The Absolute Truth About the Absence of Youth

That was the title of the book I was going to co-write with a few friends a few years back. We thought of all sorts of places we could go with it. For example, the whole idea of having an absolute truth in the first place is absurd. In truth, we all have our own versions of the truths. In truth, truth is subjective. Come to think of it, since our truths are so individual, how could any truth ever be an absolute one in the first place! Sure I could have my own absolute truths, and you could have yours. But how could I ever think to impose mine over the top of yours? And then have the unmitigated gall to write a book about it? Absurd, indeed!

But then, haven’t we all been subjected to other people’s truths throughout history? The earth is flat. And the sun revolves around it. Blood-letting is the cure for all major diseases. A woman’s place in the home.

I could go on. But that’s not what I really want to talk about here.

Aside from playing around with the words themselves, I remember going in a completely different direction with it. For me, the absence of youth meant my rapidly approaching “empty nest” status. Yep, my baby will soon be off to college which will leave my home void of its youth. It’s bound to be pretty absolute in the stillness his absence will leave and I can only wonder what kinds of truths it will to reveal.

But that’s not what I want to talk about either. 

I want to talk about my sister’s recent visit. Yvonne and I live a few thousand miles apart and don’t get to see each other very often. So her visit lent itself to all sorts of great conversational opportunities. She and I are both . . .  well . . . let’s just say our own youths are a distant past. I guess you could say they’re absent. Oh sure, we collectively hold the feminine wisdom of many (many) decades—wisdom neither of us would trade for youth any old day. But still . . . Why the heck do things have to go so far south!? I’m reminded of a certain poem I wrote a while ago, one that has yet to be published so copy-write laws do apply:

Deflated

Straight forward

they’d stare ~ no matter what I’d wear.

even occasions

I’d let them go bare!

Happy twins bouncing

in harmony, poised

in precise symmetry,

enhancing the verticals that

once were me.

But alas, age and

motherhood defied the whole

topography.

Realigned their

perfect visibility ‘till the ground

is all the old girls see.

Oh sure, I know about

gravity, and laws of relativity.

But how sad to know

they apply to me.

It’s said that life

can be unfair; a view

no doubt I easily share with

other moms like me.

As we age in deflated

disrepair. 

But no matter that

my perky pair -

condemned to depreciate

with each

passing year.

My spouse and I,

sometimes compare

other things lost

(like his hair).

  

I guess old mother nature

can be equally unfair.

Anyway, back to my sister and I. We decided that we’d start working toward a couple things: first would be the overall reduction in the size of our “wisdom containers.” We decided to weigh in on certain days and keep each other honest by sharing the results of said measurements via e-mail. We also decided to improve the overall health and texture of our containers by increasing our exercise and eating better—which will be a stretch since we both already enjoy some form of exercise at least five days a week. And neither of us eat very terribly . . . we both abstain from fast food, from junk food, from fatty food. But boy, do we like our deserts! And how we enjoy that glass of wine (or two) with dinner. And then there’s me with my love for an occasional (that’s a completely subjective word, you know) cosmopolitan.

So there you go  . . . our plan to ward off the absence of youth. Or at least go “gently into its goodnight.”

And so far, so good! In the past couple of weeks we’ve lost a combined total of eight pounds and our clothes are fitting a tad better since we’re changing the texture of our containers. We are watching our portions more closely and so we feel better after each meal (I have this thing where my nose stops up when I get full. I call it my shut off valve, something I’ve tended to ignore in recent past. But last night I realized that my shut off valve hasn’t been employed in a while – yet another measurement of success!) And then this morning, I saw it! Something I haven’t seen in a very long time.

My hip bone! 

I hope to resurrect the other one soon. Wish me luck!

Annual Scrapbooking Weekend . . .

Well it's about time! You've been home for almost three weeks--the least you could do is talk about the weekend!


Okay, okay. I'm sorry. What can I say . . . I've been busy.


How about I share some pictures?


Here's my little spot . . .

