sowing fallow ground, choosing which type of plants to produce, watching them blossom and then in-gathering the results. Even though these plots of land are simply virtual squares, and my "Me" is just a character controlled by the click of a mouse, I'm proud of my little farm. I have a barn, a dairy farm, a chicken coop, a silo, scads of animals, a farmhouse and many plots of different crops; from grains to flowers to vegetables. I have grape arbors and cranberry bogs. My tomatoes and red and luscious. My roses are full and hearty. My sheep bah. My cows moo. And my ducks quack. It's a goofy cartoonish game, and yet I find the whole experience to be oddly satisfying. I can almost picture myself walking through the lanes between my fields, brushing my horses and fertilizing my grains. I can wish myself a cup of iced tea as I survey all that I have grown.

I still harbor the hope that someday my real yard will resemble something akin to my virtual garden. And yet, in every day life, I realize that I have the opportunity to create 'something from nothing' through my words. In writing, I have the ability to cultivate the soil of my imagination by reading good books and listening to the advice of others. I can plant my own seeds of ideas and nurture them along with practice. I can wait patiently as I work through rewrites and yank out any literary weeds that are sapping my energy. I can watch those first shoots of persistence spring up, and I can harvest them by finishing a piece over which I've toiled. While my writing will never resemble that of William Shakespeare or even John Grisham, I will have the satisfaction of toiling over each word in the piece, from beginning to end. In that, there is a sort of farming garden of words.

Perhaps someday I'll have rosemary by my garden gate, and a small pond with swans swimming, surrounded by lavender and lilac. Or, perhaps, I'll leave this part of my life as metaphor and leave the real gardening up to experts.

Passion

Chase down your passion like it's the last bus of the night. ~Glade Byron Addams

One of my greatest frustrations about Valentine's Day is how dreadful the holiday makes people who aren't deeply in love feel about themselves. The not-terribly subtle message is "You have to have a partner with whom to share this day of passion or you are left out of the club". I find that both offensive and condescending. It's a wonderful and beautiful experience to be in love, particularly in those heady days of early romance. One's heart beats faster at the mere thought of the object of one's affection. Pondering all the daydreams, the "What if's?" and the meanderings of an idyllic fairy tale can be even more magical than the romance itself. When one isn't in love, it's difficult to envision passion on a grand scale. Additionally, when one has been in a relationship for many years, the day to day practicality of bills, schedules, parenting, chores and jobs can overshadow the illusionary enchantment.

It's my firm belief that passion should have far less to do with wooing the object of one's desire. In my own mind and heart, it should be the wooing of our own deepest dreams for our own lives. Living a life of passion doesn't have to either involve, or negate, another human being. Rather, it means kindling the fires the lie within each of us to lead a life filled with purpose and confidence. A passionate life doesn't need to signal an immoral one. It can mean an existence in which one seeks out her dreams, discovers her hidden talents, and loses herself in the present moment. A passionate life can mean not allowing opportunities to fall by the wayside, but embracing each chance to learn something new. Achieving this can also mean asking yourself "What do I love?", "What makes me the happiest?" and "What can I do to feel jazzed about being alive?".

Far too much time is spent worrying about our failures. I am terribly guilty of this issue. I have allowed my anxiety over disappointing others, as well as myself, keep me from experiences, goals and seeking out my heart's desire. I have felt that, as long as I've secretly nurturing and daydreamed about my future, I would never be disillusioned. I was afraid that if I should try and then fail, I would have nothing left to look forward to. But, what's happened is that I've squandered my time...I've allowed decades to slip away from me because I was too nervous that I'd be rejected. Therefore, I want to commit myself to living more passionately. I want to submit more articles to magazines, to keep working on my book, and to expand upon pieces I've already finished. It's terrifying. But, unless I proceed with courage and confidence, I will never achieve my goals. I will only wonder what might have been in my life.

Passion can also apply to how we take on obstacles that lie in our path. We can decide to retreat and go back into our shells of complacency. Or, we can venture forward with William Wordsworth's "Might Yawp" and passionately defeat those troubles that create the blockages in our lives. We can choose to work around people who are naysayers. We can decide to face our fears. We can adopt a resilience that will enable us to keep moving forward...with passion and determination.

If you received candy and flowers from the love of your life, be appreciative but look for your inner ecstasy too. If not, fear not! A passionate life depends far more on how we meet life head on, than how others make us feel.

