Iris Ruth Pastor's Blog, page 38
December 15, 2017
What Does Your First Name Mean?
I have two questions for you this morning:
Have you ever researched your given first name? I encourage you to embrace with vigor the origin of your birth name and its meaning.
Have you ever looked closely at that which surrounds you? At gifts people have given you over the years? Like the meaning of your name, they provide additional clues to who you are and how you present yourself. I scrutinized the poster pictured below that my brother had sent me years ago.
It was a treasure chest full of insight just waiting to be recognized.
Ah. Iris:
A goddess of color.
A song of spring.
A woman of the rainbow.
In Greek mythology, Iris was a messenger goddess for Zeus and Hera – who rode rainbows on a multicolored bridge – to deliver messages from Olympus to earth. The name Iris in Latin means bringer of joy. In ancient times, the flower Iris was considered a symbol of power and majesty, the three petal segments representing faith, wisdom and valor.
How ironic that since I began writing in eighth grade, I always felt like a vessel for imparting information – long before I knew the origin of my birth name. I took naturally to being a carrier through which wisdom flowed from one vessel to another through me. And in my writing I tried to be – like the petals – wise, trustworthy and brave.
Preserving Your Bloom is my mantra and most things bloom in spring. And it’s no secret I like not only rainbows, but what’s at the end of each rainbow too – a pot of gold! Especially gold made into bracelets, necklaces, pins, chokers and rings.
Ah, but I digress. Let’s tear away from golden trinkets and return to the messenger segment.
What do you do when you come across an observation or statement that startles, enlightens, or jumpstarts your thinking in a new way?
I always save it. Some I drop in bright red file folders. Some I type in my quotes folder under Notes in my iPhone. Some I snap a picture of and put in Photos. Some I scribble on whatever scrap of paper is handy and hastily stuff in my pocket. Sometimes, the washer then eats them. Sometimes they survive. And, if I need reinforcement and a kick in the tushy? I carefully print a message on my funky kitchen blackboard. Like this one below:
Invariably, unlike the above admonishment, most of the gems are saved for future use, reference and inspiration. And now, since I have discovered I am a “Messenger,” this intense hoarding of information makes sense.
So below are observations which had a great deal of stickiness for me in 2017. Some were found in magazines and are without attribution. Some were heard in conversational podcasts and jotted down. Some have attribution. Some not. Most are not my own, but a few are.
And since Preserving Your Bloom In Order To Live The Life You Crave is my mantra, these particular quotes relate directly to flourishing:
Where flowers bloom, so does hope.
— Lady Bird Johnson
Every flower blooms in its own time.
Deep in your wounds are seeds waiting to grow beautiful flowers.
— Niti Majethia
Every flower must push through the dirt to bathe in the sunshine.
I give thanks for both my blooms and my thorns.
— Jonathan Lockwood Huie
Bloom where you are planted.
There came a time when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.
— Anais Nin
The flower doesn’t dream of the bee. It blossoms and the bee comes.
—Mark Repo
Think outside the vase.
Never yet was a springtime when the buds forgot to bloom.
— Margaret Elizabeth Sangster
May your New Year be filled with a plethora of blessings, an unlimited treasure trove of creativity and endless opportunity to grow, engage and Bloom.
– Iris
P.S. How about sending me one of your favorite quotes for future publication at irisruthpastor@gmail.com ? Why should I have all the fun of selection?
December 7, 2017
I Cried, Then I Danced
Okay, I admit it. I am totally off the wall.
Have you ever struggled with attaining some major milestone for months – heck, years – and suddenly you arrive at the finish line?
That’s how I felt Wednesday afternoon around 2:30 pm when my book went live on Amazon. What does that mean? It is now available for pre-sale. It exists. Not just in my imagination. Not just in Microsoft Office Word on my computer. Not just in my editor’s inbox. Not just in boxes at the publicist’s office. It is real. Anyone with access to a computer, iPhone or iPad can view it. And order it.
Am I starry eyed? Teary? Numb? So very happy? Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Broke out the bubbly. Danced around the family room couch. Hugged my husband hard. Immediately texted my mom, siblings, sons and daughters-in-law that the longed for, momentous occasion had come to pass.
YIPPEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! It is the end of the beginning. Finally.
What’s publishing like these days? Chaotic. Exhausting. Tumultuous. Ever-changing. Fraught with despair, delight, self-doubt and exhilaration. Depending on the moment. Sometimes all at the same time.
And going public with a very touchy subject was a whole new experience in itself. Maybe you can relate?
Have you ever equated your self-worth with the needle on the scale?
And the further north it climbed, the worse you felt?
Have you ever fell off the dieting wagon again and again and again?
And vowed it would be different tomorrow?
Have you ever berated yourself for eating the first, second or even third piece of chocolate cake?
Agonized over another pair of too tight jeans?
Just knew your life would be better if you lost ten pounds?
I experienced all these uncomfortable feelings, but I took it a step farther. I found a way both to outsmart the scale and eat all those fattening goodies – the dangerous foods – whenever I wanted – as much as I wanted.
The title of my book is The Secret Life of a Weight-Obsessed Woman: Wisdom to Live the Life You Crave. Here is the cover:
It is a memoir – my honest and personal account of what it’s like to live with an eating disorder. But at heart, my book is a story most everyone can relate to – it’s about living with an addiction, a bad habit, a self destructive pattern of behavior, a negative mind-set – anything that prevents you from living life fully, living with joy and purpose and vigor.
We all struggle. The only shame is if our pride or fear holds us back from reaching out for help. My friend Leah Ivey said it best: The Secret Life of a Weight Obsessed Woman highlights the need of self-acceptance and perseverance through extremely difficult times.
What do I wish for each of you? That you Preserve Your Bloom through self-care so that you can live the life you carve.
Iris
December 1, 2017
Living in the Moment
Looking back on my life, I realize most of it has been spent in rigid countdown mode – ticking off backwards down to zero.
How many days until I start kindergarten?
How many days until I can ride my bike past the end of my street?
How many days until my 8th birthday party?
How many days until I can go to the shopping mall by myself, pierce my ears, get my driver’s license, shave my legs, go on a real date, open my own checking account, vote, drink, marry, give birth, buy a house, decorate a house, get all my kids in school, witness all my kids graduate?
I have almost lost track of myself while eagerly entangled in a waiting mode until I reach the next coveted milestone. This seems – as I get older – to be quite an appalling way to lead a life.
So many days until vacationing in the Berkshires.
So many days until I get to see my sons who live out of town.
So many days until I reach my goal weight at the Weight Watcher weekly meeting.
So many days until I see my six grandchildren again.
So many days until my new book The Secret life of a Weight Obsessed Woman goes on sale.
And now – thanks to ubiquitous social media – I am presented with yet another mathematical marker. This one is more pernicious because it reflects validation, not just days passing. It implies how much I am connecting with my readers. How much my words and thoughts are being valued. Heard. Known. Shared. Acknowledged. Commented on.
What is more important? To cultivate my creativity, to speak my mind, to have my words and observations reflect what is truly in my heart? Or to succumb to the temptation of trying to figure out what friends and followers on Facebook and Instagram want and giving it to them? I vow to choose the former in 2018.
The year 2018 will be different. Not rushed through, but savored. Life not held captive by the calendar and clock – days not viewed as something to be endured until reaching the next mile marker. I am going to zestfully relish each hour, each moment, as it unfolds and crystallizes. And not be unduly influenced by the inherent messiness of life – its aches, aggravations and acrimony.
All this is uppermost in my mind as I’m coming off an exhausting, but exhilarating, eight days of family-filled mayhem surrounding the Thanksgiving holiday. My husband and I head to LaGuardia Airport to fly back to Florida, arriving with hours to spare. So I stroll the terminal – indulging in my passion of searching for eclectic street fashion among the passengers waiting to board. Here’s what catches my eye:
The striking message emblazoned on the jacket jumpstarts my ruminations. Sure, the string of family parties was invigorating and satisfying. In reality, following our Thanksgiving weekend of fun and frolic, we all return to our routines, our challenges, our situations. And as 2017 rushes to a close, I wonder once again how to best use the days and weeks and months that I hopefully will be granted in 2018 to overcome some of life’s difficulties.
