tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61800489450759470362024-03-13T05:40:02.432-07:00SeptemberMayI am a writer who is deeply committed to helping to change how older women are perceived in North America. There is a beauty, intelligence and inherent eroticism about them that a younger woman can only dream of, and there is a significant pool of men out there who “get” it. I am not so much interested in the cougar stereotype but rather, it is the authentic older woman who inspires me. My role models are Helen Mirren and Meryl Streep.Jessica Mendeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02510577042175416292noreply@blogger.comBlogger43125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6180048945075947036.post-37996732645080775532012-10-15T00:17:00.001-07:002012-10-21T19:29:07.342-07:00In Praise of Nonconformity<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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I’ve long been wary of idealism in the context of personal
growth or spiritual devotion. The intention behind any pursuit may well be pure
of heart, but where idealism thrives, fanaticism lurks. It’s easy to spot a
convert. They’ve found the key, and they’re singing its praises. Whatever it is
they are doing, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you</i> should be in on
it; otherwise, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you</i> become one of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">them.</i> </div>
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My skepticism stems, in part, from a deep discomfort with
those set on “transcending” their humanity in order to reach enlightenment. The
blissed out “free spirits” I met in Haight-Ashbury in the early 1990s. Meditation
junkies without grit. Self avoidance cloaked in positive thinking. New Age
groupies hooked on answers. It comes in many forms.</div>
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For me, a spiritual life doesn’t hold water without being
rooted in nature, in everyday life, and in my body. It doesn’t make sense to
separate it from the wounded remnants of the heart. That’s why I was happy to
be introduced to Jeff Brown, a self described “grounded spiritualist” who
aspires to live in all aspects of reality simultaneously – the emotional,
material and subtle realms. Like me, he holds the conviction that the emotional
body and spirit are linked. We did an interview together. <a href="http://www.soulshaping.com/" target="_blank">In his book SoulShaping, his concept “spiritual bypass” speaks of a turning to spirit in order to avoid pain. What defines a bypass? “It’s not easy to identify a bypass from the act itself,” he writes. “What you do to bypass reality, someone else will do to confront it. It’s all a matter of intention, and only you can know your intention.”</a> </div>
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I particularly liked his <a href="http://www.karmageddonthemovie.com/" target="_blank">documentary Karmageddon</a>, a personal
take on the life and impact of a 1960s counter-culture icon once described by
the Rolling Stone Magazine as the Jimi Hendrix of chant. The film dares to pose
questions common to those on a spiritual path, such as “What does the abuse of
authority mean in the context of spiritual teaching?” – for this alone it had
my attention. The centre of his subject, who once spent a month in a cremation
venue surrounded by human ashes, believes that the yoni – the Sanskrit name for
vagina – is the door to life, and that menstrual blood is sacred. </div>
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At first I remember thinking to myself “wow! That’s pretty
awesome.” But then you learn of his moniker, “Lord of the Vagina,” his penchant
for bedding young students, and the not-so-pretty aspects of how he treats
people. I wondered how he got away with it until it dawned on me: it’s
intoxicating to be worshipped as divine and ravaged as an object of desire at
the same time. The film is a compelling look at the seduction of fame, and the
sway that popularity or charisma has on judgment. The most dangerous people in
power aren’t necessarily greedy corporate creeps or cult leaders organizing
mass suicides. They’re those with a pipe line to the sacred. There’s something
real under all that wreckage, so it’s not so easy to dismiss.</div>
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Which brings me to what motivated this post. Another one of
Jeff’s concepts is a “soulpod” – defined as anything we find a resonance with,
be it strangers with a lesson, or someone appearing on our path to inform or
catalyze our expansion. Kind of cool, right? Except how do you discern the
lesson being offered with a soulpod – be it a person, or a body of teachings?
How do you know how deeply to dive into that which you are resonating with? </div>
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It’s taken a long time for these questions to form for me.
It may sound straightforward but I don’t think it is. Because if you resonate
with something strongly, it’s easy to stick around long past the expiry date.
To confuse the lesson. Overlook the delivery. Get lost in someone else’s
version of things. All in the process of trying to claim something of yourself.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you’ve been conditioned – like many of
us have – that the means to a fulfillment is in someone else’s hands, it’s
pretty much a given at some point. So how do you navigate a soulpod? Recognize
it for what it is?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And how do you know
when it’s time to move on?</div>
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The answer, I think, lies in a full-hearted commitment to
finding our own way; to discovering the voice that is uniquely ours. This can
be a lifetime’s work. For me, learning what questions are mine is a key catalyst
in that work. But there’s something else – something I’m still struggling to
articulate. And it has to do with resisting conformist impulses, in order to
make room for what calls us within.</div>
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In her book <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://www.thepowerofintroverts.com/" target="_blank">The Powerof Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking</a>, </i>Susan Cain presents some
interesting research done by psychologist Solomon Asch, who conducted a series
of now-famous experiments on the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">dangers </i>of
group influence and the power of conformity. In 2005, an Emory University
neuroscientist named Gregory Berns conducted an updated version of Asch’s
experiments. The results corroborated Asch’s findings. His brain scans of research
participants showed less activity in the frontal, decision-making regions and
more in the areas of the brain associated with perception. “In other words,”
Susan concludes, “peer pressure is not only unpleasant, but can actually change
your view of a problem.” </div>
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I think about all the times, in my personal development,
I’ve participated in programs or workshops over the last 30 years, where the
pressure to conform – though it was never interpreted that way – was
omnipresent. Of all of them, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">est</i>
training (aka Werner Erhard) was the granddaddy. Now widely considered to have
been a cult (or cultish), it peddled follow-up workshops with the spin that
anyone not registering was not serious about their self development. And this
is the camp into which I was cast. I could never really fully buy into it. I
was the defector. I am proud of that now.</div>
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One day, I will tell the longer version of that story. Suffice
it to say I have learned firsthand how important it is to recognize where the
pressure to conform dwells in our lives, and to what extent it is shaping our
perception. It was Ivan Illich who said that “personal growth is a growth in
disciplined dissidence.” I would be tempted to take it even further. Can we
ever really come into our own without granting dissidence reign? </div>
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I think not. With age, our greater selves willing, that is a
muscle that grows.</div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">None of us will ever
accomplish anything excellent or commanding except when he listens to this
whisper which is heard by him alone. </i> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
Ralph Waldo Emerson</div>
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<br /></div>
Jessica Mendeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02510577042175416292noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6180048945075947036.post-30642178192592883932012-08-20T12:38:00.000-07:002012-08-20T12:39:29.865-07:00It's All in the Angle
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Something I don’t talk about very much is that I produce and
host a weekly radio program. Though I don’t get paid, it offers me the
opportunity to speak to all kinds of interesting people I wouldn’t otherwise
have the opportunity to meet, and an hour of air time every week to do whatever
I want with.</div>
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It’s a venue I use for personal development; to practice
deep listening and presence of mind, among other things. After 13 years of
this, you can imagine how much work I’ve had to do! Though I’ve come a long
way, I am still working with the ongoing challenge of discovering what my
questions are – and how to position them in a way that stimulates
responsiveness on the part of my guest. </div>
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Sometimes it just flows out of me. Someone I am interviewing,
who has done a lot of media – people on major book promotion tours, for example
– tells me they found my questions more interesting than they’re used to, and I
feel a sense of pride and accomplishment. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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But other times, the right question eludes me. It’s there,
just below the surface, but I can’t get to it. I spit something out that is a
cross between a botched crossword puzzle and verbal diarrhea. </div>
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The one thing I have learned is this: the angle you take
with a question plays a big factor in determining the kind of answer (or
result) you get.</div>
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<br /></div>
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And so it applies to everything, I think.</div>
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Take the popular definition of insanity: doing the same
thing over and over again and expecting different results. To break the cycle,
we might try a different approach or another way “in”. It may not get the
result our stubborn ass is insisting on, but it will definitely shed light on
the matter.</div>
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It can be anything – a project at the office; a writing
piece; a creative venture; a conversation with a friend. We need a good cry or
we’re learning a new skill. Whatever it is, we’re blocked. Or we’ve hit a
plateau. It’s not moving the way we want it to. What would a “side door”
approach look like?</div>
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I think about this a lot. I remember being at an African
music festival once where I got talking to a Jamaican man. We were speaking in
English, then at one point, a friend of his passed by and they broke into
patois – a rather musical, Jamaican dialect I am familiar with and have always loved the feel
of. When his friend left, I asked him about it. I was curious what made him go
into patois, because his friend spoke English too, and they were both Canadian.
Was it habit? Familiarity? </div>
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His answer was so interesting I never forgot it. He said
that patois allows him to express emotions he can’t express in English.</div>
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When I think of my “side door” metaphor, I think of that.</div>
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What inspired this post is a blog I read last week called
the <a href="http://scribedoll.wordpress.com/2012/08/12/the-delight-of-hand-writing/%20" target="_blank">Delight of Handwriting</a>: one writer’s thoughts on how she can easily access
thoughts and feelings using a fountain pen and a piece of paper that she just
can’t access on a keyboard. It was so beautifully written she’s had hundreds of
comments. People talking about how writing longhand helps them to slow down;
how they miss the luxurious sensuality of the fountain pen’s edge against the
page. How we’ve allowed technology to distance us from the things that connect
us. And since many of her readers are British, I am learning that calligraphy
is actually taught in London
schools. Imagine that! And here I am, having written since I was five years old
– and I’ve never used a fountain pen. I didn’t even know they still existed. My idea of a nice pen is the Ultra BIC Round Stic Grip. </div>
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Now, a whole new world has opened up for me. How will my
writing experience change with a fountain pen, or something different than I’m
accustomed to? One reader spoke fondly of rollerballs – I might well start with
one of those. Or I might find out more about those pens that actually mold to the hand
that is using them.</div>
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I imagine it’s similar to painting with oil versus painting
with acrylics. The materials, the approach – they each have their own way of
providing access. As any good photographer will tell you, it’s all in the angle
you take. It’s a mantra I try to adopt with almost everything. </div>
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Go back to the basics. Switch it up. Find another way in.
It’s all in the angle.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I’m still learning.</div>
Jessica Mendeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02510577042175416292noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6180048945075947036.post-49325833229476713302012-07-01T22:33:00.000-07:002012-07-01T22:34:29.094-07:00The Phenomenon of 50 Shades<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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I was on Twitter last week engaging a fellow writer about
turning 50 – the implication in our exchange being our 50s were something to
look forward to – when a young woman piped in that she hoped we were right.
“I’m inching closer to 30 and I’m just a little bit nervous about it,” she
tweeted. “Oh please,” my friend Billy replied, and I laughed.</div>
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The exchange stuck with me. It reminded me of an old episode
of <i>Friends</i>, where Jennifer Aniston’s character spends almost the entire show
fretting about turning 30. I have to admit its sort of freak-show-ish to me.
