Another coffee and granola morning after a good yoga class, practicing gratitude. In yoga this morning, I requested the circle that has always been for me the metaphor for community since I first started practicing with Ellin last March. I've practiced yoga (really, off and on) for over 30 years--and no matter the kind, style, teacher, aapproach, city, it seems that we will always do balancing poses, always the tree. In this class, we stand in a circle, palms touching palms, leaning on the shoulder of our friend (as Ellin refers to those on either side of us) until we achieve our position, then standing tall in an elegant circle, fingertips touching, arms raised high. This morning, we also practice leaning inward and extending one leg outward--and--the most beautiful and awkward of all, grasping our the arch of our foot, extending it outward and to the right (or left), all the while grasping the shoulder of our friend as we are positioning ourselves, and placing our heel on the extended leg of the person next to us. I'll try to draw an illustration of this pose soon, but it forms truly a celtic knot of a circle as our legs interlock with one another's and we lift our arms upward. My gratitude today? That I can do this--in community. In this kind of community, this beautiful metaphor for community, we can pose so much more gracefully and strongly than if we were struggling with balance on our own. On our own, even if, say, my balance feels right and secure, in the corner of my eye, if I see the person next to me teetering, my own balance is affected, as if were are connected by an invisible cord. Actually, I believe that we are, but when we stand in the circle, our cords retract, because we do touch one another. We recognize the connectedness that really does exist when we're not in the circle. We,re brought into connectedness.
I'd like to choreograph a dance like this.
Gratitude.
It is time to go.
I haven't yet spoken about Oliver Sacks, from whom Tana will take a course at Columbia this spring--or depression--I'll save that.
But Niko and I have just has a conversation about our advent teaching series, the great prayers of the Old Testament--and the beauty of that poetry, especially Psalm 23. But as Walter Breuggemann says, our Christian prayers are anemic in comparison--we'll look at Moses, Hannah' David, and Jeremiah.
And that's for another time.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
Mondays with Niko: On Dancing at 70
Here we are in our favorite cafe, doing what we often do, settling in to writing after a catch up conversation on how we we've been, our latest worries about our children, and, this morning, friends with cancer--prognoses not good. This is the day after the storm. Six, maybe 8, inches of snow and now bright sun, blue sky, great plops of snow falling from the pine trees, sloppy sidewalks', snow boots, scarves, and vests--in all, one of those winter-loving days that Coloradans are extremely boastful of--
But today I want to talk about dancing at 70. I really do NOT want to go to my grave regretting that I haven't danced enough. So that's what I'm doing--mostly now in the form of NIA, an acronym whose words I can never remember, but having something to do with neuromuscular intergration--something very good for my body, mind, and spirit--a combination of dance, martial arts, and something else--Tai Chi, perhaps. I'm taking as many classes as I can fit in, given my schedule--but sometimes I can do up to 4 a week.
This week, let's add ballrooom dancing lessons, swing and foxtrot. In preparation for Mary Kate+'s wedding, she and Jean-Hilaire are taking dance lessons and inviting others to do so also, so that they are used to dancing in the presence of others. Doug and I joined mostly young people for a lesson in the chapel (of all places, but, oh well) taught by the ever-gracious, ever-patient talented Gabriel. Doug did beautifully in his usual good sport way--not always entirely comfortable, but always willing.
