Suits

The dragon full moon kicked me to the curb yesterday. Yes, I blame the moon. No, I do not blame my massage therapist for canceling at the last minute because her sister had a massive stroke, no I don't blame the dear friends who told me that an old classmate of ours, a guy who was adorable the last I saw him (in high school), died from complications around his terrible addictions, and no I do not blame a client whose brush with divine light sent her to the hospital, or my friend's mother who just died.

Nope. I blame the moon.

I felt lower than dog's breakfast, as a Texas raised friend used to say. That's low, people! I wanted to cry which is quite unusual these days. After certain hormonal imperatives become obsolete, aka after menopause, crying is not as attractive a pastime as it once was. But I was tearing up yesterday nevertheless.

Following my recently revised rules around regaining happiness - or at least some balance - I prayed, then got off my ass and out of the chateau. I went shopping for clothes, something I really never do as I normally hate that activity. I tried on suits, lots of suits. Really. I tried on charcoal grey suits with tiny pinstripes, pale tan, black and navy blue suits at Ann Taylor and other boring, predictable stores. The weird thing is, I thought they looked good. Conservative, yes, but good. They fit well and felt good. Strange, hey? It was a strange moon.

When I'm done with work today I might go buy one of those suits. Maybe not. Perhaps I'm still reeling from the effects of that old devil moon and perhaps it would be ridiculous to spend hundreds of dollars on a suit.

I'm thinking this morning of a dear one who, at a young age, lost several family members all at once. Even as a little kid, he insisted on having a suit. I think my shopping spree was an homage to this friend, also to the folks who have recently passed away. Getting older means I'll be attending more funerals. I'm going to one on Saturday, in fact. I need a suit. Don't I?

Full Circle

I love that pool of gold light behind the tree, featuring its shadow.

A couple of wonderful revelations about old age have arrived just in time for my 59th birthday this coming Monday. Timing is really everything! Thanks to the gods of perfect timing.

For a long time I've been confused about why young people experience old people as deeply disgusting. But after reading an article in the New York Times about disgust, a reaction that is part of our survival instinct, I get it. In the article they pointed out how, if rotten food wasn't truly repulsive, we might eat it, get sick and die. I'm thinking that from adolescence until mid-life, people are in the grips of powerful hormonal imperatives to successfully mate and procreate. Old people would necessarily seem disgusting since mating with someone on their way out of the cycle of life would not be successful in any way. An old mate can't protect against predators, hunt or farm, build shelter, cook, let alone sire or bear children. So what good are we anyway? Well, we know the stories of the past, we have wisdom and humor, we're great spiritual advisers. That's nice, hey? But do you think the brainstem gives a rat's ass about spiritual advice? Ha. I think not. Hence, people in the throes of the potent urge to mate, have sex, have babies, look at those of us past all the sturm und drang and are mildly to extremely disgusted. At last I get it!

It's also becoming clear that in old age, if we wish, we can stop being ashamed of everything. Babies feel no embarrassment. I'm beginning to see how I can regain that freedom as I get older. It's a small thing, but lately I haven't been wearing makeup, other than lipstick of course. I've always felt it was important to "put on my face" every day; now I'm not as concerned. Slowly, the shame and embarrassment and self consciousness I felt most of the time throughout my teenage years and young adulthood is fading. I'm coming full circle by growing older.

Ahhh! I love this time in life, it is really great. These really ARE the golden years, "golden" as in beautiful, clear, precious. This time of life reminds me of the last rays of sunshine on a clear day in early February. I took some pics of that light yesterday just before dusk, a couple of which are posted here.

There is no part of me that wishes to be young again. I'm so lucky!

Rapunzel

There has been a lot of press lately about the joys of living alone. There was a piece in the New York Times yesterday. This morning I heard a report on NPR about the same phenomena. In Scandinavia, 60% of young adults live alone.

I get it, I do. Though we are a social species, in cities we are almost constantly around other people, especially if we ride the subway, walk around, etc. Having a refuge away from other humans is a great luxury.

This morning I was thinking that here at the chateau, in my little nest, I feel like Rapunzel BEFORE everything went to hell. In early French versions of that fairytale, instead of an evil witch, there is a powerful fairy with a verdant, magic garden. Because Rapunzel's pregnant mother craves a vegetable only available in the fairy's magical garden, the fairy knows it is her duty to help raise the child. At the christening, the fairy sprinkles the baby with a magic potion to make her wise, beautiful and kind. But she accidentally sprinkles too much of the mojo. After that the fairy decides the child will be taken advantage of for her beauty, intelligence and kindness, hence decides to build a beautiful tower in which the girl can grow up. There is no end to the luxuries in this tower. In the version of the story I'm talking about, "Parslinette," the author describes in great detail the beautiful clothes, sumptuous furniture, and the numerous studios in which Parslinette paints, draws, plays musical instruments, sews, writes. The tower itself is made of silver, encrusted with jewels and pearls. Parslinette spends her days making art, talking to the trees and animals of the forest, singing, combing her hair and wearing fabulous outfits.

"Who among us wouldn't love such a life?" writes the author.

Indeed.

I should mention that even in the Parslinette version, when the prince finds the beautiful girl in the tower and "marries her immediately" - you know what that means, right? - the fairy is not amused. The ardent prince is tossed out the window and the girl receives a rather serious haircut. They find each other in the end of course, but oh my, it never goes well when characters decide to trick a powerful fairy. Yikes.

