64

 

It doesn’t feel like it looks. It doesn’t look like it feels, either. I wonder what the Beatles envisioned when they wrote “When I’m 64.” I wonder what the next generation sees when they look at me. Do I look like an old lady?

I’ve joked about having the body of a 70-year-old for most of my life but my face is catching up. It’s not there yet – I’m only 64 – but now I get what Mum meant when she said she’d wake up feeling 28 and “get an awfy surprise” when she looked in the mirror. I suspect it depended on the day: some days I feel pretty good and look it, but if I’m stressed or tired, yup, it shows. “More wrinkly about the face,” as the Leppard King once put it. Meh. It happens to everyone and I’d rather age out gracefully than bolt for the Botox and end up looking like Barbie with a turkey neck. I’ve always said I don’t care what it looks like so long as it works, and bless the old bones, my compostable container is hanging in there. She’s all stock except for two finger joints and her back teeth. She still has the extraneous parts like tonsils, gall bladder and appendix. She’s even got me through menopause without help. It’s been a fun ride for sure, but at least I’ve avoided the side effects. 

So, here I am. 64 and counting. Since this time last year, I have officially retired and am on a fixed income. I have a part time gig managing the social media posts for a local author who happens to be the same boss I had when I wrangled numbers for a living. Ter and I are back on the east side of the bridge and happy as clams in our new/old ’hood. Life is finally moving at a pace I can match, and if I happen to wake up feeling less motivated than usual, I am free to spend a day on the couch with a book and a bag of chips. I gotta admit, it’s pretty darned sweet. 

My trippy hippy attitude has taken a beating but through it all, I acknowledge the Universe’s assistance in providing everything I needed – and need – to keep going. Life is not meant to be easy and trust me, it hasn’t been easy since 2018. I’m not whining, I’m just speaking my truth. I’m not alone in the struggle to make sense of it all, to overcome the obstacles and find ways to maintain some sort of balance in this increasingly unbalanced world. Everyone struggles. We have different challenges, of course, none more or less than anyone else’s – it’s relative. On the night before my surgery to replace those two finger joints, I recall my dad telling me it wasn’t that big a deal compared to other people’s lives. I replied, “Maybe so, but it’s the biggest thing in my life right now.” The wisdom of an eighteen-year-old, perhaps, but the sentiment holds true considering how no one is given more than they can handle. I can handle a lot – but could I handle living in a war zone or an abusive relationship? Could I endure not having “enough” – food, shelter, income, etc.? I’m singularly grateful that the Universe thinks not! 

I hope it continues to think that way. I kinda feel like it might, for a while anyway. It’s strange. I’m on the threshold of a whole new phase in life and unsure how to manage it. I’m excited to embrace whatever comes, trusting as ever that I will be sustained through whatever awaits, but I dunno. When I was younger, I figured when I reached this age I’d have seen it all. Now I’m here and it feels like I haven’t seen anything! 

Well, as my favourite Bachman-Turner Overdrive song says, “Baby, you ain’t seen nothing yet!” 

Happy birthday, Ru. With love,

63

Early last week I realized that I am not – and maybe never have been – wild about my birthday. Anyone whose natal anniversary comes this close to a new school year can probably relate. I didn’t dislike school; it was just hard to fit in, and once my bones crashed the party, being a teenager got significantly harder. We also moved around a lot, so I was often the new kid in class ... but this post isn’t about school. It’s about accepting a truth formed over sixty-two years and only acknowledged in my sixty-third.

I have patchwork memories of birthdays past. Some were good, a few were great, and many were anticipated with more anxiety than excitement. A couple were so crushing that I recall them in more precise detail than I do the most-excellent ones outnumbering them. When contemplating the inevitable occasion a week ago, I felt like my birthday has historically been more stress than celebration, and I wanted to forget the whole thing forevermore.

Then the modem at home crapped out and I had to work at the office for five days straight. I was already compromised by a week of bad technology karma, so losing the wifi was a grandiose WTF? Thinking of my birthday on top of that just made me crabbier. And I mean crabbier.