I first started dancing, I'm pretty sure, when I was in the third grade. I took tap, ballet, and acrobat--loved it all. Little did I know that my parents could hardly afford those lessons--and they did die out after a while, especially since we moved around so much. I also don't know why I was selected for the lessons--of the three of us girls--but I do remember Mother talking about trying to find me in the supermarket--and thereI'd be, dancing down the aisles. (Grocery store aisles are, by the way, eminently suited for sweeping gestures and great leaps from one end to the other.) My best lessons were in Corpus Christi, and I can't even remember the name of my teachers. But they were the best, by far, that I've ever had. I was talented, really, and loved dancing so much that I actually would practice at home. (and in the supermarket, down the street, in the school halls, at church)
When we moved to Beaumont, I did enroll again--taking from Miss Miriam (Widman) and Miss Judith (Sproule). Something had changed, though. The classes were larger, we were at all levels in the same class, as new girl (throughout childhood I was always the the"new girl"), I didn't get the personal attention that I had gotten in Corpus. I faithfully did my recitals, however. My favorite tap was to "Shrimp Boats" (so fitting for the Gulf Coast); of course, as did many a 12-year-old, we danced the "Waltz of the Flowers" from the Nutcracker. The costume was beautiful--made by my Mother--of pink net and satin with flowers as our shoulder straps. In jr. high I danced to "Sentimental Journey" with a group of friends for a talent show. We wore blue skirts and white organza blouses, and carried suitcases--those beige looking ones with darker bands around them--the then equivalent of today's black suitcases on wheels--everyone had them.
In high school, not so many dance lessons, but lots of dances--and the jitterbug was my favorite, but we also did the bop--and that was the time that lyrics began to change from "How Much is that Doggie in the Window?" to "Rock Around the Clock" and "Bip-Bam, Thank You, Ma'am'" Our parents were horrified.
We lived on the Louisiana border, so, of course, we learned the Cajun Two-Step at the fais dos-dos.
Over the years I've enrolled in ballet. It took me a while to come around to modern, a result of the influence (and prejudice) of my early ballet teachers. In Cedar City, I took dance from my yoga teacher, Terri. I suggested at that time that she think about starting a dance group for older women, but I think she thought the idea was ridiculous.
Where I live in Colorado, however, the idea is far from ridiculous, and I have begun jazz lessons and am fascinated witha group of women whose company is known as Forty Women Over Forty--and that's my goal. Workshop in December, audition fror the show.
But today I want to talk about dancing at 70. I really do NOT want to go to my grave regretting that I haven't danced enough. So that's what I'm doing--mostly now in the form of NIA, an acronym whose words I can never remember, but having something to do with neuromuscular intergration--something very good for my body, mind, and spirit--a combination of dance, martial arts, and something else--Tai Chi, perhaps. I'm taking as many classes as I can fit in, given my schedule--but sometimes I can do up to 4 a week.
This week, let's add ballrooom dancing lessons, swing and foxtrot. In preparation for Mary Kate+'s wedding, she and Jean-Hilaire are taking dance lessons and inviting others to do so also, so that they are used to dancing in the presence of others. Doug and I joined mostly young people for a lesson in the chapel (of all places, but, oh well) taught by the ever-gracious, ever-patient talented Gabriel. Doug did beautifully in his usual good sport way--not always entirely comfortable, but always willing.
I first started dancing, I'm pretty sure, when I was in the third grade. I took tap, ballet, and acrobat--loved it all. Little did I know that my parents could hardly afford those lessons--and they did die out after a while, especially since we moved around so much. I also don't know why I was selected for the lessons--of the three of us girls--but I do remember Mother talking about trying to find me in the supermarket--and thereI'd be, dancing down the aisles. (Grocery store aisles are, by the way, eminently suited for sweeping gestures and great leaps from one end to the other.) My best lessons were in Corpus Christi, and I can't even remember the name of my teachers. But they were the best, by far, that I've ever had. I was talented, really, and loved dancing so much that I actually would practice at home. (and in the supermarket, down the street, in the school halls, at church)
When we moved to Beaumont, I did enroll again--taking from Miss Miriam (Widman) and Miss Judith (Sproule). Something had changed, though. The classes were larger, we were at all levels in the same class, as new girl (throughout childhood I was always the the"new girl"), I didn't get the personal attention that I had gotten in Corpus. I faithfully did my recitals, however. My favorite tap was to "Shrimp Boats" (so fitting for the Gulf Coast); of course, as did many a 12-year-old, we danced the "Waltz of the Flowers" from the Nutcracker. The costume was beautiful--made by my Mother--of pink net and satin with flowers as our shoulder straps. In jr. high I danced to "Sentimental Journey" with a group of friends for a talent show. We wore blue skirts and white organza blouses, and carried suitcases--those beige looking ones with darker bands around them--the then equivalent of today's black suitcases on wheels--everyone had them.
