Oh, the Things You will Think

A few months ago I stopped seeing my therapist on a regular basis.  For several months before I’d been looking at our time together, considering what work was still to be done.  I couldn’t help but see that, since we’d begun, four years earlier, much of the growing up I’d needed to do had happened.  Terry and I had talked about this, and the idea of stopping was broached, several times.  Then, as I prepared for that last visit in November, I knew it was time.

Almost immediately after that ending new opportunities for expression began showing up in my life.  I’m just now realizing that one of them was, and is, to express my fixation on becoming sixty.

It makes sense that, having attained a modicum of maturity through the work with Terry, among other things, I now have greater capacity to see myself as I am.  I do see much more clearly what my reality is.  And that reality includes grief – a deep and profound sorrow about all the years before I began this journey of awareness, the years I couldn’t, or wouldn’t see myself truly.

My reality isn’t all grief of course.  Seeing myself truly includes knowing myself as “one of the juiciest women I know,” - according to a friend of mine.  What’s true of me is also that I’ve discovered my voice, gained appreciation for my body and appearance, learned it’s ok to say “no” as I need to.  What is true, and real, for me is that I like and care for myself more than ever.  Yet I also truly wish I’d learned how to do all of this earlier – wish I hadn’t used up all of those earlier years trying in vain to be who others wanted me to be.

It’s a paradox really.  For this journey of self-knowledge began because I’d spent all those years in the boxes of others’ creation.  The years I grieve over were my teachers, as much or more than Terry, or the deep learning from my California experiences, or even my heart attack.  Those years of actively pushing myself down, smoothing myself out, making myself small so others could feel more comfortable or ok – those years in the dark enabled me to see the faint shining light at the core of me as it flickered, determinedly.  Once I saw it I couldn’t abandon it.

It’s the fact that that didn’t happen until I was fifty that I grieve, especially now, a decade later.  I wonder, if I’d awakened to an appreciation of myself sooner, would I feel less anxious about becoming an elder now?   Would I have the capacity to love, rather than simply accept, the entirety of my life’s reality if I’d made the move earlier?  Yes, it’s navel gazing.  I wonder too if I’d do so much of that now if I’d begun this journey years before I did.

I’ve been seeing sixty as something I’m not ready for, much less ready to be or be defined as.  Yet, in writing about my grief over those ‘lost’ years I begin to see this age differently – as another opportunity for expression.  From here I can view the entirety of my life true.  From this stage of life I can realize, as in the words of a prayer for Yom Kippur.

From grief to understanding, from fear to faith.

From defeat to defeat.

Until, looking backward or ahead, we see that

Victory lies not at some high place along the way,

But in having made the Journey, stage by stage.

Having made the journey is what matters.  The when and how and where matter less than that the journey is undertaken.  Here, at 2012, at nearly age 60 (17 days and counting), with what I have in my purse and my life – is what’s real.  From here I can look backward and peek ahead, rest and take in the view.  And I can tell you – it ain’t really all that bad either.