I can’t tell if it’s a blessing or a curse that the people I work with are amused by my moods. They certainly aren’t daunted, although they are quick to respect when I answer “How are you, Ru?” with a warning to approach with caution. Last Monday I ranted freely about my wifi woes, to which none of them were genuinely sympathetic, as apparently a whole week of my on-site presence is a perceived win (should have been my first hint).

When I arrived at the office on Tuesday, a bunch of balloons was tangled in the tree outside my window. Our office is next door to a hotel and three different, um, drinking establishments, so, obviously the balloons had somehow got loose from their original owner the previous night ... but for them to end up outside my window when I’m flanked by glass on either side seemed like a pre-birthday sign from the Universe. I definitely felt the love, which was rather humbling considering my attitude.

Throughout the week, my peeps made frequent reference to my approaching happy day, which I was actually dreading though it would have been mean to say so. And on the last workday before my birthday, I walked into a fully decorated office, down to the tiny party hats made for each of my critters. My morning chai was bought for me, our executive director brought me flowers, everyone on the headquarters roster had signed a birthday card, and once our office manager arrived (coming in specially on a vacation day), she brought a black forest cake and led the team in a round of “Happy Birthday to Ru”. We partied and laughed and hugged and got a little work done ahead of my birthday long weekend.

How could anyone stay miserable in the face of so much love? Not me, that’s for sure. And on the home front, the technician from Rogering Shaw got us back online with a new modem to replace the dud they’d sent us a week earlier (but that’s another post). By the end of the week, my treed balloons were wimpy and shrivelled ... and so was I.

My attitude had to change after all that. And it did. I’d been so fraught with anxiety and, yes, feeling unworthy, that I almost denied myself the joy of being loved by people I love. They might not be family, yet they mean as much to me as any blood relation – and I mean as much to them. Today (the 2^nd), I’ve been inundated with texts and emails, and Ter has been her usual over-the-top generous self. I’d say I’m luckier than I deserve, but that might send the wrong message to a Universe that exists to give back what I put out.

As I wrote in my note to the HQ folks who signed my card, thanks to them, I’ve decided my birthday is okay after all. The only ones I’ll dislike now are the ones that make me older.

Happy birthday, Ru. You are so very loved.

62

 

This was a better year, in many ways, than the last. Personally, anyway. The world beyond my window is generally peaceful, though I feel the weighty energy of a greater world gone mad and the good people in it buckling beneath the strain. I have to turn that off, sometimes. If I don’t, I get edgy and contrary—not my natural state despite the hardwiring of my mortal form.

I realized this morning that I need regular exposure to nature. Sitting by the ocean, walking through the woods, even a stroll up the main drag to see what’s happening in the metaphoric village square, will calm my mind and bring me back to centre. My qigong and yoga practices are critical as well, since they keep me mobile and build strength. I’ve improved in that regard over the past twelve months. (Let’s ignore the flare in my left foot that stalled my progress during the past two weeks—augh!) My immune system has settled after last summer’s disaster of the covid vaccine response. I can almost claim to be normal again, assuming my recall is accurate. Weight is improving, mobility is improving, mental state is good if I stay in the moment and don’t let my head get, well, ahead.

Which reminds me of the sarky remark the Father of my Unborn Children made when filling out a stupid rock star survey in the mid-80’s: “If you want to get ahead, get a hat.”

My writing is still on the mend. I’m not nearly as prolific as I once was—I completed one short story this summer, but aside from a few errant stabs at a longtime work in progress, I’m more interested in reading than writing these days. I’ve rebooted my library card. It saves shelf space at home, and I can explore a multitude of genres without blowing my allowance on misfires. That said, I’ve downloaded some dandies to my Kindle in the past year. The best was “The Book Eaters” by Sunyi Dean, with Cornelia Funke’s “Inkheart” running a close second. Great fantasy works both, each fantabulous in its own way. Right now I’m on the second of Alison Weir’s “Six Wives of Henry VIII” series; I’ll always be a sucker for historical fiction, particularly stories set in Tudor and Stuart England. I’ve got pieces of my own Charles II story yet to be woven together. I’ll finish it eventually. Maybe when I’m retired?

