Destiny 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?
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.
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. This wasn’t part of the plan, we grumble. But what does “working out” really mean? Is there something else in store for us we hadn’t seen coming?
It was E.M. Forster who said, “We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us.”
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 Bridges of Madison County – 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 Thomas Moore puts it, that we are “most ourselves when we are furthest from the self we think we ought to be”?
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?
One of my favorite writers, Dr. Bill Thomas, recently quoted from a blog he had found:
“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.”
How utterly invigorating to ponder.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
The Betrayal of Soul to Flash & Pomp
The tragic death of Amy Winehouse at age 27 recently reminded me of a documentary I reviewed for radio called 27, 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.
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?
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 staged. 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 the cool factor. It’s less about soul than it is about persona.
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 Freaks: Myths & Images of the Secret Self, 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.
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 the young talent and rich character of Casey Abrams on American Idol. 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.
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.
But I digress.
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.
I want to feel something real.
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?
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 staged. 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 the cool factor. It’s less about soul than it is about persona.
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 Freaks: Myths & Images of the Secret Self, 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.
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 the young talent and rich character of Casey Abrams on American Idol. 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.
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.
But I digress.
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.
I want to feel something real.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Disappointment, Longing & Age
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
The Kissing Couple As Muse
There 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.
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.
She was frightened, he said. He wanted to calm her down.
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.
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 interview that Scott Jones and Alexandra Thomas did with the CBC, I was amazed to discover that not only was it real, but the couple themselves are refreshingly candid and unpretentious.
The question we might all indulge in at a time like this is, why the mass appeal?
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.
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.
And that, to me, is what makes life rich.
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.
She was frightened, he said. He wanted to calm her down.
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.
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 interview that Scott Jones and Alexandra Thomas did with the CBC, I was amazed to discover that not only was it real, but the couple themselves are refreshingly candid and unpretentious.
The question we might all indulge in at a time like this is, why the mass appeal?
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.
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.
And that, to me, is what makes life rich.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
The Shifting Ground of What Makes Me Woman
There 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.
It’s called menopause, or more accurately, peri-menopause.
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.
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.
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.
Why, then, do I feel so disoriented? How do I make of this something real?
It’s called menopause, or more accurately, peri-menopause.
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.
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.
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.
Why, then, do I feel so disoriented? How do I make of this something real?
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Imagination As Gospel
There 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.
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.
This year is the 35th anniversary of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, 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.
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.
Thomas Moore 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 will happen.
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.
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.
This year is the 35th anniversary of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, 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.
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.
Thomas Moore 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 will happen.
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.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Soccer & the Art of Courting
One 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.
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.
What I learned that day was how important attitude is to developing real skill. It’s less about whether or not you score, and more about how you play the game. 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
What I learned that day was how important attitude is to developing real skill. It’s less about whether or not you score, and more about how you play the game. 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.
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.
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.
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.
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