Not Done Yet

A coworker married recently.  In telling about her wedding she spoke with strong emotion about her disappointment at the job the (non-professional) photographer had done.  My coworker (we’ll call her L) repeated several times that, “It’s OK.  She [the photographer] is a friend.  Nothing to be done now, I guess.”  Well into the conversation L finally admitted that she was angry at not having the pictures she wanted, that she felt angry every time she thought about it, and that, even though she knows it’s the marriage that counts, more than the wedding, she’s still mad.
     L has been angry for weeks about this, telling herself she needs to let go of it, but feeling unable to.  Another participant in the conversation (call her M) said, “When I get angry over something I can’t do anything about, I just let myself BE angry for 24 hours.  Then I let it go.”  L replied that she wasn’t sure she could do that.
     In the silence that followed I knew what to say, but hesitated, not wanting to appear like a mother or counselor to these young women.  Yet my knowing wanted to be offered, so I told her, “The trick, or the key, if you want, is to truly feel your anger, to live with it, and allow yourself to release it – punch pillows or holler or cry – talk about it.  Let yourself know just how mad you are during those 24 hours.  You’ll be able to let it go if you do that.”
     In sharing this story I’m not bragging about my helpfulness.  Rather this story needs to be shared because I need to remind myself that I do possess knowledge and wisdom that can make a difference – but only if I share it.  The gift of age, I am coming to understand, is a body of knowledge – if we have sought it out over time – and a plethora of experience – ditto – that makes us wise.
     To become an elder is to have understanding – a combination of knowledge and experience gained over time.  We must have lived through and with our experiences and learned from them – even, especially, the difficult ones.  AND we must do something with it all – speak, or act, or in some way share what we have learned.
     It’s this last part that transforms us into an elder.  Hanging around on the planet for six, or more, decades simply makes us old.  Owning our experience, our learning from it and learning generally, intentionally spending time and energy weaving knowledge and experience together, and offering the resulting wisdom to others – in whatever ways we can – we become an elder.
     I’m at the beginning of learning this – of learning that my upcoming sixtieth birthday doesn’t just, or even necessarily, symbolize becoming old.  Since I began facing my belief that 60=old I’ve received numerous opportunities to learn that this stage of life holds gifts – if I dare risk opening them.  Sharing what I know to be true – as I did with L (who appeared, at first, surprised, but then interested in the idea) – as I do when I sign up to tell my story at The Moth Story Slam – as I do, more and more often, even in random encounters with others – sharing both validates my experience and encourages others to do the same.
     It feels scary to me – opening up and risking like this.  Yet I see only two options available to me as I approach 60:  to disappear into the accepted cultural view of a dried-up and pitiful old woman, or, to embrace the vibrant, juicy, experienced, and perhaps wise woman who lives inside.  The first feels like only existence, while the second feels of life.
     I’m reminded – quite often recently – that, when I experienced heart attack almost four years ago, in the moment that dying felt so seductive – the moment of understanding that dying meant not having to try any more – there came a clear voice that said, “You’re not done yet.”  And that voice – though I didn’t want to hear it or accept its message – made my body fight to live.
     Now, as then, the acceptance of life includes acceptance of responsibility.  It means I must fight past the fear of opening up and offering who I am, who I am becoming.  Yes, even at this stage life seems to be about becoming.  I choose to become an elder rather than an old lady.  No, I’m not done yet.

Rumination on Changing

     I downloaded this picture, from early in the Occupy Wall Street movement, onto my computer desktop.  Every time I open the computer the image moves me, particularly the disembodied hand holding the sign reminds me – that no matter what we’re supposed to believe, in truth changing the world begins in changing oneself.  Not changing to fit in with greater ease, or even changing so our own life will hold fewer problems or challenges – but changing as an appreciation, changing through greater and more loving acceptance of who we truly are.  In her poem, “The Wild Geese” Mary Oliver writes - “You do not have to be good. You do not have to crawl, on your knees, across the desert.  You only have to let the soft animal of your body Love what it loves.”  That kind of change.

         That kind of change, like the Occupy movement, requires faith.  It means understanding that loving what we love, acting from and on what is authentic in us, we may never know how we have changed the world.  Mostly, changing oneself, opening to what is genuinely and uniquely us – to the darkness as well as the sunny side – gives permission to those around us to make their own changes, live with their own authenticity.  And that’s a pretty good payoff.

         I think of this a lot as I approach my 60^th birthday – in a bit over a month.  I can’t deny that I view this birthday as the beginning of the last stage of my life.  But, more and more, as I move toward this day and consider the ways I want to honor and celebrate it, I notice “what if” thoughts.  They leap around in my head as if they’d been suddenly freed from cages.  And the animal of my body responds to these “what if” thoughts with energy and juiciness.

         What if this could be the most freeing, satisfying, and fully lived part of my life? 

         What if I let go of worrying about failure, or punishment, or rejection and did what I feel to anyway?

         What if the best things about me are the earthy, audacious, loud, sensual, and humorous things?

         What if I just listened to my body and what it wants instead of trying to convince it it’s wrong?

         I don’t yet know what I will DO with or about all of this, but I know that this is changing, coming to appreciation of who I truly am.  Even in the last stage of life it seems there is faith in possibilities – which flies in the face of the conventional wisdom, the norm.  But as Frank Zappa said, “Progress is not possible without deviation from the norm.”  I tried so hard, for so many years, to live according to the norm.  After all those years I’m coming to accept myself – particularly now in the last stage – as I am – not as people want me to be, so they can feel more comfortable. 

         Changing the world begins in changing oneself – and I’m OK with that.  Better than OK really.  Even though it is inconvenient and uncomfortable, we must do it.  At least I must – I need to continue, even in the last stage of life, to ponder the “what if” questions.  I need to live those questions, holding them lightly – not as requirements for being an elder woman but for the opportunities they present to live fully – no matter what stage of life I’m in.

February Fifteenth Twenty Twelve

My - over 60 - cousin Susan & her lovely daughter Kimmy

No matter how I say it or write it, the reality of the upcoming year for me is that it is the year I turn 60.  And that's freaking me out.  Sixty years old - some synaptic process interacts with some idea I picked up somewhere - years ago - and I only think "Old!"  Reality, evidence to the contrary, how others see me, what I see in the mirror, what I feel - none of that matters in the face of this belief - that, at 60 I will suddenly become old.