That won’t be for a while yet. I still enjoy my job and the people I work with; I’m now at the office three days a week, to give Ter home space and me a change of scene. I get more work done on my two home office days, so it works out. The extra office day was added earlier this summer as an experiment to see how I held up physically. I did so well that it’s a regular thing now. Next plan is to take the community limo twice a week; I dislike hauling the gov’t laptop on public transit so Ter drives me in and home on occasions when I’m carrying it.

My outlook hasn’t changed all that much, despite having to monitor my tendency to become a recluse. I still believe implicitly in a loving, friendly and generous Universe that works in my best interest even when I’m going “Uni, WTF??” Like attracts like, so I try to remain positive where possible ... but thank the gods that hockey season is on the horizon—I can use my naughty words without compromising my everyday principles.

I never tire of living; I just get tired of life, sometimes. When I feel that darkness start to creep in, I turn off the news and go to the beach.

It’s a good life. I am grateful to be in it. I love my people and especially my Ter. Miracles abound, big and small; even the tiny ones appear when I look for them. It’s not always good, but it’s all good, if you know what I mean.

Happy birthday, Ru. With love,

61

 

A year has passed already? When did that happen?

There’s no point in being mystified, as it clearly has happened. Better to accept and get on with it. In fact, it’s preferable.

It would be peevish to claim that my sixties have sucked, but really, the past twelve months have been challenging. I reacted to my second dose and subsequent booster of the COVID vaccine, resulting in so much pain that I could barely function on a day to day basis. I managed to keep to my work routine, but anything more—flâneries, writing, socializing, even eating regular meals—was beyond my capacity as I spent my free time sleeping to recover from the fatigue of said work routine. I lost weight, mobility and, to some extent, the will to live. My will to survive remained, else my sixtieth birthday might have been my last, thus I am here to tell you that, to quote Star Trek: the Next Generation, “survival (alone) is insufficient”.

I thank the gods every day for my beloved Ter. Without her, I would have been—and would still be—hooped. She made it her mission to get me through each day, to get me where I needed to be and see me safely home again. She took on all household chores. She pored over countless books and websites in search of solutions to my ongoing inflammation. She encouraged me in whatever I felt able to do, be it a shuffle around the park or a shuffle around the coffee table. In essence, she stepped up as she had done during 2016’s auto immune incident. She is simply the best. I cannot be grateful enough for her love and unlimited support. Why she puts up with me I do not know and no longer care. I’m just glad she does.

I found a physiotherapist to help me rebuild my strength with an eye to resuming my regular flâneries. It was promising to start, then I faltered. My condition is chronic rather than the result of a short-term injury and I was unable to maintain the level of activity he prescribed on a weekly basis. I did well enough to start, but then my energy would be sapped by stress at work or at home, or by what I might have eaten (and why) that caused a flare. We talked a lot about capacity versus activity, how psychology affects the physical, and ways to manage chronic pain that differ from his usual area of practice. In the end, he’s let me build my own routine based on the tools he gave me (load-bearing exercises and yoga/qigong videos on YouTube), but the really cool thing is he’s putting together a low impact program for folks with chronic pain and has asked me to help by giving him feedback after running through the steps with him. We inspired each other in a way neither of us anticipated, which proves to me that the Universe had a definite hand in me finding him.

Same with the chiropractor. My chiro of twenty-plus years retired last Christmas, so I’ve been test-driving potential successors. My first try worked out great for a few months, until she injured herself and I was forced to visit her colleague in the same clinic. I liked him so much that I’m considering switching to him for good. I have a good sense of what works for my body, and wonderful as Dr M is, Dr C has a subtle something extra that just feels better.

Now that COVID is here to stay, work has settled into halftime in town and halftime at home office. The world is a less amiable place than it was even a year ago, but the media doesn’t report good news or optimistic stories so I’m unconvinced that the positive in human nature is outdone by the negative in human nature. Power, money, ego and fear may get all the attention, but the spirit of creative collaboration defies the boundaries of race, religion and nationality.

While I work on overcoming my challenges, the Universe continues to care for me in every conceivable way. Miracles continue to manifest, if not for me directly then for people within my circle to which I am a witness. The world is stupid crazy, yet I am blessed with an inner calm that occasionally gives way to monkey mind but hey, that’s what mortality is all about, Charlie Brown.

Today I turn sixty-one. There’s plenty of time for my sixties to be my best decade yet. It’s up to me.