Beauty and the Inner Beast

You can take no credit for beauty at sixteen. But if you are beautiful at sixty, it will be your soul's own doing. ~Marie Stopes

Several weeks ago, I was listening to news on the radio in the car. Most of the time, I spend my hours driving in a half aware state about what's playing. I do try to pay attention to the road, given my less than stellar auto skills. However, one report caught my attention; in a recent survey, 1000 women, age 40-55, were asked if they would rather be 20 years younger, 1 million dollars richer or 20 pounds thinner. An overwhelming majority, over 70%, stated that their wish would be youth. Initially, I was surprised. After all, I'm both happy and proud to be 44. I would never chose to be another age. I'm far more comfortable in my skin than I was in my teens or twenties. Still, the survey caught my attention and drew me to think more deeply about the idea of aging women in our society. Apparently the same survey was given to men, and over 90% would choose to be 1 million dollars richer. So, why are women more concerned about youth than men, in the same age category, are?

Part of this is due to our current society. Hollywood glamorizes young girls, as does the modeling industry. How many women over 40, no matter how stunning, are picked to walk the runway by designers? How many fabulously talented and gorgeous women find their acting careers to be derailed once they reach "a certain age"? Women do not see images of female characters who physically resemble them often. The good roles seem to be few and far between, and women over 40 are relegated to playing mothers...often to men who aren't much younger than they are themselves. This double standard of embracing maturing, handsome men while tossing charismatic, passionate women is unnerving. When a woman in her 40's is sexually aware, she's considered a "Cougar". A man of the same age is simply considered a man. Women are predatory, whereas men are "normal". It's insulting and unfair. A man who marries a much younger woman gets a 'trophy wife'....as a prize. A woman in the same life circumstances is teased about 'robbing the cradle' and having a Boy Toy. For men, it's to be applauded. For women, it's embarrassing. Of course, our society is telling us nothing new in the devaluation of middle aged women. For centuries, men married, and fathered children well into their upper years.

Rather than be angry at this scenario, I find it's simply not worth the anger. What this situation has done has been to teach me to find what beauty means to me, at this point in my life. I wouldn't want to be 18 again. When I think of the anguish, the heartbreak, the lack of wisdom and my own insecurities, I shudder with regret. I think of how often I allowed other people's opinion's of me to shape how I felt about myself. I remember how helpless I felt when confronted with unsettling relationships. I cringe when I realize how much of my own happiness was based upon how I allowed others to treat me. My self-worth was changeable as the weather, and my confidence only seemed to be in place when someone else was praising me. To give up the knowledge I've worked so hard for would be unthinkable. Every gray hair reminds me of a battle I've fought and won. Each wrinkle represents a day spent laughing. To give those up would be to walk backwards, forgetting the extraordinary beauty in life that can only come with experience, with pain and with passion.

Rather than cosmetic surgery, or fad products, I try to encourage my yoga students to look within. I know that many of them roll their eyes at me. Yet, the most beautiful women of any age are those who exude confidence, charisma and wit. This doesn't happen overnight. A woman's inner beauty isn't something that she's born with. It's a gift that she earns by working through her demons. Obviously, if a woman is blessed with wonderful DNA for gorgeous legs or flawless skin, it's a huge benefit. However, if she's bitter, hostile, jealous or selfish, those natural gifts aren't going to go very far. My theology class is taught by a lovely woman in her late 60's. Her long gray hair is pulled back in a pony tail and her clothes are those of an Episcopal priest. However, her melodious voice, her brilliant comments and her zest for life make this woman absolutely breathtaking. Her love for life, and those around her, radiates and although she doesn't look like any of the girls from High School Musical, Reverend Glass becomes captivating. When I ask myself if I'd rather be my theology teacher when I grow up, or to age backwards to be a Disney creation, there is no contest....my reverend would win out every time. Beauty comes from the way a woman speaks, the way she carries herself, her zest for learning new things and her own sense of who she is. A woman who knows herself well, who doesn't depend upon the opinions of others, is beautiful at any age.

I wasted decades of my life worried about my weight, my hair and my clothes. I wish I'd spent a tenth of that time working on 'esteemable acts' to boost my skills in practical areas. Interestingly, I may be twenty pounds heavier than I was on my wedding day, but I've never felt more beautiful. It's nothing whatsoever about the woman who gazes back at me in the mirror. If I relied on that image, I'm sure I'd be back into my pit of despair. Rather, my confidence comes from doing what I love to do, being with the people I adore and feeling proud of the life I've tried to build. Have I fallen short in some areas? Of course. But, have I walked towards my dreams? Absolutely. I find that, even just working towards those goals in life leaves me with an air of fearlessness. It took me more than forty years to discover that fortitude, courage and self-possession are what makes a woman beautiful. Like Moses leading the Israelites through the wilderness, it took me that long to reach my own "promised land".

