Happy Birthday to me!
Happy Birthday to me!
Happy Birthday, Dear Bobby!
Happy Birthday to me. . . .
Happy Birthday to me!
Happy Birthday, Dear Bobby!
Happy Birthday to me. . . .
YEP! I'm beginning my 76th year this morning. Can't believe it.
As the day began this morning, I lay still for a moment beneath my quilt and ran an inventory:
Quick head-turn?
Still makes the room spin.
Ooops: blood supply still low.
Blood pressure prob'ly still low, too.
I'm still recovering from recent illness.
What else?
Aching knee: needs second replacement!
Tiny roll around my middle:
I need to re-instate vigorous exercise.
But NO!
Not until blood-level and blood pressure are restored.
Brief pause for yawn and
BIG luxurious stretch:
lower back and hamstrings tight:
unwise four-day holiday from yoga.
Costly laziness!
Low-grade pain between my eye-sockets:
too much celebratory wine last night!
As the day began this morning, I lay still for a moment beneath my quilt and ran an inventory:
Quick head-turn?
Still makes the room spin.
Ooops: blood supply still low.
Blood pressure prob'ly still low, too.
I'm still recovering from recent illness.
What else?
Aching knee: needs second replacement!
Tiny roll around my middle:
I need to re-instate vigorous exercise.
But NO!
Not until blood-level and blood pressure are restored.
Brief pause for yawn and
BIG luxurious stretch:
lower back and hamstrings tight:
unwise four-day holiday from yoga.
Costly laziness!
Low-grade pain between my eye-sockets:
too much celebratory wine last night!
But then a guy's gotta celebrate his birthday with friends and family -- doesn't he? After all, one never knows when the present birthday celebration's the last one. Due attention must be paid!
Okay: on to yoga. I hate that final moment each morning before I force myself to begin my morning yoga ritual. I don't want to begin stretching. But I know I have to start, and know also that I will be glad I did. I take a deep breath, gather my knees to my chest. . .and begin.
Another long yawn, accompanied by stretching-side-to-side rocks which press my lower back deeply into the hard mattress. Knees tight to chin. Satisfying pops and slippery squeaks, signal that wayward vertebrae are slip-sliding softly back into place. I roll gently to my feet beside the bed, extend my legs one at a time, stretching my calves and hamstrings, extending my arms, reaching far as I can across the bed, feeling my spine and shoulder joints awaken with numerous grinding pops. I raise my head, rising to my elbows, making wide-slow neck rolls, which effort yields strange sounds, vaguely reminiscent of squishing a sacka marbles with both hands.
Next, a series of long one-legged squats followed by deep-low knee stretches, both of which produce a series of thrusts which slowly propel me to the furnace room at the far end of the finished basement. Good balancing exercise, too. Once there, I hang for three minutes from my overhead bar listening to a veritable symphony of joint-pops and related skeletal complaints. Then six painfully slow, straight-legged lifts, followed by seven inverted-hand pull-ups -- which usedta be a whole-lot easier. And a whole lot more than seven, too. Next, I hoist myself up above my parallel-bar-pipe-rack and produce seven grunting dips. . . which usedta be much easier and more numerous, too. My upper arm and shoulder strength are not what they once were.
Advancing age demands its due respect. I'm always trying to establish how much I can do well, while still avoiding the possibility of over-work injuries. Two relevant questions: how much work is enough to maintain my strength? Where is the precise margin between maintenance of health and debilitating injury?
By now I'm loose enough for an easy yoga sequence. Slow, easy downward dog. Upward dog. Next, long, gliding thrusts which force balance and alternating quad-stretches. These lead to upward-twisting pyramid, both sides. I hold each posture through three prolonged breath-cycles, all the while maintaining an easy flow through my favorite postures, working muscle-groups firmly against each other. Finally, standing easy, shoulders squared, I execute a series of long-reaching bends and stretches. Gradually I feel my balance and strength returning. Halfway through, my body's taut and supple, slender and exultant.