In high school, not so many dance lessons, but lots of dances--and the jitterbug was my favorite, but we also did the bop--and that was the time that lyrics began to change from "How Much is that Doggie in the Window?" to "Rock Around the Clock" and "Bip-Bam, Thank You, Ma'am'" Our parents were horrified.
We lived on the Louisiana border, so, of course, we learned the Cajun Two-Step at the fais dos-dos.
Over the years I've enrolled in ballet. It took me a while to come around to modern, a result of the influence (and prejudice) of my early ballet teachers. In Cedar City, I took dance from my yoga teacher, Terri. I suggested at that time that she think about starting a dance group for older women, but I think she thought the idea was ridiculous.
Where I live in Colorado, however, the idea is far from ridiculous, and I have begun jazz lessons and am fascinated witha group of women whose company is known as Forty Women Over Forty--and that's my goal. Workshop in December, audition fror the show.
Monday, November 2, 2009
The Picture of Dorian Gray (Hair) aka Kay at 60, 65, 70
Still Monday morning, still writing--but a new topic here-my photos of the last 15, 10, 5 years, such as the one I've posted on this blog. When I went in to give up my Utah driver's license for a Colorado one, I of course had my pictue taken. I had taken in my passport as another means of ID to get me license, so the clerks who took the picture, having the three photos before them, laughed that they all looked the same--my looks have not changed, and, according to the pix, I have not aaged in all these years. I myself would be incredulous to be told that the woman in the picture on this blog was celebrating her 70th birthday. In fact, I would be downright green with envy. What is her secret?
Well, I'll tell you. We love stories about people who have sold their soul to the devil in exchange for immortality, Dr. Faustus, for example. I have not sold my soul to the devil, but I seem to have made some bargain with the camera. Yes, the camera has decided that when I stand in front of it (or sit) that it will render much the same picture that it has over the past 15 years. It was a secret pact, evidently,, and I don't know what being is in charge of what the camera sees, but there it is--
There it is--a reverse Dorian Grey--the physical self has aged considerably over the years--the photos don't age. What is going to happen when the two collide? I shudder to think. The wrinkles on my face are deep and my sagging neck has the texture that my mother's did when Rick told her, "Your neck looks just like your dress, A-my." She was wearing crepe. My hands have all those brown spots on them that signify undignified aging, the flesh on my arms--when I do the downward dog, all moves forward and down, forming crevasses--waves of human flesh folding over into itself. I'm horrified and pretend I'm not.
Maybe that's what the camera knows-she wouldn't be able to take it--go easy on her--rough life and all. Give her something to smile about.
Well, I'll tell you. We love stories about people who have sold their soul to the devil in exchange for immortality, Dr. Faustus, for example. I have not sold my soul to the devil, but I seem to have made some bargain with the camera. Yes, the camera has decided that when I stand in front of it (or sit) that it will render much the same picture that it has over the past 15 years. It was a secret pact, evidently,, and I don't know what being is in charge of what the camera sees, but there it is--
There it is--a reverse Dorian Grey--the physical self has aged considerably over the years--the photos don't age. What is going to happen when the two collide? I shudder to think. The wrinkles on my face are deep and my sagging neck has the texture that my mother's did when Rick told her, "Your neck looks just like your dress, A-my." She was wearing crepe. My hands have all those brown spots on them that signify undignified aging, the flesh on my arms--when I do the downward dog, all moves forward and down, forming crevasses--waves of human flesh folding over into itself. I'm horrified and pretend I'm not.
Maybe that's what the camera knows-she wouldn't be able to take it--go easy on her--rough life and all. Give her something to smile about.