Two thoughts spring to mind:
I will do one thing that scares the heck out of me.
I will do one thing I have tried and failed at numerous times before.
What scares me? Ditching the podium and my note cards when public speaking.
What am I going to do? I am registering for the storytelling retreat at the John C. Campbell Folk School.
What have I repeatedly failed at? Embracing the concept of Intuitive Eating.
What am I going to do? I’m going to e mail the author of Intuitive Eating and ask for guidance and advice.
What scares you?
What have you tried and failed at again and again and again?
And how do you plan to move past the fear and the failure?
Let me know.
In the meantime:
Let’s pause more.
Rush less.
Allow “one of these days” to give way to “now.”
Pry loose “someday” from the grip it holds on our agenda.
Let’s keep in mind that courage to face our adversity and devise a plan is more important than short lived, unsustainable results.
Let’s use, admire and cherish that which we have. And not count anything anymore – except our blessings.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris
November 29, 2017
Shop Local: A Poem
Thanksgiving feasting has come to a close,
as your body now rests in sweet repose
Your fingers don’t need the exercise
but your hips, belly and tush sure do.
So I’m here to offer and reveal
a needed post-eating frenzy clue:
Put down your iPad.
Power off your phone.
Intersect with shopkeepers.
Don’t cocoon alone.
Burn off excess calories consumed
at yesterday’s Thanksgiving feast.
Shop the old fashioned physical way
to counteract the food coma beast.
To plump up the economy,
visit stores, with relatives in tow,
all voicing their unfiltered opinions
as you hunt, search, try on and show.
Support all your local retailers
and owner-operated boutiques.
Walk the avenue – peruse the mall.
Bargin, chatter and critique.
And when Black Friday’s over,
not just bargains will you have bought,
but spent a day with those you loved
for naughty and for naught.
Shopping til you’re dropping
may not cure all that ails our land,
but getting out to physically buy
will surely lend a helping hand.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris
Surviving Thanksgiving With Your Relatives
Most of the time we can avoid those people in our families who stress us out and unhinge our most aggressive tendencies. Thanksgiving is the exception.
As the late Johnny Carson said, “Thanksgiving is an emotional holiday. People travel thousands of miles to be with people they only see once a year. And then discover that once a year is way too often.”
All over the country, parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, in-laws and out-laws will be gathering to traditionally give thanks around a table over flowing with both rich foods and alcohol-laced drinks, commemorating the holiday of Thanksgiving. Especially nowadays, with how triggered people feel by politics.
It’s no wonder stress levels in general are at an all time high. So, how gracious, dignified and enjoyable will that dinner table atmosphere at Thanksgiving be? How can we possibly make it through dinner without incessant under-the-table knee pinching? Outright name calling? Hot heads on both sides abruptly leaving the table before the turkey has even been carved?
Before the big event if you are NOT hosting, to avoid the “wired and tired” state of mind:
Get a massage, mani or pedi or all three
Bone up on your anger management and conflict resolution skills.
Role play ahead of time how to diffuse Uncle Fred’s inappropriate rhetoric.
Do tons of deep breathing and stretching exercises the morning of
Meditate right before leaving the house.
Promise yourself that if you get through Thanksgiving with your grace and dignity intact that the day after you will do something shockingly decadent, delicious and utterly self-indulgent.
Before the big event if you ARE hosting, to avoid the “wired and tired” state of mind:
Shower yourself with pampering the week before.
Don’t freak about the cleanliness quotient of your house. Honestly, no guest cares if your blinds are dusty and your windows aren’t sparkling clean. Focus on the meal.
Delegate, delegate, delegate.
Potluck it: ask each person to bring their signature dish.
Outsource the tough parts – like roasting an oversized turkey in your apartment’s pint size oven.
Consider professional catering.
To keep the more high-spirited, fiery guests separated, utilize place cards.
Recruit tons of clean-up help.
Never do it again.
Double the self-indulgent bonus on Friday. You earned it.
At the event:
Ban all political banter. (Tee Hee.)