Soon I'm fully awake and functioning like a boy. Deep breathing cycles. Easy does it. Slowly taking command of my body, feeling the sweet pain of deep stretches that test and strengthen and restore flexibility. This is my every-waking-day ritual that sustains my sense of physical power while simultaneously restoring my sense of personal discipline. I may not be youthful anymore. But it helps me beyond measure to ACT youthful.
After all, what is youth, if not to respond creatively to physical and mental challenges?
So my every day begins. Soon my body begins to sing its old youthful song. Seventy-Six, your ASS! I can't put a year on it. Even though I start my every morning yoga and stretching regimen somewhat more slowly than I once did, my body's still mine. It still does my bidding. And while my body initially complains more at the beginning of my morning yoga ritual, it nevertheless responds bravely, performs proudly, springs quickly back to life. Invigorates me. In some ways I feel more disciplined, stronger than I ever was. Every morning yoga session seems a major victory. Victory over a growing tendency toward laziness. . .a growing tendency to turn my back on the very discipline that is yoga. Yoga, the discipline that puts me in charge of my every day.
Every morning, my body's like a separate thing, bent first upon defying and disappointing me, then upon pleasing me. Hard to tell. Maybe it pleases itself. Performs as it always has. Sets and meets its own healthy standards. On the other hand, I realize my body performs as it does because I've paid close attention to it for decades, have loved and cared for it well. I've trained it well. It demands of itself . . .once I get it going. And once I get it going, yoga rules my mind and rewards my best efforts.
Yoga is not about living forever. It's about living every moment as well as possible.
Still, I confess this past month has frightened me some. When two necessary surgical procedures backfired on each other and nearly bled me out, I felt suddenly and unexpectedly vulnerable. Suddenly, nearly seventy-six, felt really old. And I began to wonder fearfully: Is this the beginning of the FINAL decline? Doubts began to sneak in and unsettle me.
It wasn't like I felt I might soon die. Or had even seriously considered the possibility. But in that unsettled state I began to speculate. . .about the quality of my life: looking backward over the long haul, then forward considering what may be left, and how I might meet the challenges remaining -- such as they might be. Mostly: what AM I determined to do with the precious time left? First thing? An unyielding demand that I continue my morning yoga ritual. I felt that if I could still do that, my weaknesses would be temporary. If I could do that, I knew I would remain in charge of my life. That ownership of self is one of the many gifts of yoga.
But: yoga aside -- and its positive impact upon my body and state of mind -- recently I lay there in that unfamiliar hospital bed, nine long days and and ten nights, mostly waiting and wondering. I drew some conclusions I hope are sound. I made some plans.
First: I've decided NOT to go back to teaching. Been there. Done that. Loved it. But I feel the need to go forward. That is, I'd like to do something different, introduce some new challenges, change the patterns of my weeks and months.
The most obvious thing I might choose to do is re-establish contact with some of my earliest friends. At my 55th High School Class Reunion, two years ago I was shocked -- indeed, we all were -- to discover that the memorial table recognized nearly half our graduating Class of 1953. Of 134 graduates, slightly fewer than half attended. In fact, counting spouses, fewer than 134 showed. Makes ya think!
Most came from far away as California, a few from foreign countries. Several were among my old football buddies. Some of them've become globe-trotters. In fact, we've made tentative plans to meet in Greece this coming March, then jump off on a tour of places they've visited already and are certain I'll like. Long before then, I should be fully recovered -- my blood and hemoglobin counts fully restored -- and I'll be runnin' on full throttle. I'll maybe go early, visit my Peace-Corps grand-kids in Romania for a week, then fly to Greece for our hook-up and subsequent travels. Should be a fun extension of our recent class reunion.