Mondays with Niko
For almost one year now Niko and I have been going to yoga class, then finding a coffee shop and quiet place to di writing for at least an hour and sometimes more than that.. At the end of the year, we'll pull together what we've written--see what we have. Our idea is that if we don't set aside this time, we'll never to it on our own. Today we sit in the lobby of a very posh hotel. We have paid $4 each for an Americano, which makes us thankful that we brought our own pumpkin bread and apple. We're in front of a wide fireplace that has flames coming from crystals--behind it is a window and we see outside to a fountain burbling water up and over a brass sculpture that I cant describe--lots of angles, perhaps representing leaves. It is all very elegant and only a little out of place in this town known best for its laid-back, outdoor, mountaineering life style.
Last week we met, but did not write. Our whole time last Monday was spent talking. I was just back from Paris, so we had missed some time together. But Paris was not what we talked about--rather, our children and the anxiety we feel for them long after they have become adults, have been out of our houses for a while, and are leading their own lives. It started, of course, with my telling Niko about my grief over Jesse's death and for his parents. It's the same response as I mentioned before. We become very quiet, afraid to dpeak some things out loud, thinking of our own children and there but for the grace of God, Allah, the beneficent beings of tghe universe, go we. The death of a child, the most horrific of imaginings, brings out any fear we have of putting that out in the universe--the mere discussion of it resonating at some celestial level--the power of the word--the spoken word-- to emerge into a thing, into a dreaded reality. Interestingly, we find that power absolutely impotent when we put positive thoughts out there--we tend to scorn at that a bit more--as if only the negative has some power over us to fulfill itself in the reality of our lives.
A concern over a breakup, a child in constant pain because of an accident, abuse--even the children whose lives are smooth for the moment-we find ourselves waking at night with a pang and a pit in the stomach. Where are those years when we could make everything all right with a kiss, soothing words, and a cookie?
As I've said to my friend whose son is cultivating marijuana for medicinal purposes, has just become a father, has been busted, "They're ont heir own journey." It's my mantra. Lord know that when I was 32, 49, 51---the age of my children now--Lord knows I would have never gone to my mother with any kind of pain; she didn't want to hear about it, and I took that for her uncaring, but frankly, it could very well have been that she cared too much.
A therapist once asked me, when I was grieving over my inability to protect my children from this savage and broken world, "Do you think your children are not as able as you are to endure what happens to us in life?" No, not really. But it's not too much to wish that they didn't have to.
Last week we met, but did not write. Our whole time last Monday was spent talking. I was just back from Paris, so we had missed some time together. But Paris was not what we talked about--rather, our children and the anxiety we feel for them long after they have become adults, have been out of our houses for a while, and are leading their own lives. It started, of course, with my telling Niko about my grief over Jesse's death and for his parents. It's the same response as I mentioned before. We become very quiet, afraid to dpeak some things out loud, thinking of our own children and there but for the grace of God, Allah, the beneficent beings of tghe universe, go we. The death of a child, the most horrific of imaginings, brings out any fear we have of putting that out in the universe--the mere discussion of it resonating at some celestial level--the power of the word--the spoken word-- to emerge into a thing, into a dreaded reality. Interestingly, we find that power absolutely impotent when we put positive thoughts out there--we tend to scorn at that a bit more--as if only the negative has some power over us to fulfill itself in the reality of our lives.
A concern over a breakup, a child in constant pain because of an accident, abuse--even the children whose lives are smooth for the moment-we find ourselves waking at night with a pang and a pit in the stomach. Where are those years when we could make everything all right with a kiss, soothing words, and a cookie?
As I've said to my friend whose son is cultivating marijuana for medicinal purposes, has just become a father, has been busted, "They're ont heir own journey." It's my mantra. Lord know that when I was 32, 49, 51---the age of my children now--Lord knows I would have never gone to my mother with any kind of pain; she didn't want to hear about it, and I took that for her uncaring, but frankly, it could very well have been that she cared too much.
A therapist once asked me, when I was grieving over my inability to protect my children from this savage and broken world, "Do you think your children are not as able as you are to endure what happens to us in life?" No, not really. But it's not too much to wish that they didn't have to.
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