COMPARISONS - IF I HAD ONLY

A moment ago, where I am happily here in Salt Lake City, Utah, my hostess handed me a Thanksgiving Zen Story. The timing was perfect for I had begun the above titled blog while still in Burlington, Vermont. I will not write the entire story since it is not important in this context. What is important is the message Zen Master Sono taught her students (rich-poor, sick-healthy, in distress or satisfied) to adopt an affirmation to be said many times a day, under all conditions. The affirmation was, Thank you for everything. I have no complaint whatsoever."

That's one big mouthful, and from the story apparently many a student was disappointed and went away not at all pleased. Those who adopted her mantra, or affirmation, practicing it all through their day, found peace and healing.

Once more, I say that's one big mouthful, particularly during this Season of let's be Jolly and Peace on Earth. Jolly? with financial disaster looming everywhere one looks , and war or conflict a daily offering in newspapers, radio, television, Face Book, ipod, or whatever the names of these new (to old-fashioned, me remembering when the telephone and radio had just come into existence!) inventions are!

Repeating that affirming mantra coincides with my thoughts about making comparisons or constantly iterating if I had only. The former is positive, the latter negative. I am certain no one, no! one! Not Billionaire Buffet, not super-star Cruise, not universally adored Winfrey! They would be the first to admit that there are times when they complained or were equally guilty of saying an "if I had only!".

There is a cliche: "Were we each to throw our troubles into one enormous pot then given the opportunity to select others that appear less loathsome we would end up with our own." Like many cliches, this on's true. Fame, fortune, power, stardom, all are accompanied by pain, suffering and up-to-the-elbows hard work! I know this from reading (a passion of mine) biographies or autobiographies. I know it from having -ever so luckily-contented friends -and family.

Nothing came easily to any of them yet they all are living successful ,on their terms, lives. Of course the word success has different meanings for different people. It need not include national or international acclaim. I have known such scintillating stars and heard their complaints about the painful price accompanying fame, have head them negatively comparing, muttering " if I had onlie" to themselves. They may not have repeated Zen Master Sono's mantra but certainly told themselves something akin to it. (As for my family, I'm going to ask them one day).

Many of these miracle mortals were born with good genes, but then again, think of those we have read about who were born with disastrous physical drawbacks yet with grit and guts attained heights far outdistancing healthier compatriots.

I'm not sure my writing and your reading this helps you or me personally. I woke up this morning in a lot of pain that took my medications longer than usual to work. I lay in bed all grumbling comparisons, and "if I had only-ing" until tears came to my eyes. It's great to read about these individuals who are able to practice what I'm so smugly here preaching . Yet again, as I type these words I know I will begin to practice Thank you for everything. I have no complaint whatsoever. What have we got to lose! Remember the play Peter Pan? Remember Mary Martin (at least the version I saw) flying about the room urging "happier thoughts, Michael" so he too could fly?

If we go in for "happier thoughts" we will not figuratively fly but we will fly in our spirits. It is a known medical fact that when we smile whether feeling good or not, the mere physical fact of moving our lips into smile lines good feelings literally trigger something in our brains that brings happy feelings. The same with laughter. The act of laughing in and of itself creates all manner of good feelings. One has no time for complaining or if I had Only-ing. Try it. You may feel silly, but it works.

After ninety years of living I know whereof I speak. And just the fact that despite my having awoken feeling more pain than usual despite the meds, despite my going upstairs to breakfast and seeing how beautiful is the home of my hosts compared to mine, I took the trouble to make myself smile, went to the mirror and faked a laugh, bingo!!! it worked. I felt considerably improved. Then, before beginning this blog I silently said Thank you for everything. I have no complaint whatsoever."

Guess what!

WATER

Last night I attended a delicious pre-holiday party. At one point, I went to the bathroom. Our hosts had a toilet with two flushes, infinitesimal and full steam ahead. Would that all toilets were so installed! It should become a national issue.

American’s disregard for precious water should not be tolerated. There is no doubt in my mind, if we continue this way, within twenty or so years, we will have a national drought I guess I am glad to be as old as I am. I am sad that my off spring, all three generations of them will not be that lucky. Several years ago I remember saying, “Remember as little kids we would start ‘digging a hole to China’? Well, it wouldn’t surprise me at all if the Bush Crowd had already dug such a hole to assure their water supply.” Such precautions, however, will be useless, for the masses, without water who will storm the barricades with their own Bastille Revolution. We can go without everything except water.