So that's one sort of thing, one sort of plan I have to establish and then force myself to follow-through upon my plans. Like quite a few of my classmates, I've had a wonderful life, a great marriage and career. Like several of my old classmates, I've recently lost my beloved spouse. Great though my prior life has been, what's left of my life is a new ball-game. It's now time for me to start over, to make this final quarter of my life as fulfilling as I can.
Maybe I CAN find and win a woman, a new friend I can love as well as I did Nancy for nearly four decades. Risky and challenging, YES! But a worthwhile endeavor nonetheless. One thing my long and idyllic marriage to Nancy taught me is that the best of men prosper when they have a good woman to live-UP to. It's no small or simple task to love well, to put another first, to earn and hold the love of a best friend.
Nevertheless, the process of loving someone well is always growth-producing. The good life always demands stimulation and growth. I've always been a learner and teacher, lived the sort of life that demands I pay attention and constantly learn how to live in richer ways.
I don't always like the demands of such a life. But I remain disciplined. My life is something like yoga. I hate it but love it much more. Still, I refuse to give in to laziness. What are those nearly lost lines from some old Emerson poem I read all those years ago in high school? Something like:
So nigh is grandeur to our dust.
So near is god to man.
When duty whispers low, thou must.
The youth replies, I can. . . .
To the degree I live those few lines, I remain youthful, at least by that standard.
Here's the point I'm coming to: the good life is largely a series of challenges that force continuous RE-inventions of the self. Illness or exhaustion are no excuse. I know I need to be aware that my very best self is always there awaiting my summons. I'll either get with my best self, or risk losing its magic -- and the joy of my life. The message?
Okay: on to yoga. I hate that final moment each morning before I force myself to begin my morning yoga ritual. I don't want to begin stretching. But I know I have to start, and know also that I will be glad I did. I take a deep breath, gather my knees to my chest. . .and begin.
Another long yawn, accompanied by stretching-side-to-side rocks which press my lower back deeply into the hard mattress. Knees tight to chin. Satisfying pops and slippery squeaks, signal that wayward vertebrae are slip-sliding softly back into place. I roll gently to my feet beside the bed, extend my legs one at a time, stretching my calves and hamstrings, extending my arms, reaching far as I can across the bed, feeling my spine and shoulder joints awaken with numerous grinding pops. I raise my head, rising to my elbows, making wide-slow neck rolls, which effort yields strange sounds, vaguely reminiscent of squishing a sacka marbles with both hands.
Next, a series of long one-legged squats followed by deep-low knee stretches, both of which produce a series of thrusts which slowly propel me to the furnace room at the far end of the finished basement. Good balancing exercise, too. Once there, I hang for three minutes from my overhead bar listening to a veritable symphony of joint-pops and related skeletal complaints. Then six painfully slow, straight-legged lifts, followed by seven inverted-hand pull-ups -- which usedta be a whole-lot easier. And a whole lot more than seven, too. Next, I hoist myself up above my parallel-bar-pipe-rack and produce seven grunting dips. . . which usedta be much easier and more numerous, too. My upper arm and shoulder strength are not what they once were.
Advancing age demands its due respect. I'm always trying to establish how much I can do well, while still avoiding the possibility of over-work injuries. Two relevant questions: how much work is enough to maintain my strength? Where is the precise margin between maintenance of health and debilitating injury?
By now I'm loose enough for an easy yoga sequence. Slow, easy downward dog. Upward dog. Next, long, gliding thrusts which force balance and alternating quad-stretches. These lead to upward-twisting pyramid, both sides. I hold each posture through three prolonged breath-cycles, all the while maintaining an easy flow through my favorite postures, working muscle-groups firmly against each other. Finally, standing easy, shoulders squared, I execute a series of long-reaching bends and stretches. Gradually I feel my balance and strength returning. Halfway through, my body's taut and supple, slender and exultant.
