This is My Body, This is My Blood

Om Sweet Om

Love lifted me! (even me)
Love Lifted me! (even me)
When nothing else could help
Love lifted me!

1912 Hymn; Words by James Rowe, Music by Howard Smith

We all have our personalized prescriptions for those times when weeds begin to sprout from the cracks in our hearts. Some people self-medicate with alcohol or drugs, some meditate, some lash out at their spouses or children, some pour their feelings into poetry or music, while still others prefer a run or brisk walk to shake off the "grimlies" as I call them.

Yesterday was one of those days when I felt as if I might implode with rampant emotiion. I could blame it on menopause, or I could blame it on my son heading back to boarding school after a week's break, or I could pin my unease on relationship stuff, but it doesn't really matter where the grimlies come from. What matters is what you do with them.

Following a rather tense ride back to school, my son cradled his emotions, carried them to his cabin as we pulled out of the driveway and headed back toward SLO.  Back home, my Beloved found his medicine in silent retreat. And I did the only thing that almost always succeeds in breaking loose a bad case of the grimlies: dancing so hard my worry leaves a dent in the floor, before leaving my body in a rush of sweat and tears.

When I need a healing, I head for the Yoga Centre where, every Sunday a group of leftover flower children, new age groupies, yogettes, and regular people just needing a place to unwind a week's worth of woe gather to dance. The music ranges from ambient to percussive to jazz to whatthefuckdoyoucallthat, but no matter who shows up to play, it's almost always perfect for wild dancing.

Last night was no exception.For two solid hours I danced until I got lost, because frankly, sometimes I get tired of knowing where I am. I danced until the last drum had sounded its final beat and our facilitator, P, asked the dancers to form a circle. We sat foot-to-foot, connected by a euphoric ending to wild dancing and a desire to lengthen that connection for as long as it lasted. P then invited any Pisceans to  gather in the center of the "Fish Bowl". There were just two: a young man with kinky blond hair that fell over a white cotton shirt, and me. Not only were we the only two fish among dozens of dancers, we were born on the same day.

We wished each other a Happy Birthday, then lay opposite the other with our legs entwined and arms outspread. The others gathered around, chanting the Om as they lifted us high into the air, turning us in circles while they sang. As most of you know by now, I'm a devout agnostic and certainly not a follower of any particular spiritual path. However, I'm here to tell you that as dozens of hands supported my body while Oming in what sounded like a celestial choir, I felt suspended in time and space. I don't know how long those moments lasted, only that when they gently lay me back on the floor, I had no idea I had been lowered.  I opened my eyes, and saw all these smiling faces, felt tears on my cheek, and suddenly I understood the mantra.

Om is where the heart is.

Technorati Tags: spirituality, dance, Buddhism

Estrogeneration

One of the ways I procrastinate writing discover new blogs, is by mining Technorati for writers with similar themes to mine. Last week a search on "menopause" brought me to this blog, written by a woman who is currently doing the same saliva test thang I did a few months ago. Susan's writing is smart and funny, so I figured I'd check out the blogs she reads, beginning with this one. I was not disappointed. And as if I hadn't already exhauasted my laugh supply for the day, who could resist a blog titled, Granny Gets A Vibrator?  Not me.

I left Granny's place to visit her link to Twisty, where I spent no less than an hour reading through the archives of one bad-assed woman on a mission to expose patriarchy. Her writing cuts through the bullshit straight to the bone. I would not want to be on the dark side of this woman's moon, folks. Thank goodness she's on our team.

I can't remember where I went after that, because I ended up following one blog to another, like a lovely bridge leading through a forest of fresh stories. I not only lost track of my path, but also my original thought--on which this post was meant to wax prolific. Guess you'll have to settle instead for a little blog-meandering of your own. Trust me, it's worth the trip.

Technorati Tags: aging, perimenopause, menopausehot flashes, saliva test

Old Faithful

And I thought about years, how they take so long, and they go so fast. --Mary Chapin Carpenter

The first time I met E, she made it clear that her doctor had recommended massage therapy for her stiff neck, lest I think she was the type who spends money on wasteful pampering (as if seeking treatment for pain after a chandelier falls on your 81 year-old head is a luxury). Like me, she and her husband had moved to California from the Midwest--a clue to her apologetic comments.  Back East (that's what they call anything east of the Rockies over here), people are taught to put themselves last. Self-Indulgence is the tenth deadly sin, right after divorce and dancing.

Her octogenarian husband, G, waited on the curb in their white Cadillac, reading a dog-eared copy of a Louis L'Amour paperback while I led his wife up the stairs to my studio for her first massage.   As I gently worked through layers of tension in her neck, I assured E that she'd done the right thing by scheduling a massage. She seemed relieved as much by the permission to have the bodywork, as the therapy  itself. By her third appointment, I'd convinced her that a half-hour was not long enough to address over 80 year's of life's toll on the body of a mother, teacher, and farmer's wife and she happily agreed to extend her treatments to an hour.

Over the past nine years, E has become much more than just a faithful client.  I know all her grandchildren by name, and she's watched J grow from a little boy to a seventeen year-old young man--always remembering him on birthdays and holidays. Her friendly but shy husband, G,  packs a paper sack filled with peppermint candy, nuts, fruit, and homemade cookies to send along every week, and every week I pretend not to notice he's fallen asleep in the car, while reading his book.

G turned 90 a couple years ago, and E will reach that milestone in November. Although they're both amazingly sprite and clear-headed for their age, G now takes a lot more naps and E's balance is often unsteady. A few months ago her children bought a massage table so I could treat her in their home. Our Friday morning ritual has shifted--me pulling into their driveway instead of G at the curb, the three of us sharing a cup of coffee and toast at the kitchen table before E's treatment, G telling stories in the way one does after having told them a hundred times.

There have been other changes as well. Store-bought biscotti has replaced the home baked cookies in my parting treat bag.  E, who has long prided herself on remaining physically self-reliant through her eighties, now lets me clip her toenails and pluck the occasional stray hair from her chin. Something about growing older allows people to grow out of old standards of stiff propriety and stoic resolute. Even G's shyness has faded some, and he now lets me hug him before I leave.

I have come to dearly love these two precious human beings, and know that when the time comes, their passing will leave a huge dent in my heart. The closer we become, the closer they move toward their eventual departure from this life. Every kiss on E's soft, wrinkly cheek at the end of her massage, could be my last, each lingering wave from the living room window, the closing frame on a favorite movie.  I know this as well as I know every familiar bone in her body under my hands.

"I love you, Honey," E said, as she handed me her check this morning. "Don't forget your goodies on your way out."

"I love you, too," I said.

G stood nearby while I folded up the massage table and tucked it into the hall closet. "You'll like that biscotti," he said."It's chocolate."

When I turned to face him, It was as almost as if those old eyes could see through my fragile smile, straight to that most tender place in ones gentle life. In an uncharacteristic act of unspoken love, he not only let me hug him a little longer than usual, he opened his arms even before I made my move.

Technorati Tags: aging, massage, relationships Mary Chapin Carpenter