And here's the rest of the workroom. Ain't it cute! 

yes that IS facebook up on my screen. But hey . . . I need a break from time to time!

 And here's the basket that Susan won when one of us drew her name.  Darn it! I wanted to win. Once, when I first started coming, they drew my name. It was so cool! All sorts of scrapbooking tools and stuff. . .

 And here are a few of the pages I got done.

We go every year . . . a group of about sixteen of us and we work for four wonderful days, cropping and stamping and glittering and journaling. Sometimes we even take showers and get dressed! But it's not unusual to find us still in our jammies and slippers late into the afternoon. Because, as I said . . . it's all about the work. 

We've used the same location for the last five years, The Red Barn Inn up in Coldspring. Ain't it the cutest little place you ever seen? It's run by the owners who cater to quilters and, of course, scrapbookers but the way they feed us, you'd think we were royalty! 

So I got my son's scout album done while I was there--just in time for his Eagle Court of Honor coming up here on the 4th of February. 

pictures of that will follow   

Apparently I'd rather die . . .

. . . than walk in the Avon Walk For Breast Cancer again. Or at least that’s the subconscious message I’ve been sending myself.


Sure I did it once—walked those forty grueling, painful miles in two days. I thought I’d properly built up to it, thought I’d sufficiently trained during the weeks before. And maybe I did. Maybe it was the actual weekend event that did me in, the way I hooked up with that friend I hadn’t seen in six years, the friend with the extra loooong legs that took one stride to my three. The friend I insisted on keeping up with that first day.

Mile twenty six saw me wearing more blisters than feet. 

Needless to say, day two was torture. If not for my meditation practice and my ability to send my mind to a happier place (a place far from my feet), I would not have made that second day. It was two weeks before I could walk normally again, two weeks before my feet stopped oozing with every step.

That was three years ago.

Proud and stubborn, I signed up for the walk again the following year, dutifully starting my training walks twelve weeks before the race. About five weeks out, I dropped a paper cutter onto the top of my foot and had to have stitches. I was told no walking for at least three weeks so I laid off long enough to heal. I started the training walks again until, a couple days before the race, I pinched a nerve in my neck doing a yoga pose. I’m talking excruciating pain all down my right side whenever I moved. So that was it for me . . no walking.

I didn’t sign up the following year. I was too busy and (gulp) somewhat intimidated by past events. So I just gave myself to my team, offering support and help in fund raising. I had planned to be out there the weekend of the race, cheering them on and handing out water . . . that kind of stuff. But, oh my gosh! If you’ve been reading my blog, you’ll remember this. It happened the day before the walk. So last year, instead of walking those forty miles, I was sitting in a hospital bed with tubes dripping someone else's blood into my arm.  

So now April is rolling around again and I’m a little terrified. The Avon Foundation is sending me e-mails and cards reminding me that it’s time to sign up again. And I'm trying really hard to pretend not to see them. See... I hate to imagine what kind of avoidance strategy my subconscious has in store for me this time. 

The pros and cons of Menopause

I've been organizing my photographs for the last few days . . . some twenty years of memories stuffed into boxes, cabinets and multiple albums around the house. Of course I ran across pictures of myself from way back when, long before the big "M" was looming so large. And I got to thinking how every phase in life has it's pros and cons, even this one.

Like how my once non-existent belly now rests comfortably on my upper thighs whenever I sit. And how the top part of my menopausal middle provides a nice little shelf for my breasts.

This from a woman once in complete control of the comings and goings of body fat. Once able to push her body through extreme sports and grueling exercise. Sure, I can still push it. But it just won't go as far. And all the injuries from years of extreme physical work are squatting in my hips, knees and shoulders--nagging reminders of the things I once did.

Those times of greater capability and a well-trimmed middle are a distant memory as my girth expands of its own accord—regardless of whether I live on a diet of lettuce and spend hours a day intimate with my elliptical. My body is on a journey of its own, taking me along with it.