When I ask for visions of what's ahead in my life, what I "see" is a time when I'll again live with others. The soul of the chateau, a grand old lady, says I'll know exactly when it's time to leave my beloved nest. It isn't for awhile, apparently, as I'm told I'm still settling here.

Not that I always know what's best for me, but I'm just offering, in case the soul of the chateau or the Fates or the ancestors are listening, that I could be here awhile, living alone, happy as a clam - literally. I'm in no rush! Also apparently I am in sync with pop culture. Is anyone up there listening? Yes? Thanks.

What I have learned

I finished the happiness survey this week. The results are rather hilarious, though provocative. For instance according to the samples taken during the last 3 weeks, I'm happiest when sitting at the Matchbox bar. Ha! Though I enjoy my sojourns to the Matchbox, there's no way I'm happiest there. I had been drinking when the survey text arrived, so I was not as measured in my responses to the questions. I'm sure I pushed the slider all the way to VERY GOOD when asked how I was feeling.

Where am I happiest? I've been asking myself. Happiness for me is not connected to location, not even in the chateau or at the Matchbox bar. By "happy" I'm now thinking of being in the flow of the moment, undistracted, and minus the almost constant, low-level self-scolding I discovered is a part of my mind's ongoing monologue. OK, in order, I am happiest when:

1. Praying. I am not always happy to meditate, but I'm always happy while praying.
2. In conversation with someone I love.
3. Writing
4. Walking around in this beautiful city
5. Cooking
6. Working
7. In the shower. Hot water brings everything into balance: body, mind and spirit.
8. Futzing with pics in photoshop
9. Cleaning house
10. Dancing

The things that interfere with my happiness mostly have to do with being in physical pain of any kind, or when I have not been able to sleep well or have not eaten the right food. If I eat well, I am happy, if I eat poorly, I am queasy and when I'm queasy, it's hard to be happy. Same goes for times when I'm tired, sleepy, or have been sitting around too long. The bit about being what I eat is key to understanding how miserable I was growing up. That was during the 50s and early 60s so you can only imagine what I was eating. My stomach hurt all the time. No wonder!


"Boosts Personality." Whoa. Google 50s food ads. Scary!

The jewel of wisdom from this experience is pretty simple. If I'm not feeling happy, rather than sitting around self-analyzing, something that doesn't help as much as I think it should, I need to pray, then get off my ass and do something physical. If I can self express in some way, such as cooking or writing, or engaging in conversation with someone I love, my world of unhappiness can be turned around, just like that. Snap! It's a great lesson. Thanks, Harvard Happiness Survey!

Happiest Sunday, y'all. Shalom.

Pen pals

I love reading historical stories of lovers, separated - sometimes for years - who wrote letters to each other every day. Every day! Writing was what we would think of as unbearably tedious. Can you imagine dipping a quill in ink, scratching out a few letters, dipping again? If you made a mistake, you had to start over! And people complain about the "keyboards" on iphones. For heaven's sake.

I'm thinking about it today because I wrote a friend a long letter last night. I'll put it in the mail box today. She's in New York; I wonder how long it will be before she receives it? It was very fun. I'm determined to write a few letters by hand, put them in the post, to see if I can recapture that patient art. Back in the day I was a serious letter writer. I had a fountain pen and sealing wax that I loved using until I got old enough to recognize how dorky that was. Of course now I'm used to instantaneous connection, even moreso now that I have an iphone. Taking time to write and address the envelope, affix a stamp, seems quaint and old fashioned.

Did you know that postage stamps are now "forever" stamps? That means the price will never increase. The poor post office is about to pass its expiration date, it seems. But until it goes belly up, I'm going to get back into the practice of writing by hand, using the forever stamps, walking to the mailboxes (now few and far between on Capitol Hill). It's a labor of love. Oh yeah.

Soul Train

Even for an energy whore such as myself, this week has been a bit much! Yesterday a very dear friend's mother died. Today is the funeral for the young woman who died Monday. Good lord, the wind blowing through the pearly gates between this realm and the next is fierce. Every gate is wide open, it seems, at least in my little corner of consensual reality. Don Cornelius? Really?

These deaths - also a miscarriage and a number of pet deaths - clustered together this way, are provocative, but not in a bad way. One of the hardships of growing old is witnessing the passing away of the generation into which we were born. Icons such as Don Cornelius, peers, celebrities and pretty much every one of the greatest generation - our parents, aunts and uncles - are gone or going.

I'll admit to being a bit unnerved by it all. And ...I turn 59 in eleven days. gulp.

Y'all, life is short. Don't wait to live well! Please be as happy as possible, enjoy. It flies by, it does. Wow. Or should I say whoa?

I know February is supposed to be an awful month. It never has been for me. Part of that has to do with my birthday, probably. I share my birth month with a bunch of my nearests and dearests. That probably helps, too.

Also I am very fond of the midwinter holiday, called by many names including Imbolc, Candlemas and Groundhog Day. It is a time of both hope and fear. The light is returning but it's still winter. I like imagining the ancestors taking heart from the increased light, and yet no doubt wondering if the food stored in the cellar would last until the spring planting. I experience the ancient emotions even though life right here and now in 21st century U.S.A. is no longer attached to the agricultural cycle.

February is also auspicious for me because thirty-three years ago today, the little sedan I was driving was hit by a Southern Pacific freight train. As a result of that collision, I found my way into being treated by alternative healers. It's a long story that I might write up for the chateau seven blog. Suffice it to say here: February is a big ole month for me.

Bowing reverently, I welcome February. Shalom.