Happy birthday, Ru. With love,

Think What You Believe

 

I woke up with monkey mind the other day. You know, the incessant internal chattering that starts ahead of the alarm going off? Or, on a weekend, when you’re trying to sleep in but can’t because you’re suddenly stressing about your next dental appointment ... in eight weeks?

It’s no wonder I’m not a morning person. My mind knows it can catch me in the dream space before I’m fully awake. So much for those magical seventeen seconds when everything is neutral! If I’m not with it right out of the gate—and I’m generally not—poor Ter is invariably clubbed with a grouchy Ru at morning tea.

That bugs me more than it bugs me. Ter doesn’t deserve to have me rain on her peaceful morning routine. She’s usually (always) up before me, and her welcoming smile is easily dimmed when she asks how I’m doing and I growl at her.

So when it happened the other day, I did not blame her for escaping into the shower as soon as she felt was polite. She assured me later that she’d just wanted to get her day started, and maybe that’s true, but I also know she was giving me space to get my act together.

Which I did. I had to. I was driving myself nuts, too. I’m unhappy being unhappy, especially when there’s no cause for it. I mean, really. Stressing first thing about a dental appointment that won’t happen for another two months? Clearly, I had no immediate reason to be upset that morning, so monkey mind went looking for something. First I growled at Ter, then I told her why I was crabby—she probably bolted for the shower to keep me from seeing her eye roll.

Anyway, as I sat there stewing, my little voice said quite clearly: “Think what you believe.”

What?

“You know that saying, ‘you don’t have to believe everything you think’? Well, flip it. Think what you believe.”

I actually blanked out for a minute. Then I considered what I believe. Starting with gratitude, of course. Yeah, gratitude: for Ter, for my loving, friendly and generous Universe, who always wants the best for me and ensures I have everything I need plus a million dollars more (still waiting on that million, incidentally) for miracles and magic and ... you get the idea.

And darned if monkey mind didn’t go, “Sod this; I’m outta here.”

Simply trying to ignore my mind is often like trying to calm a toddler in full tan-tan mode: it just cranks up the volume on the screaming. If, however, I focus on something else, something of my conscious choosing, the toddler sees me walking away and consequently shuts up. I’m fortunate in believing the glass is half-full, so it’s easy to think what I believe ... once I am reminded to do it!

Even then, if I don’t like what I believe, I have the power to change that as well. Monkey mind is relentless; it might be quiet for now, but it’s not gone by any means. It’s lying in the weeds, waiting to pounce before I’m fully awake.

When it does, I’ll be ready.

Oh No, Canada

 

Today may be Canada’s birthday, but the territory existed long before France (at the time) gave the colony a name. It probably already had a name, I just don’t know what it was. The boundaries were different, too, as determined by the Indigenous peoples who lived here long before the Europeans’ arrival changed everything for them.

Don’t get me wrong. I love living here. I’m grateful to live here. It’s the best country in the world, but it didn’t start out that way and we have a long way to go before descendants of the original inhabitants have any reason to believe it.

At the end of May 2021, the bodies of 215 children were discovered buried on the property of a residential school in Kamloops. Just a few weeks later, another mass grave was discovered in Saskatchewan. I can’t go into it more deeply than that, as I am not qualified to comment. I’m grateful to be here, but my being here is predicated on a colonial government’s shameful attempts to destroy an entire culture first by appropriating their land, then by taking (and killing) their children.

I am not an activist. I don’t march in protests. I haven’t even paid that much attention to media stories about native blockades and whaling rights and so on, but when I learned (too recently) about the residential schools and the Sixties’ Scoop, a small part of me died. On hearing about those buried children, I wept.

Out of respect for grieving First Nations, this year the City of Victoria cancelled plans for a virtual Canada Day celebration. In consultation, however, local Indigenous leaders felt it would be wrong to dismiss the occasion entirely, so it’s become a learning opportunity for those of us who need educating.

Like me.

The truth must be told. History must be embraced, not erased, if we wish for true reconciliation with Canada’s Indigenous peoples. I sense no desire in them for punishment or vengeance. It seems all they ask is that we listen to them with respect and recognize them as the original stewards of this magical land. Reconciliation is key. We can’t undo what was done, but we can certainly right the wrongs of the past by changing our ways now and moving into Canada’s future together.