How did we get so fucked up about aging? </div>
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Not only do our attitudes about age make us miserable, they fuel
a sort of impossible idealism that keeps us small – as evidenced in the
wildly-popular novel, <a href="http://www.eljamesauthor.com/books/fifty-shades-of-grey" target="_blank"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">50 Shades of Grey</i></a>.
Call it escapism if you want; fantasy as antidote to the stresses of
fast-paced, modern day life. I still think it’s doing a number on our psyches.
The more we indulge this stuff, the smaller we feel, and the less magnificent
our everyday moments of intimacy become.</div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">50 Shades</i> is the
most radical (and disturbing) example of the idealization of youth, power and
beauty I have come across in some time – there is little or no semblance of the
two main characters to anything in real life. Christian Grey is an omnipotent
and insanely hot 27 year old with perfect abs and hair who, apparently, would
rival the likes of Gilles Marini or Brad Pitt in his heyday. He is stinking
rich and treated like God – he has something like 40,000 employees who serve
him without question, female staff who ooze and tremble around him like
teenagers, and he earns $100,000 an hour. AN HOUR. Nothing is outside of his
reach. There is also no end to his sexual appetite or testosterone levels: not
only is he ready to go 24/7, he’s ready to go immediately after every orgasm,
as many times as required, and his infallible erection is never, ever dampened
by human emotions like sadness, anxiety or despair, god forbid. Oh, and the
kicker? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">He’s always monogamous.</i></div>
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But it doesn’t stop there. The female character,
Anastasia Steele, is a knock-out, too – except she’s also a virgin who has
never masturbated, of course. Think the lack of any urge might mean a low sex
drive on her part? Don’t be silly. It just needed Christian Grey to come along
and now, magically, not only is she always instantly wet and “ready” before he
even touches her, she has multiple orgasms and – wait for it – she can come on
command, too!</div>
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I had a lot of mixed feelings reading this book. The
description of some of the sex scenes – minus repetitive statements like “I
want you so much right now” and “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?” –
is actually quite well done, and the email banter between the two characters is
often witty and amusing. But the rest of it was pretty much nauseating. </div>
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What really bothered me about <i>50 Shades</i>, however, was how
anti-male it was. It goes like this: despite Christian Grey’s troubled
childhood and taste for BDSM, he is forthright, honest, articulate and fully in
touch with (and open about) his weaknesses. More importantly, he is kind,
endlessly appreciative, and always respectful of her wishes and boundaries. He will
do anything for her. </div>
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But no – this isn’t enough, not for Anastasia Steele. He
isn’t perfect enough. He’s “depraved”. He has issues. When he insists an unconventional
Mrs. Robinson experience he had when he was 15 was a loving one, she believes
she knows better, referring to the woman as having “robbed him of his youth” and
whining incessantly about it at every opportunity. Further on in the book, she
makes it her mission to intrude into his early life as often as possible,
interrogating him at every opportunity in the name of “getting to know him
better.” No amount of information is enough, and she often plods merrily along
in spite of his expressed wish not to. She tells him again and again how fucked
up he is, and he concedes, thanking her for loving him.</div>
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And that is at the heart of what turned me off about this
book – the emotional cesspool underlying much of their relationship that of
course never interferes with the sex; the subtle emasculation of a man who is
both desperately in love and eternally unaffected; her constant adolescent
tantrums and his implausible patience. In essence, something so far removed
from anything real that it is impossible to relate to. What the hell is driving
the sales of this book?</div>
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That is the question that drove me to read it. I also wanted
to know how anyone could make a novel about BDSM socially acceptable and the
answer, just as I suspected, is that it’s been sanitized, prettied up. A man
with a dark side is miraculously and religiously principled and safe – there is
a lengthy contract with detailed expectations and all boundaries are
negotiated; his insatiable desire never interferes with obtaining her consent
and ensuring her safety. The author can’t even get through a sex scene without
mentioning the “crinkling of the condom wrapper”, for god’s sake.</div>
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Idealism hurts us. It separates us from values unfettered by
impossible standards and leaves us lost, far away from anything we might call home.
Perfectionism is a recipe for misery. The best artists that ever lived all
spoke of beauty, even eroticism, in our flaws. “There is a crack in
everything,” Leonard Cohen sang. “That’s how the light gets in.”</div>
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It is in this spirit I would like to see an erotic novel get
written in, and become a bestseller. Even better, an erotic novel about two
people over 50 – not stuck in pretense or clinging to their youth but rather,
something real with sensuality and wisdom. And maybe one day, when I’m still
alive, they’ll even make a movie out of it that is intelligent, tasteful and sophisticated.</div>
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As for the popularity of <i>50 Shades</i>, I think <a href="http://www.gladwell.com/tippingpoint/" target="_blank">Malcolm Gladwell said it best. The way to understand the transformation of unknown books into bestsellers, he writes, is to think of them as epidemics. “Ideas and products and messages and behaviors spread just like viruses do.”</a> As for why some start
epidemics and others don’t, well, you’ll have to read his book.</div>Jessica Mendeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02510577042175416292noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6180048945075947036.post-48098916089854445692012-06-16T07:35:00.000-07:002012-06-16T07:36:25.323-07:00The Quiet Whisper of Hope<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">There is nothing in
this world more essential to life than hope. Where it lacks, there is no light.
Hope, to me, is the breath of life; it emboldens you and makes you brave; the
echo of promise, ever present. It lifts you up when you are leaden, and keeps
you going when you feel weak. Hope, of all things, reminds you to dream, no
matter how things might look; it is optimism given license….the quiet whisper
that says, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">it is possible. You deserve
it. What is yours will come.</i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I just turned 50
today. And I am so excited. I am telling everyone who will listen I am 50! The
way I see it, today marks my induction into a new life passage; the best years
of my life. I can’t explain it, but I feel proud to be 50. I know, with the
years, the tiny brutalities of aging will continue to hit me – a changing body,
discrimination, invisibility. But I intend to find refuge – even salvation – in
my aged worldview, unfettered by petty grievance or the silliness of youth. To
live in a way that integrates everything I’ve learned into my visceral self,
edging me slowly to a different way of being that says, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this is your life. It is a gift. Relax and enjoy the ride. Make every
day count. Dedicate your focus to finding beauty, even in what isn’t pretty.
Endeavor to be kind. Don’t ever forget that hope is the chalice on the altar of
dreams. And to keep it alive, don’t look back.</i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: purple;">
<b><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">[To Jerry – whose
encouragement, support and generosity of spirit have given me hope, in the most
profound sense of the word.]</span></b></div>Jessica Mendeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02510577042175416292noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6180048945075947036.post-28846846885311300222012-06-06T11:38:00.001-07:002012-06-16T07:36:25.320-07:00On Turning 50: Longing to Relax<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">If our “second
adulthood” had a jumping-off point, it seems to me it would be the year we turn
50. Up until that point, I think, we often carry on as a version of our younger
selves, still bound to the ideals of a culture bent on youth. We get smarter
about how we spend our time and have a stronger feel for who we are, but we’re
not quite at the point where we’re counting the years we might have left. If we
choose to, we can still deny the process at hand, and unless we have terrible
genes, we can fare quite well.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">But our 50s are a
whole new era. It gets a lot harder to play make believe. Yet if our eyes are
open, we gain access to a new pool of wisdom, and we can start to get our feet
wet. Pretending loses its appeal. We begin to let go and enjoy the freedom that
comes with aging. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">At least, that is
what many women have told me, and what I, in turn, believe, in the most
visceral sense one can have. I am about to turn 50 in ten days; the beginning, as
a friend of mine calls it, of my “second wind”. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I am aching for a
revolution. More than that, I am aching to relax, in every conceivable way. And
nothing brought that home more than my mother, just out of the hospital, set on
a regimen, unwilling to consult a second opinion. Without going into details, let’s
just say that what I saw in her scared the daylights out of me. Because it was
a blown up version of something I’d been witness to my whole life: an
unquestioning loyalty to an authority outside herself, and a “pulling in” – not
the kind of pulling in we do in introspection, but a pulling in that involves
tightening, holding in or holding on.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I know she is doing
the best she can with what she has. I know she is fighting the only way she
knows how – her “pulling in”, oddly, is also a form of protest. But it doesn’t
help, because I want to see her happy, and because of what it triggers in me. I
am deathly afraid of becoming rigid as I age. In my experience, one of the many
challenges of getting older is a tendency to resist change, even when our
sanity, or peace of mind, depend largely on the contrary. Living in a society
where elders are so grossly undervalued, it’s easy to hold our emotions in as
we tell ourselves, nobody wants to know anyway. If we become bitter about
society’s disregard for us, we would often be wholly justified. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">But do we want to
sacrifice our quality of life to silent protest? I certainly don’t. Nor do I
want to become set in my ways – yet I have already seen signs that this is
where I am headed. And it’s chilling. I remind myself that my stress levels are
high; that seizing up is all I’ve known, and that I am actively working to
unlearn it. Then my mother re-enters my consciousness, and the haunting
resumes.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">In many ways, she
and I are polar opposites in our personalities, priorities and character. We
would never be friends if we weren’t related. We have worked hard to find
common ground over the years, and to focus on the love we have for one another.
And I do love her – fiercely, desperately, and without bounds. But her way of
coping; of dealing with her emotions, really fucks me up. I can’t be around it.
