The Grace of Change

Fifty is NOT The New Forty

And, while we're at it, Sixty is not the New Fifty.

I had a fabulous time last weekend leading a retreat for 20 wonderful women (and one fantastic man!). At one point, I looked around the circle of middle-aged faces, radiant with love, experience, and full living, and thought: These are the gorgeous faces of 50 and 60 year old women...

So what's this craziness about Fifty being the New Forty? What cultural mishigas is it that the finest compliment we get is that our aliveness makes us seem 10 years younger? Why is growing older conflated with loss of beauty and draining away of power and delight?

Know what it makes me think of, ladies? A chocolate covered slug. Rich chocolate covering-that's right-a juicy northwest slug. Yuck.

Honoring Your Own Sabbath

I've been experimenting, and I love what I'm discovering.

Remember the Sabbath? Growing up that meant Sunday School (boring), lunch at my grandmother's (a little less boring), and then sitting around all afternoon (how boring can you get?). Sabbath meant, well, arrgghhhhhhhhhh.........

Fast forward almost a half-century (can that really be so?). Take one boomer woman, frazzled from decades of doing, doing, doing... Marry her off to a guy who actually loves  taking naps (me, I'm an abject failure at it-I actually bought a CD that promised me ultimate 20 minute naps, but I fidgeted my way through it several times and donated it to Goodwill).

Have her realize, one Sunday afternoon when husband is napping and she's washing windows, that she's spent an ungodly amount of her life worshipping at the altar of her to-do list. Even gardening and meditating had become about Getting Stuff Done; plant the bamboo, check. Morning meditation finished, check. Unremitting busyness cramped my spirit and made me cranky.

The Anniversary of My Death

Sometimes I wake up and wonder, is this it?

For The Anniversary Of My Death

Every year without knowing it I have passed the day
When the last fires will wave to me
And the silence will set out
Tireless traveller
Like the beam of a lightless star

Then I will no longer
Find myself in life as in a strange garment
Surprised at the earth
And the love of one woman
And the shamelessness of men
As today writing after three days of rain
Hearing the wren sing and the falling cease
And bowing not knowing to what

—W.S. Merwin