Maybe then, we will truly have something to celebrate.

Take the Fall

 

It’s pumpkin spice and everything nice. My favourite time of year is the fall. This weekend is especially precious, being Thanksgiving on Monday and me being grateful for nothing. The calendar is clear; I have four whole days to fill with whatever takes my fancy and right now I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than nothing.

Perhaps I sound ungrateful? I’m not. Truly, I’m not. Every day is stuffed with miracles, some too tiny to see and some so blatantly obvious that only a fool could deny them. Granted, the latter seem to appear less frequently, but the little ones, the ones I don’t always see, probably mean the most. They are the ones keeping everything in motion—and after the week I’ve had, I am ever so grateful for the passage of time!

It’s been a busy autumn despite COVID restrictions and working from home. Ter and I both have birthdays in the fall, and last week was particularly busy with appointments. I had some dental work done (more than expected, actually), Ter and I both had chiropractic treatments, and she did chauffeuring duty for a friend who had tests at the hospital on two separate days. And it’s only Friday!

So you see why a weekend of nothing is something for which to be grateful.

I could run my usual list: Ter, of course. My siblings and co-workers, my friends, my job in a pandemic where lots of folks lost theirs, my health (which is pretty good despite the daily bones), living in Canada rather than a few miles south of Canada. I’m even grateful for the petty bickering of politicians during our provincial election in contrast to the catastrophic numbskullery of the American presidential race. I dislike using a negative to promote the positive, but really? Compared to what the US populace is enduring, our troubles are puny indeed.

Yep, the fall is my favourite. We’ve had a good run of sun and high temperatures through the latter half of September into October, but now I’m ready for the rain. I want my hour back from April so it’s a bit lighter in the morning and the candles are lit earlier in the evening. I want fuzzy socks and big mugs of tea, fat winter novels and holidays specials on TV. The house smells of apples and cinnamon and, this Sunday, of stuffing!!

Spring is pretty, summer is lovely, winter is sleepy, but of the four seasons?

I’ll take the fall.

Reclaiming My Optimism

I’ve been so unhappy for so long that it’s become my natural state. Only it’s not my natural state; it’s just the by-product of a particularly rough patch in this glorious gift of human experience. I have also adapted to it, disliking how I feel yet feeling powerless to change it.

Then one day I realized that I can change it. So I stood up and declared, “I am reclaiming my optimism!”

And nothing happened.

Oh, life continued. It may even have improved, though it wasn’t reflected in my mood. A week passed and I was still miserable. When I asked myself why this was, the answer came pretty quickly:

“Reclaim  is a verb, Ru. You have to do something.”

Oh. Yeah.

Darn.

See, when I’m unhappy, I lack motivation. I want things to right themselves while I loaf around in front of the TV or snooze on the sofa or complain to everyone about everything. Why do I have to make myself feel better when it’s not my fault that I feel crappy?

Well, “reclaim” is a verb. If I have the wherewithal to recognize that I am unhappy, and that I dislike being unhappy, it’s up to me to stop being unhappy.

But how?

Good question. Simple answer.

Gratitude.

I know, I know. If someone had said that to me three weeks ago, I’d have barfed on them. Problem is, it’s true. When all else fails, employ gratitude. I dragged out my old “shoot for the moon” journal, the one I started in 2010 where the last entry was dated 2016, and I started logging things for which I am grateful. I wrote every day, focusing on little things when big things continued to overwhelm, and gradually, I began to feel better. Happier. More hopeful. More empowered. More optimistic. More me.

Miracles happen all the time whether or not I see them, so now I look for them. I may only find one in a day, but at least I’m looking! And, just as negativity gains momentum, positivity does the same.

It’s a process, of course, and some days are still a struggle, but spark by spark, I’m pulling myself out of the dark.

Welcome back, Ru.

With love,

Born to be Alive

Life sometimes sucks. Lately I’ve thought it would be easier if other people weren’t involved.

On the other hand, life is often glorious, and the people in it make it easier.

Contrast, right?