I need fluidity. I need to learn how to really relax into life, and to court
change. And I hope as I enter my 50s, I can find the strength to do just that.</span></div>Jessica Mendeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02510577042175416292noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6180048945075947036.post-35820804406758380192012-04-09T22:34:00.004-07:002012-06-04T20:30:31.804-07:00Finding Love as an IntrovertAll my life I have admonished myself for not wanting to be “out there” more. When I was in grade school, I was always jealous over the “it” girl in class. In high school, I wished I was part of the cool crowd, reigning supreme at the back of the bus. Into my 20s, I took self help workshops to learn how to be more dynamic and likeable. Even in my 30s I spent inordinate amounts of time trying desperately to be someone I wasn’t.<br /><br />Thank god for aging. It wasn’t until I got into my 40s that I began surrendering to the hand I’d been dealt, which involved a long and arduous process of struggling, in earnest, with who I really was. And I’ve come quite a distance. Many years of solitude and introspection have enabled me to get out of my own way. My character has finally begun to take shape and find expression. And I am far more interested in living my own life than anyone else’s, even with all its uncertainty. For the first time in my life, I have found liberation in not knowing. I’m going to be 50 in June, and I’m very, very excited. <br /><br />For years I have heard from women about how great the 50s are. You finally start relaxing and learning to really enjoy life. You don’t sweat the small stuff. You are in your element sexually. You tell it like it is. The list goes on. I intend to reap all of this and more. But more than anything, my 50s will be an ownership and a celebration of my true, introverted nature.<br /><br />I can thank Susan Cain for this, in part. Her book, <span style="font-style:italic;"><a href="http://www.thepowerofintroverts.com/ ">The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking</a></span> has opened my eyes to a “cultural evolution that reached a tipping point around the turn of the 20th century.” America, she says, has shifted from what the influential cultural historian Warren Susman called the Culture of Character (which focused on inner virtue and honor) to a Culture of Personality (which focuses on outer charm, and how others perceive us). In other words, extroversion has become the North American cultural ideal. Today, she says, “we make room for a remarkable narrow range of personality styles….we are told that to be great is to be bold; to be happy is to be sociable.”<br /><br />But the great thing about this book – I am still reading it – is that it is helping me to see myself in a new light; to “take stock of my talents” as an introvert and to appreciate all the qualities that come with it. Of course, most of us are on a spectrum, so I do have an extroverted side, born of a stronger inner core – but it’s interesting that, when people see that, they can hardly believe there is an introvert buried underneath it, calling all the shots. I have become someone I never thought I would be and frankly, spent much of my life fighting: a deeply sensitive, unconventional outsider who needs substantial alone time in order to assimilate, integrate and refuel.<br /><br />That makes finding love extraordinarily difficult. I have spent the vast majority of my adult life on my own, outside the bounds of any conventional relationship. Couples who have found happiness in spending most of their days together are foreign to me; I cannot imagine living that kind of life. I have always put passion over domestic love; I am what author <a href="http://www.estherperel.com">Esther Perel</a> calls a “romantic”. Since I don’t get out much, I have been on dating sites, but I find small talk intolerable. I ache for something real – thought provoking, deep discussions that expand my mind, touch my heart, or inspire me to see the world differently. And I aspire to affect others the same way. When this happens, it rocks my world. I treasure it; become hungry, reach for more. But at some point I have to back off, re-group – and none too soon. I need my space, and lots of it. Somehow it makes whatever was shared mean that much more.<br /><br />I know there are other people like me out there, but finding them is another matter. Intimacy with someone you trust and have chemistry with is a gift. But so is a connection with self. The life I have chosen, the solitude I have had – it has, many times, been lonely, but I would rather be lonely alone than lonely in a relationship. And it has taught me a lot about independence. I suspect, if I were ever challenged by the prospect of an ongoing, long term relationship, I’d have to learn how to do it. Learn how to “do” a relationship. Maybe I’ll get lucky. Maybe I’ll find someone who needs time alone as much as I do. <br /><br />Or maybe not. Either way, I want my 50s to be a time when it all starts coming together; of coming home to my destiny, and living in harmony with all my core values. Cultivating a rich, inner life, I think, is what helps make that possible.Jessica Mendeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02510577042175416292noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6180048945075947036.post-74616103937794208622012-01-06T18:07:00.000-08:002012-06-04T20:31:44.804-07:00On Kissing: What Matters?Having recently been treated to the company of a sensual and distinguished gentleman, I’ve experienced a most gentle stirring of all things visceral; places tidied up, shelved or ignored. It’s nice. Though I haven’t met him yet – our contact has been limited to the telephone – he brings to our conversations a strong and intriguing presence, and a certain something that I cannot yet identify, but draws me to him. <br /><br />The other day, he asked me what kind of kissing I liked. Nobody has ever asked me that before, and it got me thinking. It got me thinking about how intimate the act of kissing is, and is in some ways more intimate than intercourse. I thought about past lovers; the ones I felt inclined to kiss, and the ones I did not. I thought about the times that kissing a man repelled me, and what it was about it I didn’t like. I remembered the kisses that made my heart want to burst with joy, or that stopped my world.<br /><br />As with many other things in my life, it was only with experience and the passage of time that I really got to know, and trust, my deepest of sensibilities. And just as there are thousands of ways to make love, there are just as many ways to kiss somebody. I’ve got a pretty good range, and I’m fairly confident that my technique rivals that. But as most of us know, a good kiss can only go so far without someone responsive on the other end. And responsiveness is limited by what we are willing to experience. <br /><br />I’ve had some decent kisses in my time, a few of them pretty hot. But my quest for the Holy Grail continues, and by that I refer not so much to an ideal but to a quality; something open and dynamic, an eroticism born of both heart and passion. That I am entering my “second adulthood” is fuel for that inspiration. I’ll be 50 this year, and I am far keener than I ever was to nuance. I’m ready for a whole new world of kissing, and for the first time in my life I’m beginning to feel I deserve it. To be desired sexually is one thing, but to be kissed, by someone who longs to kiss you – that is quite another.<br /><br />That’s just me. So when he asked me that question, I did my best to answer it. I was shy. I like <span style="font-style:italic;">almost</span> kissing, I told him, those <span style="font-style:italic;">tentative</span> moments. But I also like ones that are sure; kisses deep, raw and lustful. So much of it depended on the mood, I told him. I tried to be eloquent, not sure how I fared. Inside, in my most private fantasies, I roamed. I imagined kisses that tantalize, or dance on the edge of something. I imagined foreheads kissing in tender communion. And I thought about the soft animal kiss; the one that explores, or indulges a primal yearning.<br /><br />I remember the time that Adrien Brody surprised Halle Berry at the Oscars with a passionate kiss when she went up to accept her award. I remember the way he held her, and cradled her head. It reminded me of the way Clark Gable kissed Vivien Leigh in <span style="font-style:italic;">Gone with the Wind</span>. We don’t see that style much any more. A lot of big screen kisses look and feel similar to me, even when there is chemistry. We live in an era of “everything you need to know about kissing” books. Maybe we need them because the average person lacks imaginative kissing abilities. While I’d be the first in a room to pick up a book on the “art of kissing” out of sheer curiosity, I think courage of heart matters more than skill.<br /><br />At least in our later years, when hopefully, performance gives way to an earthly presence, and kissing becomes an expression of something that really matters.Jessica Mendeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02510577042175416292noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6180048945075947036.post-59119199193455936112011-11-16T10:35:00.000-08:002012-06-04T20:32:30.407-07:00A Dinosaur in a Sea of TechnophilesI consider myself a bit of a dinosaur when it comes to technology. I don’t own an iPad or an iPhone or a Blackberry or a palm pilot. I avoid using my cell phone unless absolutely necessary and I don’t text. When I get on a streetcar or a subway, instead of putting a headset on or losing myself in a tiny screen pad, I pull a soft cover book out of my carrying bag. <br /><br />I am fighting the craze every step of the way. Why? Because when I am sitting on a subway train and I look around and 20 out of the 30 people I am surrounded by have their faces buried deep in a hand-held gadget, I think the world is losing its mind. We are so far removed from our natural environment it’s frightening. I’ve seen streetcar drivers short-turning who get up out of their seat to announce the last stop, everyone has to get off. Without fail, there are always a few stragglers, yapping on their cell phones or music blasting, oblivious to the fact that the car has just emptied and there are a crowd of people on the street corner staring at them.<br /><br />I value my senses. When I am on transit, I want to open the window and smell the air, or be aware of the sounds around me to stay safe and alert. At home, I want to use my vision and exercise my mind away from the glare of my computer screen. I strive to hone my sixth sense by paying attention to energy shifts in my environment, and the intuitive feel of my own body. I want to live IN the world – the real world, not a virtual one. Life is short. I don’t want to be sacrificing any more of my valuable time to technology than I absolutely have to.<br /><br />I am used to being a bit of a freak. When I tell people I don’t text, I am generally met with shock or disbelief. When I read an article or a blog post supposedly intended to assist newbies in some “basic” social media task and I don’t understand most of the language, I wonder how I got so far behind so fast. I am an intelligent woman. But I simply cannot seem to muster up the required amount of gusto to get myself up to speed. I already spend far too much time blinking at my computer screen as it is.<br /><br />A couple of weeks ago, I was watching Ellen DeGeneres interview Eddie Murphy. She was asking him about rumors that were circulating and one of them was that he didn’t have a computer or an email address. Was it true?<br /><br />“Nah, I don’t do any of that stuff,” he replied dismissively. His disinterest was palpable, and I not only admired him for it, but I was filled with a sense of wild envy. Imagine having so much money that you don’t ever have to use email if you don’t want to!<br /><br />But Ellen pressed on. Did he not even have a cell phone? Murphy’s face lit up. Actually, he had met a girl recently and when the time came to give him her phone number, he reached for a piece of paper. “Oh – you want to do this <span style="font-style:italic;">the old fashioned way</span>,” she quipped. That’s when Murphy ran out and got his first cell phone. <br /><br />So here’s my question. Is writing a phone number down on a piece of paper really old fashioned?! Do we really want to live in a world where “old fashioned” is viewed as “out of touch”, or where a simple act like this is condescended to? It seems to me that’s where we are headed if we’re not already there. Clearly the comment irked Murphy, whose association with the term was enough to make him feel uncool or out of the loop. It’s too bad he didn’t hold his ground. A dude who doesn’t bow to the trend if it doesn’t suit him is sexy. Someone who’s <span style="font-style:italic;">been around</span> is sexy. <span style="font-style:italic;">Experience</span> is sexy. If his lady friend couldn’t get that, she’s not worth his time. <br /><br />And so it should go for any of us who are “older”. But I digress. How many times have you allowed someone to “program you” into their cell phone? Have you always been comfortable with it? I seldom am. I can’t help but think about the fact that once I’m in there, I stay there for as long as he owns that phone, or chooses to delete it. Whereas a piece of paper, he’s got to take that home and leave it on his night table and keep track of it somehow. I want to know if he’s interested enough to go to the effort. I don’t want to be “inputted” into his system to be Google searched or sent Facebook invitations. I want to figure out whether I even want to know him first.