I suppose it's no different really from the belief I had in adolescence that I'd become "adult" at 18, from considering 30 as the age to "get serious" about life, from feeling, at 46 (don't ask me why it was 46) the entrance to "middle age."  The belief itself - the message I've carried around within me - isn't different, but how that belief has affected my capacity to imagine and consider is VERY different.  For reasons I don't yet understand thinking of 60 as "old" has kept me from planning for or playing with what life might look or feel like, what life might hold when I am old.

So - though I could put it in terms that make me sound more OK with it - the truth is this belief tells me that when I get old, life is over.  God, have I swallowed the Cultural Gatekeeper whole, or what!  Our culture tells us older women are invisible, that we're "done" - no longer desirable sexually or even as customers (which, of course, is the most important thing anyone can be in our culture).  We become overlooked, even invisible, after a certain age.  And because I have held this belief I haven't imagined anything about what life may be, look like, feel like, hold, or bring into being once I reach 60.

I understand that writing this, telling it, confronting it - I'm doing the work of debunking this myth I've given space to in my head for so long.  So that's a good thing.  But I'll tell you honestly that prying loose this belief that 60=old=game over brings up tons of uncertainty, wheelbarrows filled with the rocks of self-doubt I've always tended to throw at myself.  Going against such a long held belief, backed by the cultural dictums, reminds me of the labor of birthing.  The pain of birthing comes from opening - as the cervix widens the entire body loosens to prepare to push - and our core musculature and skeleton becomes more flexible.  We require support - physically and emotionally.

I guess, in allowing my words to flow here I'm finding the metaphors my imagination can work with.  Birth is a good one - and one I have worked with many times in the past ten years.  Yes, it involves pain, and hard work, letting go of trying to control the uncontrollable - but what in life, what that's worth having anyway, does not.  A re-imagining is required then, and now.  And sharing the unfolding story, developing it, getting feedback from those who hear it - this too is necessary.

At least that's how it looks to me as I sit outside in the breeze and sun of this late December day.  Sure as the weather changes so will my consideration of what it means for me to reach 60.   I'll keep writing here as it happens.

The Occupy Movement - or - How I Came to Think About Being an American

When the Occupy movement began my immediate response was, "HELL, Yeah!"  I still respond that way - more today than when it began.  The events taking place at the various sites, the responses of so-called Conservative media and commentators (I say so-called because I don't see these institutions as conserving anything, except their own status and power and grabs for more), the struggles (often against guns and other weapons) that the Occupiers have undergone to continue the movement - all encourage me in my view that this movement is important.

At the start I didn't see the underpinnings of the movement.  Yes, I'd had an immediate positive response, but I think that came more from a place of Aquarian rebellion than from a creative or critical thought process.  Even when I began supporting the Occupy Louisville group, I still wasn't sure what it was about.  Like so many others I was used to asking, or posing, the question "What do they want?"

It was only with the recent moves in three separate cities, on the same night (interesting, hmmmm?) to remove the Occupiers from their peaceful (mostly) and organized locations - moves undertaken in the dark of night (another hmmmm) and by police in riot gear - that I really understood the importance of the protest.  What they/we of the 99% want has less to do with specific issues and everything to do with the assumptions most of us have about what it means to be an American.

There's so much to articulate about what that last sentence means, that I feel a sense of overwhelm in the idea of trying.  Luckily I happened upon an article in Rolling Stone that says it, and better than I could.  Here's a link to it:  http://www.rollingstone.com/politics/news/how-i-stopped-worrying-and-learned-to-love-the-ows-protests-20111110 

I'd encourage you to read this article - it's not long.  The author's journey to understanding the Occupy Movement felt really similar to mine - and rather reflects the thinking of a bunch of folks I've talked to.  Have conversations about it, or do something, anything that expresses your own point of view.  Me, I'm gonna keep supporting the OL group, keep considering what I'm doing that maintains the status quo the Movement is throwing a light on, and keep trying to live up to my "Hell, Yeah!" spirit.

Telling Our Stories

The Sun Singer - Allerton Park

Just last week I ended regular therapy sessions with the fabulous person I've been seeing for nearly five years.  It was time - I knew it - we'd discussed it over several months, but only just bringing the idea into the room and then allowing it to be there.  Only on the day of our last appointment did I appreciate that it really was fine for it to BE the last appointment.  And that session flowed forward around the decision.