Drink to excess and with every swallow repeat the following chant: I’m thankful. I’m grateful. I’m blessed.
Wear stretch pants since it’s the day of no-diets. You can gobble til you wobble. Eat pie. Drink wine. Or eat wine and drink pie. Whatever.
Overload on carbs and sugar, rendering yourself useless to even follow a semi-rational discourse on any subject. After all, the average American eats around 4500 calories on Thanksgiving – equivalent to 14 slices of pumpkin pie – it’s almost like gluttony is our patriotic duty on this day.
Tirelessly switch the topic back to sports and fashion. (In my family, that may actually work.)
Inject some humor by telling wildly inappropriate jokes – at least keeping the kids enthralled.
On a more sober note:
Ask the kids to finish one of these two sentences:
Today is great because…
My favorite thing about Thanksgiving is..
Rev up your Gratitude Meter:
Messages abound this holiday season about the importance of mindfully employing gratitude. About choosing to be grateful. It’s simple: gratitude helps us see what is there in our lives rather than what is missing. It’s being grateful for everything: the highs and lows. The gains and losses. Disappointments and celebrations. Setbacks, come backs and the do- overs. Opportunities missed and risks taken.
Let’s face it: it’s not whether you view your cup as half-full or half-empty. It’s being thankful you even have a cup. The practice of gratitude simply turns what we have into enough. So on this day, let’s not look back at what we had nor ahead to what we hope to have. Let’s just enjoy what’s right in front of us.
Thanksgiving is a simple time for thanks and giving. Brene Brown says people are innately wired to be heard, acknowledged and valued. This is the time to do all three. And thank the host and hostess heartily.
HAPPY TURKEY DAY!
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris
November 13, 2017
The Preserving Your Bloom Manifesto
Today I want to share a little gift with you, something very personal to me. Thirty years ago, I began putting pen to paper and now fingers to keyboard. I began writing my slice-of-life column, “Incidentally, Iris” and in that time, have shared more than seven hundred columns.
In them I touched on accidents, guilt, ill health, lousy behavior, lousy meals, lousy days. Goals attained and those that fell short. Losses avoided and losses sustained. Honors. Awards. Hard won wisdom. Ruptured relationships. Celebratory milestones.
I wrote about the pain of losing my grandmother to pancreatic cancer at the beginning of first grade. Readers experiencing that same kind of premature loss spoke up.
I wrote about the frustration of my kids always remembering the things I didn’t do and forgetting the many things I actually DID do. And parents who were struggling with their own childrearing issues spoke up.
I wrote about five pounds lost and seven re-gained. About the joys and gulit of retail therapy when having a bad hair day – or any kind of bad day. Of keeping Saturday nights with my husband sacred – a time for just him and me – even though the kids were cranky, the bills piling up and the Formica kitchen counters were sticky with yesterday’s jelly.
In doctor’s waiting rooms, in the bleachers at Little League baseball games and in grocery store lines, strangers approached me – remarking on my ability to mirror their thoughts, fears, goals and aspirations. To be in their kitchens with them, so to speak.
All that time, I thought I was writing columns just about me. It took me a long time to realize I was writing about you too.
Now I want to share something special with you: a visual guide to the fundamental elements you’ve consistently read about.Think of it as a mission statement – a personal manifesto. It’s a document you can return to again and again. This:
The manifesto is my personal gift to you – designed to keep you (and me) balanced and focused and energized as we move through life. It’s how to live what you believe in.
Please feel free to download it by clicking the image or here. Print it out (hey, splurge and click the color key). Post in a conspicuous place. Refer to it often.
When you are pulled in too many directions too much of the time.
When you overestimate your powers of concentration, organization, and energy.
When you profess to embrace the concept of self-care but never seem to make it to the gym.
Or profess to value the connection and camaraderie of a deep friendship, but never manage to spend any quality time with your buddy.
Remind yourself that not only do you matter, but you have an obligation to use your talents and resources to be the happiest, the wisest and the best you can be. Think of the sweeping changes that would occur if each of us were operating at top capacity. Think of the sweeping changes that would occur if we took better care of ourselves, so we could then take better care of our families, friends, communities and world.