<br /><br />And that’s what bothers me about so much of social media today. We’re all so busy accumulating contacts, collecting “friends” and making links that we are spending less and less quality time really getting to know the people we “know”. We’re not as discriminating. It’s all about numbers, size, follower counts, volume. Someone on Twitter recently said to me that he was overwhelmed with knowing so many people superficially, while at the same time <span style="font-style:italic;">knowing</span> so few. <br /><br />I’m on Twitter with a purpose because I do believe that social media has a place if you’re smart about how you use it. Specifically, I think Twitter is the most multi-faceted, creative and intelligent medium on the scene today. So it’s disheartening to see it abused by spammers or everyday joes peddling their products. I resent having to invest my time regularly “unfollowing” people who “bought” me as a follower. And I don’t understand the use of automated DMs or tweets. They miss the point. This is a venue loaded with opportunities. <br /><br />One of those might be to allow kismet to do its work. I like to use my intuition in choosing the timing of my tweets, and see what comes out of that. What new connections might come out of my “feeling my way” through how and when I tweet? I treat it like an exercise in “right timing”; of synchronization with the forces that be. Otherwise, I’m just on automatic, succumbing to the often mindless buzz of technological seduction. <br /><br />And this, as I see it, a benefit of being “older”. So much of it is about seeing that bigger picture – for example, having a grasp on the broader purpose and implications of social media – and getting some perspective on what really matters. It’s about slowing down and paying attention, and being wiser about how you spend your time. <br /><br />At least for me. That’s the gift; that’s what I’m making it. Because I sure as hell don’t want to spend the prime of my life immersed in a virtual reality.<br /><br />I want the real deal.Jessica Mendeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02510577042175416292noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6180048945075947036.post-83675686349460346462011-10-20T22:14:00.000-07:002011-10-20T22:34:31.098-07:00Aging & DestinyDestiny is something I think about a lot. I am fascinated with how things come together and the timing with which they happen; unforeseen turns at opportune junctures. I do not believe that life is random. I believe that, save for what might be loosely referred to as “the law of chaos”, most things happen for a reason. Discerning what life presents to us and the challenge it brings can be a part of a lifelong spiritual practice that really takes root in our later years. On the most basic level, we glimpse our mortality and so contemplate our purpose in life. But some of us go a lot deeper than that. Is the life I am living my own? How do I define success, and is it anything to do with what I’ve been taught? Am I content to live the second half of my life the way I lived the first? What is it that matters to me most?<br /><br />These questions are the fruits of a bid for something more, which looks way different at 50 than it did at 25. Making major life changes when we’re older takes real kahunas. Whether we leave an unhappy marriage, abandon a stable job or jump headlong into personal development training, there’s usually a lot at stake. But taking that initial leap is exhilarating. If it works out, we feel reborn, alive – even vindicated. If it doesn’t, we may well doubt the wisdom of our ways. It hasn’t played out the way we thought, and now there’s no going back. Bold moves expose us, not the least of which to ourselves.<br /><br />And that’s not a fun place to be. An eyes-wide-open look in the mirror can be daunting, however aptly-timed. It’s easy to lose sight of our courage. We don’t recognize ourselves anymore, and it’s damn well disconcerting. <span style="font-style:italic;">This wasn’t part of the plan</span>, we grumble. But what does “working out” really mean? Is there something else in store for us we hadn’t seen coming?<br /><br />It was E.M. Forster who said, <a href="http://www.vivaelviaje.com/plan/quotes.htm">“We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us.”</a><br /><br />If there were a central philosophy around which life over 50 revolved, this would definitely be in the running for me. Woody Allen once said, “If you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans.” There is something really liberating about opening ourselves up to the unexpected, and the older we get, the harder that is for some of us to do. But it is also, I dare say, the most rewarding time to do it. In the <span style="font-style:italic;">Bridges of Madison County</span> – one of my favorite movies of all time – Meryl Streep says in a voice over, “I was acting like another woman – yet I was more of myself than I ever had been before.” The character she played was in the midst of a profound awakening. Could it be, as <a href="http://www.spiritualityandpractice.com/books/books.php?id=2132">Thomas Moore</a> puts it, that we are “most ourselves when we are furthest from the self we think we ought to be”? <br /><br />I find this prospect incredibly exciting. Getting on in our years presents a clear opportunity to consider what was once unthinkable. Giving ourselves over to a life contrary to plan is, I think, one of the purest acts of surrender there is. With age comes a stronger sense of self, and with that, new capacities. Just who is the person we think we ought to be, and what would it mean to sacrifice that to something greater? Is happiness really the ultimate goal,or is there something else more important? What if vitality bore little resemblance to how we had once imagined it?<br /><br />One of my favorite writers, <a href="http://tinyurl.com/4yj9emz">Dr. Bill Thomas</a>, recently quoted from a blog he had found: <br /><br />“<span style="font-style:italic;">You might look inside yourself and think you know yourself, but over many decades you can change in ways you won’t see ahead of time. Don’t assume you know who you will become</span>.”<br /><br />How utterly invigorating to ponder.Jessica Mendeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02510577042175416292noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6180048945075947036.post-25482379173208413632011-07-26T18:02:00.000-07:002011-07-26T18:09:17.002-07:00The Betrayal of Soul to Flash & PompThe tragic death of Amy Winehouse at age 27 recently reminded me of a <a href="http://tinyurl.com/3ldzo82 ">documentary I reviewed for radio called 27</a>, about the music and message of Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin and Jim Morrison – all of whom died within one year of each other, also at age 27. Watching footage of their concerts really got me thinking about how the lives and performances of musical icons tend to reflect, and help shape, the culture in which we live. While substance abuse still persists among high-profile musicians, artists and celebrities alike, it seems to me that in the 1960s at least, the motivation behind drug use was different than it is today.<br /><br />I am no historian. I cannot claim to have studied the subject or anything close. Nor was I a young adult partaking in the 1960s, so my observations here are merely peripheral. I bring this up only because I am often disturbed by how few of today’s young stars show any real expression of soul on stage. We rarely see the likes of Janis Joplin anymore, who put so much passion into her performances that, as one observer noted, you would be surprised to see her still alive at the end of it. Jim Morrison, notorious for his destructive streak and perpetually stoned, was still widely regarded as being more of a true artist than a performer, deeply committed to living on the edge. Who today can match the psychedelic effects of a Doors or Grateful Dead concert? <br /><br />What I see instead now is image-making. Pop stars in this day and age are focused on choreography, personal branding, reputation building by association with their peers and staged performance – with emphasis on the <span style="font-style:italic;">staged</span>. While some of them are extraordinarily gifted – Beyonce being one clear example – for the most part I still find watching an awards show like the Grammys unbearably boring. Musical performances from modern-day youth are riddled with flash, pomp and narcissism. It’s less about the music than it is about <span style="font-style:italic;">the cool factor</span>. It’s less about soul than it is about <span style="font-style:italic;">persona</span>.<br /><br />What I don’t see enough of is self expression that embraces living on the margins. Lady Gaga is one of the few counter culture darlings in existence, but she is of a starkly different breed than the legends of half a century ago. I recently interviewed nationally-known forensic psychologist Jeffrey Smalldon, an expert on the mind of psychopaths and serial killers who has studied everything from cult leaders and the mentally ill to genius and celebrity. Fascinated by the abnormal, he tells me about a book called <span style="font-style:italic;">Freaks: Myths & Images of the Secret Self</span>, and its analysis of the complicated and nuanced relationship between so-called freaks and the people who comprised their audience. He talks about how freaks challenged our understanding of identity and how, in the late 1960s, the term “freak” was associated with free expression and hippies. I am surprised to learn that hippies generally considered this a badge of honor.<br /><br />The evolution of “freak” from the hippie era to the current day Lady Gaga phenomenon could make for an engrossing read. Personally though, I am deeply compelled by the anomalous expression of soul, as evidenced in <a href="http://www.americanidol.com/contestants/season_10/casey_abrams/">the young talent and rich character of Casey Abrams on American Idol</a>. An artistic genius too large for the pop culture stage, he earned high praise for his creativity, fearlessness and lunacy. For me, his body language, vocal stylings and facial expressions were delightfully freakish, but it was his soulful performances that stirred the embers of my innards. In him I see the seeds of an icon; the marriage of soul and heresy at its best, even if largely undeveloped. <br /><br />I hope he does something with it. I hope, by age 50, he has begun to sort out his artistic legacy. By then, surely, he will have glimpsed what he is capable of. By then, hopefully, we all have. <br /><br />But I digress. <br /><br />I want to see the soul brought back into music. Enough of the strobe lights and elaborate posturing. I don’t want to be dazzled. I want to be transported. <br /><br />I want to feel something real.Jessica Mendeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02510577042175416292noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6180048945075947036.post-9867609044649220492011-07-21T22:32:00.000-07:002011-07-26T18:22:09.907-07:00Disappointment, Longing & Age<span style="font-style:italic;">This is for all the folks out there who have had a disappointing date night experience. It is written in “journal writing” prose – literary sticklers be warned! For acquired tastes only.</span><br /><br /><br />I have a date tonight. I met him on a dating site and after a brief correspondence, he seems really into me. He’s digging my ideas & saying I intrigue him. I like his questions. He wants to know what my thoughts are about kissing, and I have a lot to say about it. He is in town from America and wants to treat me to dinner. I am excited. Men don't take you to dinner much anymore on the first date. They usually just want to do coffee & get a look at you. Does anyone date anymore? This feels more like a date. I want to look nice.<br /><br />We meet. He has massive sunglasses on and my heart sinks because he doesn't take them off to greet me so I do not have the pleasure of seeing his first reaction to the site of me. I love it when a man looks at me and I see desire in his eyes. But he has sunglasses on so I can't tell.<br /><br />I suggest we go for a drink first. It is too early for dinner. He tells me it doesn't make sense to go for a drink one place and then food in another, we should do it in the same place. I am not sure why it has to be that way; in my mind we are just here to enjoy each other's company. I tell him I don't need a drink so I'm okay either way. He thinks about it some more & then decides to go for the drink. Then he complains about the drink he says he doesn’t really want. I ask for water.<br /><br />He orders a strawberry daiquiri grudgingly. Or so it seems. I salivate at the sight of it. I tell him how good it looks, hoping to relieve him of some of the burden of drinking it. He sits there like a bump on a log and stares into the distance. I'm thinking he’s not into this at all. In fact most of the night he appears terribly bored. Some times he just sits there and doesn't say anything. The beautiful smile on his dating site profile has taken a leave of absence. I think he is simply tolerating my presence. I watch him drink his daiquiri and fight off some of my own boredom, while my inner optimist gives me a pep talk. Maybe he's shy, I tell myself, but just in case, I will offer him a way out before we go to dinner.<br /><br />After some more conversation I tell him I am hungry. I want to see his reaction but also, I am hungry. He tells me he is not. I feel awkward and dumpy. He said he wanted to treat me to dinner so I didn’t eat all day. I wanted to save myself for the big event. So much for that plan. I tell him we can skip dinner, hoping to bail. I don’t like to eat alone on someone else’s bill. He tells me it is okay and he promised but it doesn’t seem right. I ask if he will get hungry soon and he says he doubts it. I sit there trying to think of a way out so I can go home and eat.