Old time Vermonters remember the expression: “Yellow is mellow; brown flush it down!” If we do not have toilets as above, that is the principle every single individual should practice today, right now, and every day thereafter. The same procedure can be established at public toilets. It should not embarrass you if you are leaving the yellow mellow for the next person. Au contraire, you should be proud of yourself for caring for the planet in this small way!

When washing dishes, do not keep the water running! Wash them in a large pan. Then take them out and rinse them using as little water as possible. When you brush your teeth you should follow the same ritual. Wet the brush. Turn off the water. Brush your teeth. Turn on the water and rinse.

As for dishwashers, there could not be a more flagrant waste of water! Those using such a method should make a point of filling the dishwasher to its ultimate capacity. Too many run the machine with only a few dishes. Another tip re energy conservation, you do not need to utilize the drying period. The water is sufficiently hot, as is the inside of the machine, so that the dishes and silverware will dry quite satisfactorily, thank you!

You may have noticed my writing tends to run toward exclamation points. This is so I know because these writings tend to be subjects that demand exclamations. When it comes to conserving water, I feel like filling the entire page with exclamation points. We are careless and arrogant, actually, about our ignorance regarding the water supply. Last year, residents of the South remember well the scarcity, the difficulty, the pain they underwent when water became a mere dribble. I would be interested to know how those same men, women, children are doing now; if their habits have altered.

Which brings me round to lawns: I have friends in Utah where water is customarily in short supply. Their beautiful plot of ground is handsomely landscaped with bushes, plants, trees that do not demand watering whereas neighbors seem to believe a large grassy lawn is more chic, more attractive. Utter nonsense! I visit these friends yearly. I have been there when drought warnings are issued regularly on radio and television, yet we walk the neighborhood to find sprinklers going all over. Shame, shame! Yet they feel no shame, believing the green lawn is a sign of elegance. It is a sign of opulent disregard for Mother Nature and her –so far- generous gift of water! Mark my words, not much longer!

The same disregard for water occurs in restaurants and bars. It would be a great idea if the employees thought about the water they use when wiping up or dispensing ice. I remember long ago, when we went to restaurants water was not automatically produced on the table. We certainly need to drink it regularly as do we need to wash our hands. However, we can pour only as much as we will drink. We can wash our hands, as with the dishes, without letting the water run. Wash without running the water, then rinse after washing, exclamation point!

Americans are obsessed with cleanliness. If each of us diligently takes that one small step, just like the importance of just one vote, the results may literally be your, our survival or your, our demise. I’m not just whistling Dixie, kids. I could not be more deadly serious. Think about it.

Let's hear it for the railroads!

My View From Ninety today, raises an outcry at our United States Public (so-called) Transportation System, or all too accurately, lack thereof! For decades car manufacturers and oil cartels, slowly and seditiously have taken over public transportation with arrogant disregard for the welfare of either our citizenry or our planet. Almost entirely disregarding the environmentally sound, quieter, safer, certainly more reliable railroads that once made travel a total pleasure. Not only could we get from state to state, city to city, but small town to even smaller one. All now gone. Did nobody notice? We became so obsessed with the automobile and airplane that we failed to heed the steady, subtle erosion of more comfortable, affordable, ecologically sensible railroad, once part and parcel of life in these United States.

How come it is different in Europe, Asia, Africa! Why haven't the citizenry taken arms against this problem? As a child I remember the guileless delight I had as I boarded the train from our home in the village of Tarrytown, New York heading for that mighty metropolis, Manhattan! I remember the peace of the gentle-rocking in a parlor car as I slept safe and sound while we sped to Portland, Maine. Nor did it stop there. Chicago, San Francisco! Oh the joy of riding cross country on the 20th Century Limited! Is there anyone any longer who even remembers the 20th Century Limited, or for that matter the trains that chugged from Newport to Orleans, Vermont!

What has become of our free and independent nation that we have permitted these rights to vanish without rising in tempestuous protest! How Alemming@ have we become to allow such disintegration to subsume the quality of our lives!

Granted, our largest cities maintain reliable public transportation. But what about smaller ones such as Burlington! Submissive lambs-to-slaughter, we grudgingly accommodate ourselves to air travel despite it's growing more and more costly with increasing disregard for passenger comfort. Isn't it time for us to straighten up and fly right! But no, the airlines do not straighten up nor fly right! We are shunted into bigger, more crowded planes at higher prices while schedules grow more unreliable, with unapologetic delays and even occasional bumping.