Let’s begin.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris
October 27, 2017
My Halloween message: Who says the dead can’t speak?
When you have young kids, you plan their birthday parties, organize grill-outs with neighbors, throw baby showers and surprise thirtieth birthday parties for your best friends and ten year anniversary parties for your favorite couples.
And the streamers fly and the laughter rings out and the time goes by. And then the children grow up and move on. And things begin to change. The house gets quiet and the tumult simmers down. There is more behind you than ahead.
I realized this one day when I came home from attending the third funeral in less than a month. Fresh in my mind was the grief, the logistics of death, and the details guiding the process. Surely there was room for some originality and humor.
“Okay,” I said to my husband, in a matter of fact tone, “It’s time to start a funeral file of personal preferences.”
“You’re morbid,” he accused me.
“No, I’m not, “I retorted hotly, “I’m pragmatic. And what better time to start a file on scary subjects than Halloween?”
Apparently, I’m not alone in my thinking. Tombstones and memorials are reflecting a decided shift in emphasis to the personal. David Quiring, a monument maker in Seattle says, “People resist being just another brick in the wall. They really want to preserve their uniqueness.”
People who want to be memorialized with pizzazz and verve are picking their own tombstone inscriptions. Example: Here lies Pearl. A helluva girl.
And they are picking their own tombstone design. Examples: Cut-out electrical guitars, teddy bears, and favorite flowers.
One couple commissioned a life-size sculpture of a Mercedes Benz. The thirty-six ton work cost more than $250,000 and took two years to make. A family commissioned a tablet in the image of a $100 bill and had the dead man’s name inscribed where Ben Franklin’s picture should be.
Actually, the business of making highly personalized gravestones has been around for decades and decades – providing a lasting testimonial of a life uniquely lived. And doing a few other things besides.
Like a little marketing:
Here lies Jane Smith
Wife of Thomas Smith
Marble cutter:
This monument erected by her husband
as a tribute
to her memory
Monuments of this style
are 250 dollars
And matchmaking:
Sacred to the memory
of Jared Bates
His widow, age 24,
lives at 7 Elm Street
has every qualification
for a good wife
and yearns
to be comforted
And joke making:
Here lies a father of 29
there would have been more
but he didn’t have time
And name calling:
On a miser:
poorly lived
and poorly died
poorly buried
and no one cried.
And revenge seeking:
Dear Sister,
here lies the body
of Mary Ford
we hope her soul
is with the Lord
but if for hell
she’s changed this life
better live there
than as J. Ford’s wife
If tombstones are what descendants see forever, eulogies are what friends, family and loved ones hear as your last statement of values, attitude, philosophy of life, and personal and professional experiences. Of Milestones reached. And goals attained.
You can have a loved one or close friend deal with the obvious details one usually puts in a eulogy: brief chronological outline of key life events such as graduating from college, getting married, having children and grandchildren, starting a business, honors accrued, milestones reached and goals attained. And of course a few favorite memories of you and the speaker. Experts in funeral planning suggest 98% of the eulogy should be about the life of the deceased and 2% on death and end of life details. Makes sense. Obviously that can’t be something you write about – you’ll already have passed on!!!!!
But, think about this, many of us are in the autumn of our lives and we are growing more reflective as each season passes. And more conscious of the legacy we will be leaving our loved ones. How best to guarantee our voice gets heard? You got it. LET US COMPOSE OUR OWN EULOGY. PRE-ARRANGE FOR SOMEONE TO READ IT AT OUR FUNERAL, ALONG WITH THE MORE TRADITIONAL TRIBUTE OR IN PLACE OF IT.
Haul out the old typewrite and begin to write your eulogy. What do you include? Okay, maybe it’s not the time to unleash your inner weirdness or go off on a self-tooting, totally immodest tribute, but humor, pathos, and tales of struggle and triumph are entirely permissible (at least by me!).