<br /><br />We start to talk about travel. It turns out he flies to Toronto from the States every two months to see family here and to Africa twice a year to see his father. I ask him what he does with his father when they visit. “Nothing,” he says, dismissing the question. <br /><br />At one point he comments that he “has no money”. I remember wondering why he brought up money because I don't think I did. My first reaction, a little confusing to me, is to chuckle. I am not sure why I chuckle but I do. Maybe because it seems ridiculous to me that someone who can afford to fly to Africa twice a year and to Canada from the States 6 times a year still sees themselves as someone with “no money”. He asks what I am laughing about. I try to explain myself, regretting my gaffe, blathering on about how different people have different perceptions about what having “no money” means. Picking up steam, I tell him that if he had “no money” the way I define having “no money”, I wouldn't be comfortable with him paying for dinner. He then launches into a very long rant about the economy. I think his point had something to do with people making lots of money still having no money. Or something like that. I get what he is saying but I want to talk about something else. I want us to have fun tonight. I wanted to flirt and be flirted with. <br /><br />The waitress brings his bill over. He shows it to me and tells me how expensive drinks are and how it is worse in New York. Then he starts talking about the high cost of living. I am tired of listening to all this because we are supposed to be on a first date and exploring each other. I am wearing my best dress that shows off my hour glass figure and full booty. It has slits up the side so that when I walk the wind caresses the fabric and exposes my tanned legs, which look pretty damned good on a 49 year old woman. I am happy with how my face looks today. I think I look pretty. He doesn't seem to notice and if he does, he isn't showing me. He just looks bored.<br /><br />I tell him I need to eat soon. I am watching him drink these nice drinks and smelling all this fantastic food and I am getting really hungry. I am hoping he will just say something to make it easy for me to leave so I can go home and eat. I don't want to eat alone in front of him. He says he will look at the menu to see if there is an appetizer or something that will make him hungry. He is not enthusiastic. I want to go home. I decide to stick it out because he came a long way to meet me.<br /><br />We walk to the restaurant and he starts complaining about the Obama administration. My heart feels heavy. I tell him I am a huge Obama supporter, even though he is not perfect I still support the man. I don't want to have this debate. Usually I like a good debate but he just seems to see the down side of everything. He carries on about empty promises and I say that change takes time and Obama is cleaning up the mess left by Bush. He says, “I know, but I still think it's not happening fast enough.” I clam up and try to think of something else to talk about.<br /><br />We enter the restaurant. I remind him we don't have to stay if he doesn't see something on the menu he likes. He says we are staying. I recommend a few appetizers and say the food is really good. He orders a full chicken dinner. When the food comes he spends most of his time eating with his head down. He looks miserable and depressed. Afterwards he complains he feels bloated. He says he ate too much but he had to eat it because that is how he was raised. I don't bother asking him why he didn't just order an appetizer.<br /><br />When we are saying goodnight on the street corner I hug him with a big smile to thank him for dinner. Even though I am feeling sad about how it went he was still a gentleman in his own way and I want him to know I appreciate it. He smiles back, and asks me if I want to meet again tomorrow. I am shocked. I am shocked he is interested at all. I don't know how to reply. I tell him I will call him later to talk about it.<br /><br />I go home and think about what to do. It comes to me that maybe he just sees a date as an opportunity to behave the way you would in a relationship. Maybe he just felt comfortable with me or was just letting it all hang out by talking about the things that bothered him. I'll never really know. All I know is there was no chemistry between us. In the end I tell him I didn't see it working out for that reason. I guess I am a hopeless romantic. <br /><br />I want passion in my life. I want to be wooed. I am old fashioned that way. And I need to feel that someone wants to be with me, otherwise, what's the point? I don't want to be with someone just so we can both avoid being alone. I want butterflies. I want fire. I want to get caught up in the moment and laugh away my troubles or lose track of time and forget for a while. Or maybe remember. Wherever the moment takes us. I think communication happens on more than one level and at its best is sort of a rhythmic dance. Most of it is nonverbal and if you're not paying attention you can miss stuff. I want to surf that wave. I want to be brave enough to put myself out there. I am a slave to my senses. The pursuit of sensual pleasure is my holy grail, and I am prepared to embrace its dark undercurrents. <br /><br />I grew into these longings with age. I treasure the richness of a desire that my youth was sorely lacking in. I would rather ache for something that matters than betray it to indifference. <br /><br />As I enter my second coming-of-age, I am slowly becoming more flexible, more adaptable; better able to grow from life’s disappointments. I am learning to live from my heart, even when it hurts. I’m getting there. I’m still only 49.Jessica Mendeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02510577042175416292noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6180048945075947036.post-36560653135126237942011-06-21T13:24:00.000-07:002011-07-26T18:24:29.828-07:00The Kissing Couple As MuseThere are times in life when we find our best inspired by the worst possible circumstances: a crisis brings out our most stable instincts, or we respond sanely to a flurry of madness that engulfs us. Perhaps we are just wired that way – I know I am – but more likely, even for those who are not, the extreme by nature acts as an inevitable catalyst. And the opportunities we seize depend on the leanings of our will.<br /><br />A young couple photographed kissing in the midst of a riot in downtown Vancouver recently offer a good example of life seized with both hands. Caught in the middle of violence, madness and mayhem, it would have been easy for them to panic or behave badly. Instead, the young man in question made an unlikely and extraordinary choice. His girlfriend knocked down by riot police, their safety compromised, he fell to the ground and embraced her.<br /><br />She was frightened, he said. He wanted to calm her down.<br /><br />A freelance photographer in the area caught the image on camera. The photo went viral, and since then, the couple have been besieged with media requests from around the world. <br /><br />When I was reading about the riot and first saw the photograph, I thought it must have been photoshopped or staged. But after watching an <a href="http://www.cbc.ca/news/offbeat/story/2011/06/20/bc-kissing-couple-agent.html ">interview that Scott Jones and Alexandra Thomas did with the CBC</a>, I was amazed to discover that not only was it real, but the couple themselves are refreshingly candid and unpretentious.<br /><br />The question we might all indulge in at a time like this is, why the mass appeal? <br /><br />I would like to see bloggers of all stripes rise to the occasion. This image, with its “make love not war” message, has a little something in it for all of us. Artists would do well to draw on this for fuel. It is rare that we can be witness to something so poignant and tender in the midst of such turmoil. That Scott Jones dared to express heart in the face of anarchy and bedlam is a testament to the calibre of his character.<br /><br />For me personally, this image resonates as a powerful reminder of what continues to grow in me as I age. For all our woes about getting older, it seems to me that the process brings with it a new found capacity for the paradoxical; an ability to embrace beauty in what is not pretty.<br /><br />And that, to me, is what makes life rich.Jessica Mendeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02510577042175416292noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6180048945075947036.post-55403367597899739732010-09-18T23:49:00.000-07:002011-07-26T18:35:40.970-07:00The Shifting Ground of What Makes Me WomanThere is a time in a woman’s life when the things she has relied on to remind her She Is Woman start breaking up – like a picture on a television screen with a faulty digital box. The monthly cycles of her body – the ones she has been deeply intimate with for so long – begin a process of fragmentation. Signs, symptoms, sensations – they disband, scatter, roam about like gypsies. An upheaval takes place in her temperament; in everything she has known herself to be. The steward of her code abandons ship, and an unruly voice emerges, determined to betray her innermost thoughts. Many of the beliefs she has called her own become estranged; a process of liberation unfolds. She enters unchartered territory.<br /><br />It’s called menopause, or more accurately, peri-menopause.<br /><br />At 48, I’ve gotten pretty good at weathering the storm, and I think I’ve even done one better – I’ve welcomed the disruption of a life tightly lived, and been grateful for the wreckage of carefully constructed ideals. But the turbulence in my body is another story. The natural ebb and flow; the yin and yang of my body’s natural rhythm is in disarray, and it has been quite an unsettling experience.<br /><br />That rhythm was central to how I related. Where I was in my cycle either propelled me out or drew me in. I always knew what I needed, my cycle as my guide. Every month, the waxing, the building of the tides; the arousal of ancient passions, and the ache for a man’s penetration. Every month, the waning, the turning inward to the call of the wild. In the days approaching ovulation, my inlands would hum. I wanted contact, communion, engagement. A week before menstruation, I craved solitude, and the space to create. No matter where I was, I had my bearings. <br /><br />Now, I have lost those bearings. I don’t know where I am in my cycle anymore. I don’t know when the blood will flow or where it comes from. I think I am ovulating and then...the feeling dissipates. Casual sex is out. My system is in a profound state of confusion or indecision, I’m not sure which. I can’t tell if I’m coming or going. Is the sensitive animal of my body lost? Or is she simply re-positioning herself? As I prepare for the end of my fertile phase, I know this does not mean the end of my womanhood, as popular lore might have me think. To the contrary. I am of the mentality that I am entering into the prime of my life. <br /><br />Why, then, do I feel so disoriented? How do I make of this something real?Jessica Mendeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02510577042175416292noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6180048945075947036.post-4562267407976795162010-07-25T16:59:00.000-07:002011-07-26T18:26:57.691-07:00Imagination As GospelThere is nothing in this world, arguably, that has the capacity to move in the same way a good story does. Stories are multi-layered, speaking to us on more than one level at once, and indirectly. Ideologies communicated to us in books or lectures don’t always stick – we can listen to them again and again while remaining utterly impenetrable, even as we nod our heads in agreement. But a good story has a way of sneaking in the back door and reaching that part of us tucked far away from life’s disappointments. It can lift us out of our self-imposed drudgery and show us what we’ve forgotten. <br /><br />My favorite form of storytelling is film. If it’s done skilfully, with a deep respect for the power of narrative, the end result can hold enormous impact. With repeated viewings, we often find different parts stirring us in different ways at different times. We love a good story because it takes us away and brings us home at the same time. The line between truth and fiction is absurdly thin. Even the most bizarre scenarios can resonate, and those of us who think deeply are propelled into a place of meaningful contemplation.<br /><br />This year is the 35th anniversary of <span style="font-style:italic;">One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest</span>, and some television stations are airing it on a rotating schedule. Tuning in to the first half recently – I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve watched the entire film – there was one scene that stood out to me this time. Jack Nicholson, a criminal serving a short sentence, is transferred to a mental institution for evaluation, where he amuses himself by goading the ball-busting Nurse Ratched (Louise Fletcher). The tables eventually turn, and though Nicholson successfully campaigns to have the World Series baseball game shown on the ward television, Nurse Ratched refuses to acknowledge it. Nicholson responds by creating a ruckus, and a gleeful one at that.<br /><br />Standing in front of the blank television screen, he starts commentating on an imaginary game with unbridled enthusiasm. It is so real, and so infectious, that when the other patients start gathering around him and cheering, you actually get caught up in it too. And it dawns on you that it doesn’t matter that the television isn’t actually on. The excitement Nicholson rouses in his peers is epic.