Take a look in the mirror and ask yourself what you see? Do you see wrinkles, age spots or thinning hair? Or, do you see a person who is traveling on a journey and has gained beauty-increasing wisdom along the way? Slay the inner beast of being self-critical and look for the beauty. It's there.

Masks

Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth. ~Oscar Wilde

I have always loved Halloween.To some children, Halloween was a terrifying night, filled with images of the Grim Reaper lurking around every corner, just waiting to pluck them away. It meant feeling frightened when going into haunted houses, and having to feel "eye balls" and "intestines" while blindfolded. I, on the other hand, was confident that the eyeballs were Jell-O covered golf balls and the spaghetti never once felt like 'guts' to me. Halloween, to me, was not an evening of nightmare and panic. Rather, it was a night to put on a different persona completely and to push the ever present daily timidity aside to step into the shoes of a confident alter-ego. The fact is, I was a terrified child. I was certain that monsters lurked under my bed. I was positive that something horrible was going to happen to my mother at any moment. I lived in a heightened state of heart-sinking dread the other 364 days per year. On Halloween, I felt free to put on the mask of confidence, assurance and aplomb. For me, Halloween wasn't a day to shrink away from the evil lurking around corners. It was the day to face that evil head on.

Costumes are an extraordinarily transforming experience. They allow you to physically become someone else for a moment. Actors have long understood this. When asked how he could play the Phantom, night after night, year after year, on Broadway, Michael Crawford quipped, "I put on the mask." Costumes allow us to become, just for an evening, a completely different person from our everyday lives. The year I was a cowgirl for Halloween, I felt the surge of energy from roping cattle on the Arizona plains. The year I was a Pioneer Girl, I knew that I had the grit to overcome any hardship we faced on the wagon train. When I was Leopard, I felt myself curling up, ready to spring on an unsuspecting prey. Of course, the year I was Dorothy, I had every confidence that clicking my heels three times would bring me home....if I so chose. When we step into a costume, when we put on a mask, when we pretend to be someone we're not, we are able to shed our insecurities, our neuroses, and our weaknesses. We are able to robe ourselves in fortitude, daring and brashness that comes with our characters.

When I first began studying yoga, years before I became a teacher, one of the aspects I most enjoyed was the ability to "play" the roles of the poses we were practicing. In Eagle Pose, I could envision myself perched high up in a tree, gazing down at the small world below and knowing that I could master it. In Lion Pose, I felt the power emanating from the breath, and knew that my strength came from within. In Frog Pose, my muscles feel springy and able to jump at a moment's notice. Dolphin Pose gave me the playful spirit and inner joy that I'd seen dolphins use when they'd swim alongside our boat. Yoga allowed me to put on the masks of each of these poses, while still allowing me to be myself; my own fearful, uncertain, fault ridden self. As a teacher, I've learned to create space in our classes for my students to explore all aspects of their personalities. For those who are shy, we practice powerful poses, such as Warrior, to help bring out the fighter in each of us. For those who lack grounding, we practice Mountain pose, to give the yogini a firm foundation. Most of all, what we practice in the classes I teach, is self-awareness. By learning where we can excel, we can build skill upon skill until the student can draw upon her own knowledge at any time.

The goal of any class, whether it's Yoga or Mathematics, is to teach the student how to learn. It's very difficult to instruct when a student doesn't understand how to open up to the material. By using the metaphors of the asanas in Yoga, I'm able to reach into a student's spirit and say, "It's the Cat working within you...", as she works through Cat pose. This allows the students to surrender embarrassment and reservation. The experience of using these poses to help build tenacity and poise can be as transforming as the donning of a mask. Once a student gains skill she will no longer have to pretend the part in the other areas of her life. She truly will have the grace of a Crane, the flexibility of a Bow and the open heart of a Gate. The masks necessary to pretend will fall away, and she will be as comfortable in life, as she is in the studio.

Do I still wear masks? Of course I do. We all do. We put on the mask of happiness when we're feeling cranky. We put on the mask of sarcasm when we're really feeling hurt. We put on the mask of indifference when we don't know how to change a negative situation. We put on the mask of spunk when all we want to do is curl up and sleep. We use masks every day to overcome our own shortcomings, or to help us through a difficult time. The question isn't whether or not we use these masks, but whether we're aware of the use. If we can be consciously attuned to their place in our lives, we can use them as an intended assist, rather than as an involuntary crutch.

What will I be for Halloween this year? The answer depends a great deal on how I'm feeling that day. I hope, however, that I feel most like being myself, and that masks will be unnecessary.