So include:
a lesson learned
something you were passionate about
an accomplishment you want to be remembered by
an experience that defined you
a philosophy you adhered to
a person you greatly admired and why
a piece of advice for the younger generation
I first thought about writing my own eulogy when my social media guy convinced me to hire a professional to write my bio. It had all the “necessary” information, but none of what made Iris “Iris.”
You can’t control how and when you die but you can control how you will be remembered. Don’t leave it to someone else to copy, paste and delete.
It’s your last chance to say what you want to say to a room full of people gathered together to bid you farewell, mourn your passing and celebrate your life.
I’m seriously considering gathering a group of my friends together – plying them with an endless supply of Merlot – and encouraging them to take a stab at penning their own eulogy. In fact, I’m putting it on my ever-growing bucket list. Right after I master the art of staying balanced on my damn bike so I don’t become our county’s latest bicycle fatality.
Until then, Happy Halloween, Keep Preserving Your Bloom and please send me a sample of what you banged out on the old Underwood.
Iris
October 16, 2017
Are You Lucky?
My father was actually a member of the “Lucky Bastard Club” for surviving as a crew member of a B-17 bomber in World War 2. This is him:
Which makes me the daughter of a “Lucky Bastard.”
Which makes me a “Lucky Bastard” too.
Not because I survived bombing missions over Germany.
Nope.
I’m a “Lucky Bastard” because all my life I’ve had friends to love me, support me, lift me up and celebrate with me.
A bond with my very first best friend took root when I could still go bare-chested without social exile. And, believe me, that did not last long! Jeanie was a whirlwind of curiosity and chutzpah. And I blindly followed her everywhere, as evidenced by our positions in her wagon. She is in the front and I am in the rear.
The complexities of ties that make up a special non-familial relationship change as we mature and are based less on superficial preferences and more on an individual’s internal depth and range. But even back then, I did seek out those who were intrepid and opinionated as my buddies. And I still do.
What is the “Lucky Bastard’s”secret?
Simple: Knowing how to make the bad times good and the good times unforgettable.
And that’s what friends do.
What’s the “Lucky Bastard”tribute?
A sing-song poem to my wonderful friends in Cincinnati who threw me a 70thbirthday party.
And a sing-song poem to my wonderful friends in Tampa who threw me a 70thbirthday party.
And to all my other close friends, literally sprinkled in cities throughout our great country.
I know, I know
I’m a crappy friend
From the very beginning
And probably to the very end
I only like to text
And hate the phone
End up spending
Much time alone
So forgive my cocooning
My foibles and lacks
But remember as a friend
I’ve always got your backs
But not in the morning
When writing time does beckon
But at any other time
I’m a force to be reckoned
We’ve cried and bitched
And laughed and derided
Followed each other’s tips
So we were not blindsided
We’ve parsed through our problems
And laughed at our own craziness
And took advice sometime
And other times indulged in laziness
We listened even when we made no sense
When times were good or life was tense
When venting was the only solution
To something with no easy resolution
So thank you for coming
To my 70th party
For eating and drinking
Not in moderation, but quite hearty
You each are so vibrant
In your own unique way
And I’m pleased we are able to share
This very special day
What makes a “Lucky Bastard’s”friends so valued?
They are:
Intellectually curious
Trailblazers in many fields
Adaptable
Persevering
Pragmatic
Generous
Fearless
Resilient
Talented
Loyal
Warrior-princess like
Possessing a razor-sharp wit
and a no-bullshit attitude
In short, they are all “bad asses”
Why are you a “Lucky Bastard” when it comes to friends?
Please click “reply” and tell me how your best friends brighten your world and inspire you to power through life’s challenges with gusto and strength.
And Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris
October 9, 2017
At 70, Am I Too Old To Do Cartwheels?
When I was about three years old, my mom enrolled me in dance class. At ballet, I was graceless. At tap, I was rhythm challenged. But at acrobatics, I excelled. It wasn’t long until I was doing handstands, somersaults, back bends and cartwheels all over the place.
By age eight, I had a routine down pat. One hundred cartwheels a day – no matter what. In winter, I did them next to the washer and dryer in our dank, dark basement. (I was banned from the living room after crashing into the cocktail table and breaking a lamp.) In spring, summer and fall, I cartwheeled up and down our blacktop driveway.