<br /><br /><a href="http://harpercollins.com/browseinside/index.aspx?isbn13=9780060953720 ">Thomas Moore</a> once said that imagination is more weighty than fact. If we could mine the annals of our consciousness, we might discover experiences there that had little in common with the circumstances of our lives – experiences so vivid they stunned us with their repercussions. So what determines our experience more, I wonder – what we imagine or what actually happens? I am inclined to think it is how we imagine what is happening to us, and how we imagine what <span style="font-style:italic;">will</span> happen. <br /><br />And that includes our experience of aging. Though the forces that shape our experience are vast and complex, it might be wise to take our imagination a lot more seriously, and in this sense, consider living artfully in a world bent on rationalism.Jessica Mendeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02510577042175416292noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6180048945075947036.post-20969924168993186652010-07-02T21:34:00.000-07:002011-07-26T18:28:51.434-07:00Soccer & the Art of CourtingOne of the things I love the most about World Cup Soccer season is being treated, on a daily basis, to images of male comradery in the media. Intimacy between men – especially heterosexual men – is not something depicted in the public realm very often, and personally, I get a real rush from it. There’s something about what I see that I think we need a lot more of in today’s world – Nelson Mandela was really on to something. And there is nothing like soccer to inspire it. Though I know very little about the game, what I have seen about the culture that surrounds it fascinates me. <br /><br />I will never forget my 2002 World Cup experience. I decided I was going to get up at 5am to catch the final match in a large Toronto bar populated by Brazilian fans. There was a massive screen up and a group of drummers poised in the middle of the room. Whenever a player began picking up some momentum on the field, the drummers would start in with a rhythmic beat, gradually increasing both pace and intensity to reflect whatever they were watching on the screen. Women scattered around the room would dance. Then, when an attempt made at scoring failed, instead of deflating or cursing, the crowd would erupt in celebration.<br /><br />What I learned that day was how important attitude is to developing real skill. <span style="font-style:italic;">It’s less about whether or not you score, and more about how you play the game</span>. No wonder the Brazilians are repeated world champions. Every play was celebrated, regardless of the outcome. Rapture marked the occasion, and the ebbs and flows that are a natural expression of raw passion undulated through the room.<br /><br />So I’ve been thinking a lot about that experience lately, and about what we could learn from the Brazilian mindset in the way we approach our relationships, especially with someone we’re attracted to. When we’re young, “courting” tends to be about looking good, snagging, ruffling our feathers, scoring. But as we get older, if we learn to go with it, hopefully we know better. We have the capacity to recognize what we’re missing by refusing to grow up. If we’re smart, we treat “courting” as a sort of a deft artistry, less interested in where we are going than we are in how we are getting there. Like the Brazilian approach to soccer. <br /><br />Of course, we court in all kinds of contexts – not just lover-related. But think of the sexual as a template of sorts, because even those in committed relationships “court” their partner from time to time. One of the perks of aging for those who aren’t fighting it is a growing depth of perception that graces our day to day lives. Our sexuality takes on new dimensions. What we once thought of as “sexy” becomes laughable. We start paying attention to nuance in our social interactions. Conversations happen on more than one level – what we say comes second to how we say it; a pregnant pause can speak volumes. Even the smallest physical gesture can emit subtle, but powerful, erotic energy.<br /><br />It’s not about ego anymore. It’s about a life lived on poetic terms, and the humbling experience of realizing we’re not important in the way we once thought. That love is not at all what we once made it out to be. And the willful, curious engagement of what comes our way when we’re busy making other plans.Jessica Mendeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02510577042175416292noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6180048945075947036.post-29550765931432701062010-06-21T20:40:00.000-07:002011-07-26T18:29:54.010-07:00Mirror as PortalWe’ve all had our own secret relationships with mirrors at some point or another through our lives: the reflection through which we obsess with our own self image. Sometimes a mirror is the first thing we get to when we wake up in the morning; other times, we avoid looking into one. Full-length mirrors are strategically placed in our homes, a portal into exploration of self; the tiny ones we carry become our reality check. If we find ourselves alone with one in a public restroom, we are sometimes struck with what we see there – the changes we hadn’t noticed before; a curve or a bulge we stop to admire; the stranger we fear or had not anticipated.<br /><br />Mirrors provide all kinds of useful functions, many of which fascinate us, or at the very least, play with our perception in some way. We use large, unframed mirrors to create an illusion of space, or to make a room appear larger. We put mirrors on the ceiling over our beds for a source of erotic stimulation. Amusement parks build Halls of Mirrors, deliberately distorted for our own entertainment. Rotating disco balls at clubs covered in small mirrors cast moving spots of light across a dance floor. In the ancient Chinese system of Feng Shui, practitioners believe that a mirror will help to energize a room. And the metaphor “smoke and mirrors” – used frequently in pop culture references to indicate deception or pretense – came from the magician’s illusion: making objects appear or disappear by extending or retracting mirrors amid a confusing burst of smoke.<br /><br />Jimi Hendrix wrote a song called a Room Full of Mirrors, and in a biography of the same name, <a href="http://www.charlesrcross.com/books_f.html ">Charles Cross</a> describes a man who “had an extraordinary sense of self-awareness, and an uncanny ability to use music to express emotional truths.” He talks about a two-by-four-foot mirror that Jimi had created. “Inside the frame sat fifty-odd pieces of a shattered mirror, set in clay in the exact position they would have held upon the breaking of the mirror. The shards all point toward the center, where an unbroken plate-size circle rests.” It was, according to Jimi’s father, his Room Full of Mirrors. The song, Cross says, “tells the story of a man trapped in a world of self-reflection so powerful, it haunts him even in his dreams.”<br /><br />By far the most fascinating use of a mirror I ever heard was from a teacher I once worked with, who said that if you ever find yourself in a lucid dream (awake in a dream and able to direct it), you can look for your reflection in a mirror to “lock” you in. <br /><br />Recently, I had the good fortune to interview one of the most interesting people I have ever met. A scholar, architectural historian, and a specialist in Western esoteric traditions, he struck me as a sort of a mystic Sherlock Holmes. <a href="http://www.frankalbo.com/">Frank Albo</a> penned the <a href="http://www.conspiracyarchive.com/Commentary/Hermetic_Code.htm ">Hermetic Code</a>, a book about his groundbreaking discoveries of Freemasonic symbolism in the <a href="http://www.the8thfire.org/manitou_api/video.htm">Manitoba Legislative Building</a>. He spoke to me about the cornerstone of Hermetic philosophy, the concept “as above, so below; so below, as above” -- that the entire universe, and all things in it, is a sea of mirrors. <br /><br />In other words, he said, everything is inter-connected.<br /><br />Ah – yes, everything is inter-connected. Well I’ve lived by that philosophy for most of my life. But hearing it described in this way – namely, a sea of mirrors – inspired me to think more deeply into it. For as long as I can remember, even in the throes of dire escapist behavior, I’ve wanted in. I’ve wanted to know that stranger in the mirror. I’ve wanted to have the courage of heart to embrace what I see there; to perceive the “as above” reflected in her face. I don’t want to wake up at 62, or 75, to discover I am still removed from what I know.<br /><br />For that is surely what the second half of life is about – learning to relax into what we know, and to meet the stranger in the mirror at last.<br /><br /><br /><br />LOVE AFTER LOVE<br /><br />The time will come<br />when with elation,<br />you will greet yourself arriving<br />at your own front door, in your own mirror,<br />and each will smile at the other’s welcome,<br /><br />and say, sit here. Eat. <br />You will love again the stranger who was yourself.<br />Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart<br />to itself, to the stranger who has loved you<br /><br />all your life, whom you ignored<br />for another, who knows you by heart.<br />Take down the love letter from the bookshelf,<br /><br />the photographs, the desperate notes,<br />peel your own image from the mirror.<br />Sit. Feast on your life.<br /><br />Derek Walcott<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">I invite my readers to share their thoughts on the word “mirror”: stories or myths they’ve heard, favorite metaphors, intriguing associations. It is my intent to write a follow-up post on this subject, depending on the response.<span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Frank Albo will be teaching a course called Forbidden Knowledge, which will put into proper context the shadowy world of occult philosophy and embark on a fascinating journey through five centuries of mystical traditions, from Renaissance sorcery to modern ceremonial magic. It will explore religious mythology, occult history and code-breaking symbolism. For more information visit<span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span> <a href="http://www.frankalbo.com/">www.frankalbo.com</a>Jessica Mendeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02510577042175416292noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6180048945075947036.post-89226452061908265362010-06-08T22:35:00.000-07:002011-07-26T18:34:59.544-07:00Choreography of the SoulIt’s always been curious to me why it is the events in our lives unfold the way that they do. Not in an analytical sort of way, but in a way that beholds the Great Mystery of a larger design; that sense of meaning found in trusting a higher purpose. That random things do happen, but most of the hand we are dealt is not random. That stuff goes down, and people come into our lives for a reason.<br /><br />That we have an active role to play in living out our destiny.<br /><br />Maybe there are folks out there for whom life works out pretty much according to plan. But for most of us, I think, life is what happens to you when you are busy making those plans – as the dictum goes. For most of us, things don’t work out at all the way we had expected. You think you got it all sorted out: where you’re going, what success looks like, the kind of person you will end up with, the kind of relationship you see yourself thriving in. And then someone or something happens along the way that turns everything on its head.<br /><br />As <a href="http://tinyurl.com/295tarz ">Thomas Moore</a> says, we may discover we are most ourselves when we are furthest from the self we think we ought to be.<br /><br />I suspect most people reading this blog will know what I’m talking about. People who get married young, endeavor to live the American dream and follow all the rules – they’re another breed. I’m speaking to those who find themselves, at mid-life or older, without a partner, or questioning some major aspect of their life, or embarking on a journey that on some level they know risks shaking up their worldview. Because they’re the ones who are called upon to go deeper, to re-visit old assumptions or belief systems, to question what they held dear or what they were taught. They’re the ones to realize that happiness may come in a form unlike anything they had ever anticipated.<br /><br />This is why, I think, it is so important to allow relationships to develop organically – to not impose our agenda on them, as much as we can. Especially romantic liaisons. To pursue someone for the sole purpose of steering it toward an end result is as much of a loss to our spiritual selves as it is to have sex with the sole purpose of getting off. The journey, or the lovemaking, is what really matters. As you get older you start to see this more and more. You start to define things differently. You see that a relationship that doesn’t last isn’t necessarily a failure. That we come into each other’s lives for a reason, at intervals that are often impeccably timed.<br /><br />And if you’re lucky, you become an initiate, entering a world in which autonomy and intimacy can co-exist if you really work at it. Sources of unease become your teacher. You lose interest in molding other people into whatever it is you thought they ought to be. A lifelong courtship with the freedom of discovery begins.<br /><br />You abandon the quest for life according to plan, and return instead to the call of the wild.Jessica Mendeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02510577042175416292noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6180048945075947036.post-67458087536315647082010-06-04T12:48:00.000-07:002011-07-26T18:40:19.338-07:00The Hub of Aging with Grace: TravelIt’s a well-known fact that one of the perks to getting older is that you learn to stop wasting time on the things that don’t matter. In relationships – with friends and lovers alike – you start getting really clear on what it is you value, which is often not at all what you once thought. And then there are the “dealbreakers” – the indelicate term that speaks for itself – that tend to come with experience, and sometimes offer the most surprise of all.