Why do we permit this! What has turned our spunky selves into submissive sheep! There was a time in Vermont when trains chugged from town to town once a day. Less than twenty years past buses, at least, ran between Newport and Burlington. Aren=t Vermonters humiliated that they cannot get from Montpelier, our State Capitol for heavens sake, to Burlington, our biggest city except by car or one bus a day!

But back to the railroad!. Why can I not see friends in Portland, Maine (much less Portland, Oregon) unless I fly? Why, for that matter, can I not even get to Oregon except by airplane instead of the long-ago civilized train complete with dining service and comfortable sleeping arrangements! Even the bus service from Burlington to Manhattan has not only been curtailed and re-routed to include the smallest of towns making it an interminably long drive, yet the price has increased. When are we going to join the rest of the world by reinstating train travel!

Over a year ago France inaugurated a super speed train from Paris to Marseilles that makes the trip in less time than it takes The Vermonter to reach Manhattan from Essex Junction. In Europe there are trains, boats, all manner of clean, comfortable, reliable ways to reach remote villages no matter how hidden, high or sparsely populated. In Japan it is national policy that if a train is more than 20 minutes late the traveler retrieves the cost of the ticket!

Isn't it time we demand improved public transportation? We know the environmental disaster cars cause. We know we want our green state to remain, yea grow, greener. And here's an idea whose time should come: expand the ferry system to include water travel to Canada and Lake Champlain ports! Talk about seducing tourists! Wow! And Holy Cow! Allow your mind to run over the bonanza benefits accrued were we to establish eco-friendly train, boat, and bus service in this glorious state. Already I see the masses of leaf peepers, snow boarders, lilac lovers, fisher people in frenzied fury fighting for entry into our singular countryside Electrifying is the beauty in our state, sometimes beauty beyond bearing. We want to keep that beauty? Am I an impossible 90 dreamer! Can I not manifest a multitude to stamp feet, pound tables in such effective numbers that trains abound! Vermont is the place to start. Here where, in the main, we are almost smug about our congressional legislators with intelligence, courage and farsightedness. Legislators who give us hope. Can we not rally them round to reestablishing a state-wide, at least, railroad system!

Let's hear it for the railroads!

If you wish to learn more about my philosophy check out my book Yoga In The Morning, Martini at Night or The First Three-Score and Ten are the Hardest, available at Amazon.com.

Do Not Look Back

Rumi, world-renown 13th C Persian poet philosopher and teacher wrote: “Do not look back, my friend. No one knows how the world ever began. Do not fear the future. Nothing lasts forever. If you dwell on the past or the future, you will miss the moment.”

Pain had been consuming me for weeks. Consumed by the pain, I became a complaining, unhappy old lady. A friend from the west sent me a card and the above poem. Of course I was happy to receive her message, greatly touched. I shared its message with others, then came up short; those in their mid-seventies and under thanked me, asked me to repeat so they could write it down, or asked me to email them a copy. Those closing in on 80 and up, however, came back at me: “What’s so good about the moment? My trouble is the moment. Why do I want it? What’s wrong with remembering the past when I wasn’t in pain, wasn’t taking pills, wasn’t helpless” and on and on they went as I reluctantly found myself nodding in agreement.

Back in my youthful 70s and yoga-teaching days, I ended each class with a prayer of my own devising and the exclamation as we stood and raised our arms: “Old Is Magnificent!” I do not feel magnificent today. I feel lousy. I have grown brittle, tire easily, hear poorly, no longer see that well, find little joy in eating. I, once was absorbed with good cooking and good food, see no way out of the problem. I am alone, living almost exclusively on Social Security. A comparative new comer to Burlington, there is little continuity in my life or companionship from a shared past. What few friends I had have either died or left the area. There is no family nearby. What’s more, I find Vermonters, I regret to say, do not reach out easily to a single, old woman. Younger people, with energy and ability to participate actively are more readily embraced. With public transportation almost an impossibility, without a car and limited walking capacity, it is difficult to take oneself to events of interest, particularly in bad weather. I do not pass judgment merely state a fact. Each of us justifiably becomes embroiled in our own lives, families, problems, parties. It is hard to keep up ones own obligations without taking on someone’s else, especially an old someone else.

Back to Rumi and missing the moment!

Unable to take a sleeping pill since the doctor had ordered only one a night, I was restlessly tossing and groaning in exasperation and self-pity when, for no reason I can think of, up came the Rumi poem. Also up came my former bitter thoughts as I muttered a disgruntled “Sure, sure! Missing the moment am I? Do I give a damn about the moment! What’s to like about it! I know too well what I can do with this kind of moment going on, well yes, moment after moment placing me smack into the Who Needs It Division!