Though I try, I can’t remember when I stopped doing my 100 cartwheels a day. Somewhere around the time I discovered boys, make-up and the telephone, I suppose. But even with the passing of years, I continued to counter my self-dramatizing mood swings with a modified routine of cartwheel capering at sporadic intervals.
Shortly after each one of my sons mastered walking without tottering, I would demonstrate my cartwheel prowess. They were not the least bit enthralled. But my bowling team thought it was a pretty cool move for someone in their 30’s. And so did the elementary school board moms when, at the close of our monthly meeting, I hopped up and shot off a few at the age of forty-two. I fantasized that they too clambered to shed their yuppie shackles and follow me down the yellow brick road – all the while doing cartwheels too. Who knows maybe we could have had a “cartwheelathon” and raised money for a worthy cause if I had pushed my agenda a tad harder?
I turn fifty-four – the age when time meets reality – and it’s been a long time since I’ve done a cartwheel.
Can I still do it?
The thought makes me heady – like working without a net. As singer-songwriter Alanis Morissette says, “If I’m scared of something, that’s a pretty good indication that I should do it – except for heroin and sky-diving.”
One morning after finishing my exercise routine by walking around the track, with little forethought, I fling my body forward, lean in, lift off – and to my utter amazement – execute a cartwheel. I automatically take another few steps, gain momentum, and do one more.
I am ecstatic. Tomorrow I will increase the number. And the next day after that, do even more. Soon I will be up to my old faithful 100 – beguiling myself with the passionate adage that “more is better and most is best.” No cool restraint for me.
I pay for my spontaneity the following morning. The bursitis in my hip acts up and my persistent shoulder problems show definite signs of re-emerging. I recognize the close alliance between boundless enthusiasm and self-destruction.
Cartwheel anxiety sets in. What separates challenge from foolishness? What idiot tests their body in such a ridiculous way at age fifty-four? Isn’t there enough misery in the world? Why add to my own personal domain?
Cartwheel anxiety has debilitated my vision. I know there are plenty of things in this world to get stressed about and my inability to do 100 cartwheels in a row without inducing physical impairment shouldn’t be one of them. But the icky feeling of no longer having that option as a viable goal at age fifty-four hovers over me. I wince as the bridge between make-believe and possibility dissolves. There will be no legend-building here.
Meanwhile, I read that while in Barbados, Luciano Pavarotti does water aerobics to fight the flab. His publisher says his girlfriend, Nicoletta Mantovani, would like him to be fitter, but he doesn’t imagine Luciano will ever be doing cartwheels down the street.
I feel slightly mollified. Not so terrible to be in the same category as Pavarotti.
And now I’m seventy.
I watch my granddaughters fling their springy little bodies down the halls of their houses – doing cartwheel after cartwheel after cartwheel – in a dizzying display of motion.
What have I learned?
I have learned to stand quietly by.
I have learned not even to attempt to try one cartwheel.
I have learned to remind myself of the things I can still do:
Easily touch my toes from a standing position
And, after a few warm-ups, touch my chin to my knee when my legs are spread eagle on the floor.
And what else have I learned?
To be okay with my limitations.
What physical feat have you given up?
What physical feat are you still in the throes of perfecting/doing?
And how do you feel about those insidious age-creeping limitations?
For now, I’m going to be satisfied with stretching!
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris
September 18, 2017
Four Lessons from Irma
Iris, I live in Tampa, Florida two blocks from Tampa Bay in a house surrounded by century old oak trees.
On Friday night, September 8, things were looking very ominous for Tampa. Hurricane Irma was fast approaching with a vengeance — the one hundred year perfect storm. The Hillsborough River, which empties into the bay two blocks from our house, had so much water flow out toward the bay that it was now ten feet lower than normal.
Most frightening of all: this was being reported on by Anderson Cooper, the “A Team” of CNN, stationed on the river walk fronting the river. That was most terrifying confirmation of all: the Tampa Bay Area was set for major and catastrophic devastation in the next two to three days from Hurricane Irma.