But, you know, that’s the point. Life is meant to be lived. I don’t mean by extreme measures either, thrillseekers. Finding peace in everyday routine makes for a generally pleasant existence if I stop to appreciate one very simple fact:

I am able to breathe.

Joy will always be countered by despair. Grief will always be matched by delight. In no way am I advocating for a boring life—it won’t likely happen and if it did, we’d complain about it. I merely suggest that patience be employed in shadow and bright moments be seized because neither state is permanent. Life itself is temporary; at least, this life is.

That’s why we’re here. Sometime, somewhere, someone decided it would be fun to try mortality and everyone else agreed. We existed then and we’ll exist again, but we’re here right now.

I don’t know what happens next because I don’t need to. I’ll know as I go. I’ll figure it out and find my way and all will be well no matter how I choose to perceive it. In fact, all is already well. It’s always well even at its worst; trusting this universal truth gives me hope in my dark moments.

Yup, life is hard. It’s also a gift. So pause for this one second:

Take a deep breath in—and I mean deep—then let it out slowly, through your nose.

That’s how it feels to be alive.

Relish it. Treasure it. Above all, be grateful for it, because it will not last forever.

With love,

100 Things

Thanks for the photo, Beanie!

Not only was I inspired to pinch this picture from Nicole’s recent post at The Paper Teapot, I was prompted to follow her example and list one hundred things I love. She took the challenge from Julia Cameron’s “The Right to Write”, a creative manual I have not acquired myself, but then I’ve always appreciated others doing the reading for me.

Nic was right about this—once you start, it’s hard to stop. So here goes, in no particular order (except the top three) and in no way the limit of things that give me joy:

1.             Ter

2.            My family

3.            My friends

4.            Chocolate

5.            Vampires

6.            “A Song of Ice and Fire” (the books, not the TV series)

7.            Sitting at the ocean

8.           French fries

9.            Bass players

10.        Fast cars

11.         Movies about writers

12.        19^th century Paris

13.        Puppies

14.        Bailey’s Original

15.         Flâneries

16.        Duran Duran

17.         Warming spices

18.        Laughing

19.        Making other people laugh

20.       Summer rain

21.        Winter storms

22.       Documentaries about royalty

23.       Charles II of England

24.       Chrome (not the browser)

25.        The rumble of a muscle car’s engine

26.       Smooth jazz

27.        Fridays

28.       Lavender

29.       Extra-foamy tea lattes

30.       My CD collection

31.        Family photos

32.       Horses

33.       James Tiberius Kirk

34.       Stretching

35.        Candlelight

36.       Costume dramas

37.        Singing along

38.       Going for tea

39.       Shawls

40.       Teddy bears

41.        Bacon cheeseburgers

42.       Watching the sunrise

43.       Christmas

44.       The first page of a new read

45.        White roses

46.       Reminiscing

47.        Soft ice cream

48.       Finishing a writing project

49.       Starting a writing project

50.       Classic Mustangs

51.         Watching snow fall

52.        Hot showers

53.        Afternoon naps

54.        Baking cookies

55.        Solitude

56.        Michael York

57.        Going barefoot

58.       Art Deco

59.        Long necklaces

60.       Rhubarb crumble with custard

61.        Turkey stuffing

62.       Cashmere

63.       Birthday presents

64.       Cheesecake

65.        Fuzzy socks

66.       Hockey

67.        Canada

68.       Hugs (giving and getting)

69.       “The Night Circus”

70.       Telling people how wonderful they are

71.         Embracing my age

72.        Philosophical debates

73.        Long drives

74.        Night skies

75.        Def Leppard

76.        Museums

77.        Colouring

78.       Brownies

79.        Main streets in little villages

80.      Breakfast for dinner

81.        Full skirts

82.       Morning fog

83.       Kids playing street hockey

84.       Lying on the couch listening to music

85.       Massages

86.       The wind blowing through me

87.       Peppermint

88.      Crossword puzzles

89.       Lazy Sundays

90.       The sun on my skin

91.        Classic rock

92.       Sharpies

93.       Getting my hair done

94.       Making gratitude lists

95.        Bedtime

96.       Bookstores

97.        Jaguar X-types

98.       Flying

99.       Dreaming

100.   Being alive ...

With love,