Then I sat up straight in bed, yes, I actually did just that, to exclaim “But this is the moment and it’s all I have.” I can want it to change, I can hope it will change but it doesn’t change and I cannot expect help from others. Already my children and grandchildren –plus caring friends– have given their best efforts. Sure, they, too would like it to be different, would like to help more, but they cannot. It just is.

And, bingo, it came to me there in my bed on that dark early morning, in that silent room the words and thoughts I have been uttering for years now to my yoga classes: “It is not how expertly you perform the postures that matters. What matters is the attention you pay, the effort you exert, the concentration and recognition of practice in and of itself is enough. That’s all of it. That’s the moment, the moment you are not missing.”

Bringing me back to my Bingo Moment: I cannot change the situation. I can, however, change myself. I can realign my concentration, my yoga practice --bad as it now is. The result is both elegantly dramatic and frighteningly traumatic. I want to talk about it to see if I can bring you into this new, self-healing realm.

I still hurt like the very hell. I haven’t grown a whit sprier, no, nothing has changed except my reaction. It has made such a difference I want to share it with you , explain how it is being a frail, ragged, aching nonagenarian with not a single recourse except my own, very private heart and mind set.

Much as I want, I cannot evade a decision; Either I re-evaluate my sense of self, or continue wallowing in grief and despair dragging friends and family with me. I have decided to seize the moment, to turn it into not exactly one continuously blooming rose garden but at least into an occasional, sweet-smelling rose.

Will you join me?

To All Who Wrote in to Me...

I am grateful beyond measure for the responses I am receiving from The View From Ninety. They are too numerous for me in my fragile health to answer individually, though I would certainly like to. Some of them have cheered me enormously, particularly those writing of how they will call or visit their grandparents. Those that mention changes in attitude toward older men and women.

I have spinal stenosis. It is difficult to sit too long at the computer. Thus I write this blog to all to say sincerely and simply: "May your know joy, deep-down, uninhibited joy; May you have the courage to do and the courage to be that which you want to do, that which you want to be; my your spirits find peace and your hearts practice compassion. This is the wish I extend to each and every one of you."

Please be sure to check back soon for more entries.

The View from 90

We all have views, no matter our age, but none view life in quite the manner that we arthritic, wrinkled, hurting truly old men and women, i.e., 75 and above. In a class by ourselves, we are, so why evade or belittle our being here. We have choices: instead of cringing, diminishing, or spending a cosmetic fortune to cover the signs, we are in a perfect space for facing it fearlessly, wrinkle by wrinkle, whilst quietly acknowledging, even affirming our accumulation of years! It’s not fun being old, curtailing activities. But I notice many far younger youngsters struggling equally hard to make a go of it.

The concepts about age in relation to human beings has taken a remarkable turnabout about within the past 30-odd years. When I was in my 40s, everyone, including myself, thought of me as middle aged. Today middle doesn’t begin until 60; old until the late seventies.
When I reached ninety my view definitively altered. Bigger and badder physical problems confronted me, resulting in considerable limitations on my daily routine. Despite those limits I gain nothing by diminishing or belittling them. I have learned the hard way, believe me, to look more inward, accept whatever age I’m in. I recognize the futility of beating myself for being ninety. I am already physically beaten enough as it is. So I cry ashamed upon those who cringe or hide from the old label. I cry ashamed, even though it isn’t fun, even less fun than it was at eighty! I must learn to acknowledge, not compare.

Thus, here in my Ninety Viewing, I try to be defiantly here. More, I challenge those who seek substitute designation such as “senior citizen,” “mature adult,” “fragile elder.” Most of all, I balk when people think they compliment me by protesting: You’re not old, you’re far too young in heart. Young in heart is not a compliment. I am old in heart. Only the old, those of us who have conquered time, suffered life’s despairs can know the exhilaration that consumes us when that despair is turned suddenly into a quiet, inner exhilaration by? by? well, like yesterday when an unexpected V of geese appeared across the evening sky. Ninety sees that V differently from nine, say, thirty-nine, or whatever.

Old is courage, stamina, guts, wisdom, understanding. Old is gentleness, joy, continuity. Old is defiance, acceptance, patience, sensitivity and compassion. And viewed in its proper context, old is beauty of singular radiance, a beauty achieved through the individuality possible only through aging. As Madeleine Engle writes in Two Part Invention, “there is little character in the face of someone who has avoided suffering, shunned risk and rejected life.” It is literally impossible to reach one’s 70s without having experienced risk, known suffering and obviously not rejected life. We’re here, aren’t we!