<br /><br />I have two such “dealbreakers” that I’ve long operated by but only recently become aware of: a lack of curiosity in a person’s nature, and a lack of interest in travel.<br /><br />Now, when I say travel, I mean it in more ways than one: travel to, or curiosity about, other countries and cultures; travel through different perspectives or ways of looking at life. We “travel” when we read a good book or immerse ourselves in a challenge that stretches us to see beyond our usual framework. And we “travel” when we smoke some really good, organic weed (forget about the stereotypical “stoner high” – I’m talking about weed the way it is meant to be used at its best, as a sacrament).<br /><br />Whatever your fancy, it occurs to me that a commitment to travel, in some form, may just be the ticket we all need to aging with grace. Many of us know what it means to become “set in our ways”, and travel seems to offer a good antidote to that. But what I’m probing at here goes even deeper. If we accept how easy it can be to become <span style="font-style:italic;">embedded</span> in our later years, we only have to ask ourselves how this might impede the growth and fruition of our character. Is this where we begin to shrivel? If we are dis-inclined to move, to “travel”, physically or otherwise, how does this ripple out into our experience of getting older?<br /><br />Because it seems to me that as the years wear on, we have a depth of perception available to us that we never had before – entire new worlds open up, that when we’re young, we miss, because we’re too busy being a tourist. <br /><br />Every time I look at myself in the mirror lately, I am aware of two opposing forces at work: a drive to fight the inevitable process I am bearing witness to, and a drive to connect; to dive headfirst into the life that beckons: a presence no longer concerned with mis-placed idealism. A place where the heart reigns, the soul compels and a hunger for substance prevails. <br /><br />The way I see it, a commitment to travel, in the true sense of the word, means a commitment to exploring other ways of life unfamiliar to us; to be willing to abandon everything we know, and look at ourselves from an entirely different light.Jessica Mendeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02510577042175416292noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6180048945075947036.post-71918490920266178162010-05-26T16:29:00.000-07:002011-07-26T18:41:02.191-07:00Aging & Character: Coming Into BeingIt’s always been curious to me how it is we can yearn for things we’ve never had any direct experience with: a certain kind of intimacy; an adventure defined by the challenge it offers; the call of the land or architecture in another country. We might rationalize that it’s the idea of the thing; something we read or saw depicted. But I’m not talking about anything that superficial. I’m talking about the stuff you can’t shake; an ache or a pining that persists over many years that runs so deep it almost becomes an obsession. You can’t justify it. You wonder if it’s in your genetic memory, part of your ancestral code, or the experience of a past life is still with you. You have more questions than answers.<br /><br />A transgendered person – for example, a physiological male who simply must find a way to live life as a woman – would know exactly what I’m talking about. So would the person who has long been besotted with living in another century; another time and place. Longings of this ilk can be a wretched thing indeed. Some folks, like educator <a href="http://orphanwisdom.homestead.com/ ">Stephen Jenkinson</a>, believe that the absence of the thing you long for is your teacher, and a life-changing one at that.<br /><br />Well I have many such “teachers”, one of them being my longing to be part of a culture wherein ceremony – and the ritualizing of transition – is a way of life. Where villagers gather to welcome and name a newborn in liturgy. Where adolescents are considered to be “coming into the world”, and their changing status is honored with celebration, and a symbolic ceremonial gesture. Where it is common to choose carefully the land on which you want to live, and the surrounding community joins you in blessing your new home.<br /><br />Where life passages are considered to be sacred, not routine, and where ritual enables due diligence in contemplating responsibility as it was meant to be – to our community, our land, and ourselves.<br /><br />Clearly, this worldview would be invaluable in changing our experience of midlife here in North America: a time or an age that, in other countries through history, has been considered a rite of passage; an entering into, as <a href="http://tinyurl.com/yexa5on">Suzanne Braun Levine</a> puts it, our “second adulthood”. <br /><br />Interestingly enough, astrologers will tell you that Saturn – the planet of responsibility, and coming into being – will return to the same spot it was when we were born every 27 years or so (a transit known as the “Saturn return”). Between the ages of 27 and 29, our lives can experience a real upheaval of values and priorities, often forcing us to face this thing called cause and effect, and to take responsibility for our lives. And so it happens again in our early to mid-50s, but on an entirely different level altogether.<br /><br />So what is this “second adulthood”, and how have we gotten to the point where the opportunities it brings are all too often shrouded in our fear of aging? Inevitably, then, we endure this midlife passage as more of a “crisis”, and it is portrayed in media and film as our last desperate grasp on youth before the final resignation to the “reality” of getting old. <a href="http://tinyurl.com/34zbe2k ">James Hillman</a> once said that the main pathology of later years is <span style="font-style:italic;">our idea</span> of later years. Instead of viewing aging as a “coming into being”, we resort to drastic measures in order to defy nature, and to prove to ourselves that we’ve “still got it”.<br /><br />Which is tragic. Because, as Hillman points out, this crisis “compounds two fears: I am getting on in years, yet am I getting on with what I really am? Aging and character together. This popular syndrome is less about the middle of the life span than about the central crisis of one’s nature, less about being too old than about being still too young. Not loss of capacity; loss of illusion.” <br /><br />What does all of this mean? What is the relationship between aging and character? <span style="font-style:italic;">I am getting on in years, yet am I getting on with what I really am?</span> Instead of being victimized by aging, what would it be like to own it; to mark our entry into midlife as a sacred life passage?<br /><br />What might it be like to live a life unencumbered by the obsession with youth?Jessica Mendeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02510577042175416292noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6180048945075947036.post-89754844669477676502010-05-18T15:16:00.000-07:002011-07-26T18:43:08.182-07:00Beauty & the Fickle Beast of PerceptionWe’ve all had days where we feel disheveled, beastly or worn, either from stress or lack of sleep. And maybe we get a concerned look from a colleague, or we simply blend into the sea of self absorbed faces at rush hour. But there are other days when we might be surprised by someone in a way we least expect. Here we are, feeling like crap, and they tell us...something to the contrary. We look good, they say. Or in our element. Or a complete stranger smiles at us. Or whatever. And we wonder who or what it is they are seeing.<br /><br />Well I was standing at the streetcar stop the other day feeling pretty bland when this young, 20-something African man strolls by. And he looks at me like....well, like he found me mighty darned attractive. Like I imagine guys his age look at girls their own age. Like I was beautiful. He locked eyes with me until I looked away, my shyness getting the better of me.<br /><br />I started thinking about what a lot of African Canadian men have told me – men from countries in east, south and west Africa alike, especially south. They say they don’t see age. <span style="font-style:italic;">They don’t see age</span>. It’s irrelevant to them. Either a woman is beautiful to them or not. I’ve had often had them approach me on dating sites, and when I point out the age difference between us on the phone, their disinterest is palpable.<br /><br />In a culture where who we are and what we are deemed capable of is largely shaped by our perceived age, this trait is no less than remarkable. The age we consider someone to be is foremost on our minds. It influences our professional choices, who we make conversation with at parties or who we go to bed with. Of course, there are plenty of other factors, as well. But I would argue that age is front and centre for a lot of folks. Just try for a moment to imagine what life would be like if you saw the soul of a person first: their beauty or intelligence or “vibe”, or whatever you want to call it. And then maybe later you noticed they were in a generation completely different than your own, but it didn’t matter, because you made this connection. <br /><br />Can you imagine what living like that would be like?<br /><br />Now I know there are many times when factoring a person’s age into our decisions is entirely appropriate. I’m not suggesting age is irrelevant – that’s not the point of this post. I am just fascinated by how culture shapes the perception of age. More specifically, I am fascinated by how culture shapes the perception of what is beautiful.<br /><br />Consider for a moment one aspect of genital reconstruction, which I wrote about in my recent post, Designer Vaginas. Girls as young as 15 are so influenced by distorted and narrow sexual ideals in western culture that they are going into surgeon’s offices to have their labia amputated. Sites like <a href="http://tinyurl.com/bv8dlu">Scarleteen</a>, a sexual education resource for teenagers, typically feature ongoing inquiries from girls worried about their labia being too large. <br /><br />In contrast, listen to this. I interviewed an educator (and former consultant to the World Health Organization) last week about the history of genital surgery across cultures who told me that in some countries, <span style="font-style:italic;">labia are stretched because large labia are considered to be more beautiful</span>.<br /><br />Now think about that for a moment. Think about the lengths we go to to conform to someone else’s ideas about what is beautiful, and how fickle that can be. Trends change. People change. Many of us live in an increasingly multi-cultural society, so we never really know for sure how a person’s perception of beauty has been shaped, or how aware they are as a human being. I met a Caucasian man in his early 40s once who admitted to me he found the signs of aging (wrinkles, grey hair) to be sexually arousing.<br /><br />So, as hip hop mogul <a href="http://tinyurl.com/2bsdj5q">Russell Simmons</a> says in his book, just <span style="font-style:italic;">Do You</span>. Authenticity sells. And I can dig it. Find a way to get off on who you are. Life is short.<br /><br />When SeptemberMay launches next year, we will be celebrating the older woman for all that she is: the beauty, eroticism and intelligence she embodies that a younger woman can only dream of. Not the 40-something “cougar”, but the authentic older woman, be she in her 40s, 50s, 60s or 70s. I am convinced there are a solid pool of men out there who can really rock with that idea. <br /><br />And we’ll be opening our doors to them.Jessica Mendeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02510577042175416292noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6180048945075947036.post-5286641234242317432010-05-09T21:33:00.000-07:002011-10-16T14:46:54.688-07:00The Hallmark of AgeAge, and how we talk about it, is a funny thing. When you’re young, of course, you’re always topping it up – 18 years and 7 months is automatically translated into 19 when someone asks how old you are. Age is referred to in the context of status or personal rights. You want to be older to gain certain privileges, or you are older so you brag about it. As you get on, however, the ambivalence starts setting in. You are less and less certain about when and how to talk about it. You notice the disparity between how old you feel and how old you actually are, which tends to fluctuate.<br /><br />And then, one morning, you wake up, look at yourself and say, “Shit, I’m getting old.”<br /><br />What always surprises me is at what age people reach that point – and how much that varies. I am interested in how people see themselves in relation to how old they are. I’ve talked to people in their 40s who still consider themselves relatively young, and listened to a 29 year old lament about their 30th birthday. In my early to mid-40s, the only time I thought about how old I was or how old I felt was when I was comparing myself to other people. As a woman without children, it would always be a bit of a jolt for me to hear someone younger than I was talking about her kids. I didn’t see myself as having lived that long. And yet, the difference in my quality of life was a world apart from that in my 20s. Youth is overrated. <br /><br />So when someone dear to me tells me that at 54, he’s “getting old”, and that finding people to do business with is increasingly challenging, I am shocked. <span style="font-style:italic;">54 is young</span>, I thought. But then I sort of got it. It’s all relative. He is in a line of business that is youth-dominated. Being discriminated against is the norm. I wonder how deeply that affects him. I wonder if, in his private moments, he is stuck in a time capsule. Or does he reconcile with the man he is becoming, slowly growing into a new way of being? <br /><br />We so often talk about embracing a process or embracing who we are. What about embracing our age? What would it feel like to own it, work it, take pride in it? To find confidence in the experiences that have made us more rounded? We live in a time where we can’t look to young people to show their respect. They’ve never been taught. To the contrary, they’ve been conditioned against getting older and all that it represents. We all have.