Already there was no bottled water left on the shelves. No available plywood to board up windows. No automatic phone chargers. No flashlights or batteries for radios. Gas was in short supply. I had been getting calls all day from my sons telling me to “get out of Dodge.”
My husband, our son Sam and I had worked all day dragging my vast array of potted plants and porch furniture indoors. Having anything outside that could go airborne was foolish and careless. I had stashed my dad’s World War II uniforms and dog tags in the washing machine to protect them, and put the the kids’ baby books and picture albums in the dryer. Thinking about taking anything else of value was too overwhelming.
The mass evacuations from South Florida were beginning to clog the highways, and gas stations along I-75 were closed due to lack of fuel. We made a quick decision to leave rather than wait for daybreak. At 1:30 am, with one small packed suitcase between my husband and I and a light weight duffel for Sam, we loaded up the car, hustled our dog, Lola the Lab, into the already cramped back seat and set out. Loaded with non-perishables to nibble on, $500 in cash, and a full tank of gas, we headed to I-75 in the shrouded cover of darkness.

I looked back just once at my house as we pulled away — with a sinking feeling of dread that perhaps I’d never see it intact again.
The highway traffic at 2am was bumper to bumper. The gas gauge seemed to go down rapidly. Armed with a thermos full of coffee that I drank at a rapid clip to assure wide-eyed wakefulness, I soon had a full bladder. All along I-75, the gas stations were dark. Close to Gainesville — about 150 miles from Tampa — I began to experience the angst of the refugee. My bladder was bursting and the next public rest area was miles away. With trepidation, we pulled off the highway onto a litter filled desolate stretch of land sporting an abandoned gas station. A sense of the surreal enveloped me. I should be soundly sleeping in my king size bed with my Egyptian cotton sheets, not squatting in the dirt urinating, with the wind whipping around my ankles and no rolls of toilet paper nearby.
We arrived in Atlanta mid-morning without running out of gas or being stuck in clogged traffic jams. By 2pm, we were able to check into a brand new Residents Inn that had opened only four days before. We slept and when we woke, we remained glued to the TV monitoring Irma’s haphazard path.
Sometime during that long day, I did make a pit stop at a Barnes and Noble just steps from our hotel. I bought three books on resilience after a natural disaster. An immediate glow of warmth spread through me. “See,” I said to myself, “even if I lost everything, I have already taken positive steps to rebuilding my library.”
That didn’t prevent a sense of dread and foreboding enveloping me as the long afternoon crept by. my anxiety continued to increase exponentially. High winds. Predicted powerful storm surges. Flooded roads. Power outages that could last for days, if not weeks. Clearly Hurricane Irma was heading straight for Tampa.
And most worrisome? My oldest son had stayed behind to ride the storm out. Being a public official, he was committed to being both present and available.
None of us slept Sunday night. Weather alert updates continued to confirm Hurricane Irma’s capricious flailing around the entire Tampa Bay Area. High tide at 5:30am did not bring the expected storm surge of three to eight feet. Our overhanging oak tree limbs had stayed attached to their tree trunks due to the non-appearance of predicted cyclonic winds and our electric porch lights continued to burn brightly as the sun rose over the bay. My son had survived, barricaded in his own home nearby and he reported no discernible damage to the exterior or interior of our house. Clearly, Tampa had not only dodged a bullet, as one pundit remarked wryly, but a cannon. Others had not been so lucky.
So what did I learn from Irma?
Buy suitcases with the capacity to store a charge — which thanks to a present last year from my sons we did have. Of course, we had never used that benefit nor did we know how — but we quickly learned and plugged those suckers in and charged them up as back-up for our cell phones as soon as hurricane forecasts began appearing on the news.
Don’t throw out all your old battery operated radios. Keep one handy with the right size batteries. Don’t guess.
Appliances are great places to store things you want to save, even microwaves. Just remember to empty them before using!
You can follow all the projections and forecasts, but in the end, Mother Nature, like a typical woman, has her own mind and agenda — sometimes defying all predictions and logic.
I hope you and your loved ones have been safe these past couple of weeks through all of the storms. I’d like to hear how you have learned to prepare for the worst, while living for the best?