So, what of those “pros” I hinted at? They’re certainly not "form" related. But they are certainly there. Like the wisdom of fifty-some years assuring me that form is no longer (indeed it never was) what defines me. As young people we are very tuned to the external—how thin are our hips, how clear our skin, how large our breasts. Even further away we go into our clothes, our cars, our houses and lawns. We see our outward display as paramount to our success.

But as we grow in wisdom and age, we turn our gaze inward, looking toward our character, our spirituality, our relationship with ourselves, others and God. Depth of thought and mindfulness become more meaningful—like taking time to honor the smallest things, like giving instead of having.

And as we go even deeper, we learn that we are not (and have never been) our bodies. We start to fully grasp the idea that our bodies are merely temporary dwellings for our true selves. And if we listen carefully to that deeper voice, we realize that our purpose in life extends far beyond the mere polishing and maintenance of our dwelling. 

I once read a scholarly essay on how the Chakras so closely mirror the stages in our lives. How we start at the root where grounding, safety and survival are prominent in our thinking. From there we move up to the egoic stage, the age of power and acquisition. On to the solar plexus where we learn discipline and begin to see the value in reigning in our egos. Next is the fourth chakra, the Heart Chakra, the movement toward spiritual maturity. It’s usually during mid-life when all the good stuff starts happening. The heart chakra is seen as the bridge between the three lower chakras and one’s higher, spiritual ambitions. On to the fifth, sixth and finally the seventh chakra located at the crown of the head. The crown chakra is considered the stage of infinite consciousness.

But we can only reach the crown by moving through the lower stages first. We simply have to be egoic for a while! We simply have to learn the importance of taking care of our dwelling before we can abandon it to our higher ideals. It’s part of life.

I know this menopausal body has served me well. It stayed fairly polished during the years when I needed it to sparkle. It remained a solid dwelling place for the entity I know now as “me.” And now, as I witness its gentle and natural decline, it forces me to slow down, allowing more time to ponder what is truly important in life. Rather than to fixate on this belly, as it lounges here against these thickening thighs. Rather than to dwell over those photographs of a thinner, trimmer, more active me. 

The Cost of Avoidance

I have a plethora of nieces and nephews scattered around in different states. Not a single one lives close. Logistics being what they are, I don’t know these kids as well as I’d like to. Sure there are a few of the older ones on Facebook and we enjoy that strange and distant virtual closeness that’s so part of today’s culture. But the younger ones—well, our relationship is reduced to those two phone calls a year: “Thanks for the birthday/Christmas gift, Auntie Linda.”  Followed by a brief, somewhat formal conversation. Far from the tight relationship I enjoyed with my own aunts and uncles when I was growing up. Heck, they and my parents were practically interchangeable.  

Anyway I’ve fallen into the habit of getting all these kids the same thing for Christmas. There’s two parts to my gift. The first (and in my humble opinion, the best part) is a signed book from one of the writers conferences I attend earlier in the year. I try to find a book and author who would be best for each of my nieces and nephews at their particular ages. And I love doing this for them. I like to think that I’m being a good auntie by introducing them to such greats as John Scieszka and Norton Juster, Judy Blume and M.T. Anderson. I can only hope that the kids appreciate these personally signed books as much as their obligatory thank you call implies!

But, since I can never be sure, there’s the second part to my gift—a small gift card usually to Walmart where they can buy anything they want. But this year I decided to avoid the big monolith. And I did my Christmas shopping at local vendors and shops wherever I could. Which was all well and good. But what to do about those gift cards? Running short on time (all these things have to be packaged up and mailed) I ended up deciding on Visa Gift Cards. What I learned is that, unlike Walmart gift cards, the Visa ones cost $3.95 each! Basically I had to pay for money? Which, of course, is ridiculous and I will never do again.

Did I mention how I like to wrap them up all cute before sending them off?  

Anyway . . . next year’s gifts to the distant sibling and sibling-in-law offspring will look a little different. Sure, there will still be the books . . .  personally signed by authors I meet. But there is likely to be far less plastic involved.