<br /><br />It’s up to us to change that. They’ll either get it or they won’t, but if they don’t it’s their loss. Hopefully they’ll come around. The hallmark of age is something to regard, and our quality of life depends on it.Jessica Mendeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02510577042175416292noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6180048945075947036.post-47473704486181419822010-05-02T21:34:00.000-07:002011-07-26T18:44:52.455-07:00Older Women as Sexual MentorsI have often imagined what it would be like to be a teenage boy with a sexual appetite that is out of control, trying to get enough verve to ask the girl out at school while masturbating under the bed covers at every opportunity. It seems to me that hormonally-challenged young men have no business running around with girls their own age – at least, not until they’ve found a way to relieve some of the pressure, and learned a little bit about how to harness their energies. Because as we all know, it is common for girls to feel coerced into sex before they are ready – and many of us caved out of the need to be wanted. It’s still going on today. Girls as young as 11 or 12 are giving out blow jobs to boys in order to be cool, and to gain acceptance from their peers.<br /><br />But I digress. What I mean to be driving at is that many teenage boys could benefit from a channel through which to express their needs, and some practical advice on how to please a lady. And who better to offer that than an older woman?<br /><br />Movie star Michael Douglas knows about this all too well. Recently, on being interviewed by <a href="http://www.elle.com/Pop-Culture/Celebrity-Spotlight/Basic-Instincts-Michael-Douglas">Elle</a> magazine, he confessed to having been bedded by two friends of his mother’s when he was 16. And since then, pop sensation <a href="http://www.contactmusic.com/news.nsf/story/justin-bieber-likes-older-women_1140823">Justin Bieber</a> (also 16) has revealed a similar wisdom, having come out with his own interest in older women. These are just two examples. That young men (especially major stars) talk so much more easily about this kind of attraction demonstrates one thing for certain – times are changing. It’s not just a Mrs. Robinson phenomena anymore.<br /><br />There is something that just makes sense about this picture. A woman in her sexual prime has just as much to gain from initiating a young man as he does, and it’s fun for both of them. If boys had the benefit of this experience more often, they would be far more versed in matters of both the heart and sexuality – and that is something we can all gain from. It would be good for their self esteem, and good for the women they end up with. <br /><br />Now this little liaison I am painting is, of course, distinctly different from that of an older woman – younger man relationship that endures, even if they both work for similar reasons. But I think it deserves to be taken just as seriously. In some Indigenous cultures, women were required to assume a temporary post as a teacher of sexual secrets to young men, as a form of initiation. If receiving this kind of direction were the norm in modern day society, the impact on a young man's growth and maturation would be something to observe indeed.<br /><br />Just imagine the possibilities.Jessica Mendeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02510577042175416292noreply@blogger.com39tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6180048945075947036.post-1751458654932771382010-04-25T20:06:00.000-07:002011-07-26T18:45:34.442-07:00Designer VaginasThe push toward cosmetic surgery to “mask” the effects of aging is not news, and as the likes of <a href="http://www.people.com/people/article/0,,20336472,00.html">Heidi Montag</a> will attest, its practice is growing at an alarming rate with young women as well. What is talked about a lot less, though, is cosmetic surgery below the belt or, put another way and a lot more specifically, “designer vaginas” – a moniker granted it in a 2005 <a href="http://www.theglobeandmail.com/life/article892673.ece">Globe and Mail article</a>. <br /><br />Both men and women today have wildly distorted impressions of so-called “normal” genitalia. Research repeatedly shows that women in particular are widely unfamiliar with real genital diversity, so they tend to rely on marketing and images provided by doctors and other professionals with ridiculously narrow aesthetic and sexual ideals. The reality is that the size, shape and form of a woman’s genitalia vary greatly, and change over time – we are as diverse “down there” as we are in our faces or our fingerprints.<br /><br />That’s what I learned from the <a href="http://www.newviewcampaign.org/">New View Campaign</a> when I interviewed them several years ago. A grassroots organization formed in New York about 10 years ago, its purpose is, among other things, to challenge distorted messages about sexuality, and to expose aggressive marketing tactics that normalize women's dissatisfaction with their bodies.<br /><br />We’re talking women as young as 15 years old, going in for procedures such as drastic labia amputation or clitoral unhooding, with poor research on the consequences. <br /><br />My question is this – how did we get here? How did we get to the point where we are so fucked up about our bodies, women of all ages are lopping off bits and pieces of their private parts in order to feel desirable?<br /><br />The pressure to conform to a commonly agreed upon norm can be a highly oppressive force. We see and allow for diversity in nature much more easily than we do in our bodies, or for that matter, our sexual experiences. We’re always thinking about whether we measure up. Biologist and sex researcher <a href="http://kinseyconfidential.org/shape-explores-body-diversity/">Alfred Kinsey</a> dedicated most of his life to educating people in this realm in the 1940s and 50s, yet we’re still dealing with a lot of the same (recycled) attitudes today. <br /><br />Why are we so afraid of being different? As we age, and develop a more intimate relationship with our own bodies and our selves, this question might be more relevant than we think.Jessica Mendeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02510577042175416292noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6180048945075947036.post-11868710203439813852010-04-19T21:57:00.000-07:002011-07-26T18:47:02.247-07:00Grief As SkillSomeone I interviewed once actually talked about this – grief as a true skill of life, “an equal of the ability to love.” Now I’m the sort of person who sits up and takes note when I hear this kind of talk. I am interested in how people deal with what they find difficult; what their attitude toward death is; how they respond to crisis or what they do with the dark undercurrent of their emotions. I have always felt that to be really alive or to live our lives fully we need to make peace with the things we find hellish. That there is a great deal to learn from that we find arduous. So I invited him back for another interview. I wanted to ask him what this “grief as skill” thing was all about. I wanted some insight that might help me in adjusting to the death of someone very close to me.<br /><br />The man I refer to here is Stephen Jenkinson. www.orphanwisdom.com<br /><br />Turns out that the skill of grief and the skill of dying are pretty much in the same camp. It all has to do with living your life as if whatever it is won’t last; that “the cradle of your love of life is death – the fact that it ends.” Okay – so living as if today, or this moment, could be your last – I can dig it. But I think there’s more. I want in on this “grief as skill” business. So I ask him. <br /><br />He’s happy to indulge me. He talks about “letting the grief be part of the story,” and “a moral intelligence; a willingness to know the fabric of life for what it is.” I am struck by the beauty of how this all sounds. But what really gets me is when he describes the skill of grief as a “<span style="font-style:italic;">the willingness to remember</span> – an understanding of what a discipline of the heart it is to remember, even when it pains you to do so.”<br /><br />Not the same as memory, he tells me. First, he starts by defining “to remember”. He says it actually means, “to gather back together again.” That when someone you love has died, “doing” grief means being willing to remember. <span style="font-style:italic;">Because the opposite to “remember” is “dismember</span>”. Once you understand that, he tells me, you understand the full consequence of forgetting someone. <br /><br />Yikes.<br /><br />So I’ve been thinking a lot about this forgetting business. About how references to it can be found in music, art, literature and even social media. We “forget” about our troubles by drinking them away, or sing about “forgetting” someone who has hurt us. “Forget about it,” we say, as an expression of good will when someone we know feels guilty about their behavior. The examples are endless. And what about the daily routines of living in a fast-paced, western culture? Do we habitually “forget” about one thing in order to focus on the next? Put our family “out of mind” in order to bring our best to the job? Block out the disturbing exchange we just had with a friend, because it’s just too uncomfortable to allow it any room? <br /><br />How much of our lives is a series of disjointed events, a stage play of multiple personalities acting through varying mindsets, never the twain shall meet?<br /><br />Surely there has to be times that “forgetting” is a positive, constructive thing to do? The thing that helps us move on? Forgive? Come together? I don’t know anymore. But it did occur to me that when “forgetting” turns into a habit, it becomes pathological. <span style="font-style:italic;">To forget is to dismember</span>. Shit – that’s heavy. How many body parts have I got strewn across my life – my psyche? Does my left hand even know what my right hand is doing?<br /><br />It is in this vein that the love of my life – my beloved Mishka – saved my life. Her death continues to riddle me with anguish, but at 48, I now find myself thinking about what it might mean to not be leaving stuff behind anymore. To bring this part along with that part, and so on – to introduce all the bits and pieces.<br /><br />To be “willing to remember” whatever I need to, regardless of how much it pains me, in order to learn “the deep skill of living.” <br /><br />That sounds like a life’s work – one I welcome with an open heart. Because I will <span style="font-style:italic;">never</span> forget her.Jessica Mendeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02510577042175416292noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6180048945075947036.post-48073749731506051422010-04-07T21:06:00.000-07:002011-07-26T18:48:08.679-07:00Flexibility: The Holy GrailIt seems to me that one of the hardest parts about aging is the tendency to become enslaved by habit; those parts of our lives that we do over and over again on autopilot, simply because it is what we know. And I do mean enslaved. Like getting so locked in to a pattern of behavior that any effort to resist it feels like swimming in jello. The God of Apathy takes over.<br /><br />I suppose that’s partly why we fall into these habits in the first place – the apathy or depression about getting older. A realization that, in my experience at least, comes in stages. It starts with this sense of time speeding up, somewhere between 40 and 50. Then you start noticing shit about your body that’s difficult to deal with – it doesn’t work the way it used to; the wrinkles, sags or grays start sneaking up on you. Or you start surprising yourself with the stuff that comes out of your mouth. Or it dawns on you that people don’t look at you the same way anymore. It’s insanely easy to start panicking. You want to rewind the tape. What happened to my waist? My biceps? My face? Did it all just catch up to me? Who <span style="font-style:italic;">is</span> that looking back at me in the mirror? Did I just say that? Who the hell am I?!!<br /><br />So you start comparing. And thinking a lot about who you <span style="font-style:italic;">were</span>. And if you’re not careful, you wake up one day confronted with how <span style="font-style:italic;">regimented</span> you’ve become – the days bleed into each other, and the phrase “same old, same old” takes on a whole new meaning. You think about getting out but the prospect is unnerving. As the saying goes, “old habits die hard”. That’s because the older we get, the harder it is to mix it up. Flexibility of mind, heart and body becomes something we have to work at. We’re hanging on to how it was five years ago, or whenever, trying to slow down the rate at which time seems to be slipping through our fingers. We resist change by courting the familiar. And before we know it we are going through the motions, resigning ourselves to the process of aging, as if we lacked choices in how we experience it. <br /><br />All of this, ironically, as we avoid facing death. We tell ourselves that doing so is giving up on life. Educator Stephen Jenkinson sees it very differently. “The skill of dying is the same skill as deep living,” he tells me. That the extent to which we can embrace death is the extent to which we can live our lives. “Not success...not growth...not happiness. The cradle of your love of life is death. The fact that it ends.”<br /><br />I’m thinking that gives me options. Options I never had before.Jessica Mendeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02510577042175416292noreply@blogger.com3