Sure, old inevitably means some kind of pain or other. There is sadness, loss, fear, helplessness, vulnerability and terrifying loneliness. There are old suicides and old alcoholics, but there are also youngsters sharing these statistics in alarming numbers.

It rankles when fellow old ones hide behind the euphemisms listed above. Bestowing such a tag will not smooth one wrinkle, improve vision, straighten gnarled fingers. Do my grandchildren love me more if they think of me as a Senior Citizen rather than an Old Lady?

By the time we’ve reached our late 60s, we’ve hit an impasse. We’ll not get smarter but we do get wiser. We are the sum of our lifetimes and calling us seniors merely belittles that lifetime. (I was a senior in high school, in college). We’ve made our beds and now lie in them. We can face that impasse with philosophic acceptance. I know each day holds a new experience, maybe not a cheerful one, nevertheless a new one. I accept its positive-negative sides with a tolerant good will impossible for impatient youth to understand because we are wiser.

Philosopher Plato and educator Mortimer Adler span millenniums to declare in unison: not until one is in the sixties can true wisdom and knowledge be attained. Audacious Nineties, me insists that without that knowledge and wisdom our happiness takes on a speciality unattainable to youth, if we are willing to make the effort. I.E., the rainbow friend Bud and I saw last week: I submit that despite his obvious pleasure, my nonagenarian view held a more impassioned grandeur simply because of my many previous rainbow-viewing years, causing it to reverberate with heightened sensitivity.

Without question youth bestrides the world with enviable vigor reveling in its belief that it alone has discovered joy, laughter, passion, celebrating as if exclusive to youth. However, not until they have grown up, find themselves facing the implacable wall of antiquity will they realize there actually are unsuspected enchantments round many a corner exclusive to old age.
I am not alone in these views. We increase in multitudes. We enroll in classes, pursue new careers, volunteer, rally at the ramparts, lunch, go the Flynn, a movie, contented and excited in a way only old crones can be in its supportive comradeship!

I want to initiate a crusade that honors old age, not demeans it with palliative metaphors. I want old to stare unashamedly into the faces of those daring to deflate our dazzling singularity. I want banners -- figurative, at least blazoned across high-and-by-way declaring old for what it is, a condition that raises us to an exclusive class in and of itself, setting us apart, giving us the respect we deserve, admitting the enormity of our blood, sweat and tears. I especially want my peers to acclaim their longevity, majestically acknowledging our elegant stage of life with refreshing (albeit clouded) eyes at our formidable day by day victory of our survival.

I am old in heart and those who have yet to view the world from ninety haven’t a clue about the giddy joy and pulsating passions (and I mean “passions” in every sense of the word) roiling through our aching, ailing bodies. It is precisely because of those bodies that we are so eminently capable of resonating to the muddied miracle that is our life.

I have always cared about my appearance, still care. But I do not hide the old, merely enhance it. True, on wakening I run through the depressing laundry list of ailments but, as an eighty-three chum recently responded to my inquiry about his health, “if I don’t find something hurts when I get up I begin to wonder if I’m still alive.”

I look up at the YES silk screen poster above my bed. It strikes me with resounding impact that I have another dichotomous good/bad day ahead inevitably accompanied by the enervating pain, but also a chance to stroll by the lake, listen to V P R, read, call a distant grand child. And hear this: I've begun a new routine. Upon arising, I go to my mirror to laugh (not at myself, just laugh) Amazing how it does the trick, places a more positive perspective upon that laundry list of ills.

Old furniture, old paintings, trees, dogs, even old baseball cards for heavens sakes, have value. Why shouldn't old men and old women! We must be affirmed. “Attention must be paid,” lifting a line from Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman. Attention, consideration, respect. Yet, equally important, we old must take ourselves in hand, convince ourselves of our majesty, our rights to that attention. Once we throw off sodden seriousness we just might transform those around us: Laugh and the world laughs with you. Respect ourselves, others will follow suit. Wear old cheerfully then more cheerfully the world will regard you! Easy? Hell no! But it works!

Ergo: I stamp my feet and pound the table asking you to join me in redefining old. Instead of treating the word as a put down, an apology, what say we redefine it as?...as?...what?
Would you go for Original, Legitimate, Die-hard!