As expected, the Gatekeepers who accompany me through every day came forward in the days following to attempt their usual sabotage, to harass my adult attempts to allow the necessary grief, and to plant the seeds of fear in my child-self.  Yet their attempts to derail me, as I move into a life that doesn't include regularly scheduled sessions,  are weaker than previously.  Perhaps I've "made friends" with them after all. A wonderful teacher once said that this process of friendship with the Gatekeepers frees us to see them for who and what they really are - messengers of protection that we once needed but now can function without.

Or possibly the power of these Gatekeepers to push me into the swirl of worry, of self-doubt, of draining and tiring judgment of my thoughts and actions is weakened because I - instead of closing myself off from others as they want me to do - instead chose to share this important choice and its attendant emotions WITH others.  I told the story, and continue to do so in conversation and interaction with those I care for, and who care for me.

Telling the story to others - allowing them to hear our sadness or anger, our ambivalence (which is quite dominant in this situations), our fear, our joy - is what permits the emotions to move in and through us.  In telling this story (to my wonderful story telling group - among others) not only did my emotions become accessible, but I was able to see this ending in context - as part of the flow of growth and change in my life.  Somehow - for me - experiences of depth and soul do not become 'real' until I tell about them.  Oh, the Gatekeepers hate that - hate my facing reality.  But then they aren't in charge anymore, so too bad.

Telling my story to the group, rather than reading a story I've written (what I usually do) also illuminated that I just might be a storyteller.  I've wondered if I might have the skills of a teller as well as a writer, and telling this to the group confirms - well, at least sends a strong maybe into consciousness.

Recently Louisville received the gift of a regular Moth Story Slam.  For years I've listened to The Moth on NPR, and fantasized about going to the closest slam (Chicago).  Now, voila!, I can attend a Story Slam each month.  Why am I telling you this?  Well, as you can guess, I may put my name 'into the hat' to tell a story this coming month.  After my experience with the small group, this seems like a next logical step - get on stage, tell my story, and be open to the response of an audience.  It may not be THIS story (at least not this month - when the Story Slam theme is "Busted"), but then I've got plenty of other stories to tell that fit this theme.

Will I do well when I do this?  Will the audience come along with me as I tell?  Will I cry, or become confused, or forget the next part (since stories must be told without notes)?  I guess we'll find out.  What I know now is that telling my stories is important for me.  And maybe it's as important for others to hear them as it is for me to tell.

The Challenge

In the world to come, I shall not be asked, "Why were you not Moses?" 

I shall be asked, "Why were you not Zusya?"

- Rabbi Zusya

And isn’t that the challenge, for each of us – to be ourselves, our largest self, the self that burns, perhaps, too brightly for some of the people in our lives.  Most of the people I’ve met seem to struggle with this.  I know I do.
Rabbi Zusya gave this answer to someone who asked him why he wasn’t more like the Patriarch.  In answering as he did Zusya was not saying he couldn’t be as large a figure as Moses, but that his task was to act from his own authority, from what God had given him to work with.  To be the most Zusya he could be was his task, what, and all that, God wanted of him.
I’ve struggled most of my life with the belief that I should be “better” than I am – with feeling a failure because I can’t write like Fitzgerald or Welty, and other equally ridiculous premises.  Conversely, I fear to try, to speak and write from my own voice, with passion, power, conviction - what a conflict.
And then there’s the belief that I think most of us have – that we “should” be like “most” people.  I’ve only met a few people who have that inner sense that they can speak and act from a passionate and empowered position, from a sense of self that, while they may fail at things, or take a wrong path, it is all in the service of learning who and how and what they are – and that’s just fine.  We are too often raised, or at least acculturated, to fit in, to not rock the boat, to avoid taking the big chance.  The risk of being only, and absolutely, ourselves places us on the outside, or sometimes in the lead – both lonely places.
I know – not everyone can do what Moses did – leading a people, making decisions that affect life and death outcomes, listening only to that voice that he called God and some of us might call inner self.  And we tend toward thinking that our individual choices, our inner callings, the actions we take when we aren’t sure what to do – that those don’t matter anyway.  But what if they do?
What if that is what Zusya is telling us – today?  What if being faithful to, trusting, acting on and from our authentic self matters as much as parting the sea did?  How do we know it doesn’t – in some future we may not be around to see?

Certainly, it ought to be evident, I don’t have any answers here.  At best I can consider these ideas, these questions, this challenge – and share them with whoever shows up.  At best, and for what it’s worth, I can be Mary Jo (she of the incorrect name) and try appreciating, if not understanding, what a good thing that is.