Soon I'm fully awake and functioning like a boy. Deep breathing cycles. Easy does it. Slowly taking command of my body, feeling the sweet pain of deep stretches that test and strengthen and restore flexibility. This is my every-waking-day ritual that sustains my sense of physical power while simultaneously restoring my sense of personal discipline. I may not be youthful anymore. But it helps me beyond measure to ACT youthful.
After all, what is youth, if not to respond creatively to physical and mental challenges?
So my every day begins. Soon my body begins to sing its old youthful song. Seventy-Six, your ASS! I can't put a year on it. Even though I start my every morning yoga and stretching regimen somewhat more slowly than I once did, my body's still mine. It still does my bidding. And while my body initially complains more at the beginning of my morning yoga ritual, it nevertheless responds bravely, performs proudly, springs quickly back to life. Invigorates me. In some ways I feel more disciplined, stronger than I ever was. Every morning yoga session seems a major victory. Victory over a growing tendency toward laziness. . .a growing tendency to turn my back on the very discipline that is yoga. Yoga, the discipline that puts me in charge of my every day.
Every morning, my body's like a separate thing, bent first upon defying and disappointing me, then upon pleasing me. Hard to tell. Maybe it pleases itself. Performs as it always has. Sets and meets its own healthy standards. On the other hand, I realize my body performs as it does because I've paid close attention to it for decades, have loved and cared for it well. I've trained it well. It demands of itself . . .once I get it going. And once I get it going, yoga rules my mind and rewards my best efforts.
Yoga is not about living forever. It's about living every moment as well as possible.
Still, I confess this past month has frightened me some. When two necessary surgical procedures backfired on each other and nearly bled me out, I felt suddenly and unexpectedly vulnerable. Suddenly, nearly seventy-six, felt really old. And I began to wonder fearfully: Is this the beginning of the FINAL decline? Doubts began to sneak in and unsettle me.
It wasn't like I felt I might soon die. Or had even seriously considered the possibility. But in that unsettled state I began to speculate. . .about the quality of my life: looking backward over the long haul, then forward considering what may be left, and how I might meet the challenges remaining -- such as they might be. Mostly: what AM I determined to do with the precious time left? First thing? An unyielding demand that I continue my morning yoga ritual. I felt that if I could still do that, my weaknesses would be temporary. If I could do that, I knew I would remain in charge of my life. That ownership of self is one of the many gifts of yoga.
But: yoga aside -- and its positive impact upon my body and state of mind -- recently I lay there in that unfamiliar hospital bed, nine long days and and ten nights, mostly waiting and wondering. I drew some conclusions I hope are sound. I made some plans.
First: I've decided NOT to go back to teaching. Been there. Done that. Loved it. But I feel the need to go forward. That is, I'd like to do something different, introduce some new challenges, change the patterns of my weeks and months.
The most obvious thing I might choose to do is re-establish contact with some of my earliest friends. At my 55th High School Class Reunion, two years ago I was shocked -- indeed, we all were -- to discover that the memorial table recognized nearly half our graduating Class of 1953. Of 134 graduates, slightly fewer than half attended. In fact, counting spouses, fewer than 134 showed. Makes ya think!
Most came from far away as California, a few from foreign countries. Several were among my old football buddies. Some of them've become globe-trotters. In fact, we've made tentative plans to meet in Greece this coming March, then jump off on a tour of places they've visited already and are certain I'll like. Long before then, I should be fully recovered -- my blood and hemoglobin counts fully restored -- and I'll be runnin' on full throttle. I'll maybe go early, visit my Peace-Corps grand-kids in Romania for a week, then fly to Greece for our hook-up and subsequent travels. Should be a fun extension of our recent class reunion.
So that's one sort of thing, one sort of plan I have to establish and then force myself to follow-through upon my plans. Like quite a few of my classmates, I've had a wonderful life, a great marriage and career. Like several of my old classmates, I've recently lost my beloved spouse. Great though my prior life has been, what's left of my life is a new ball-game. It's now time for me to start over, to make this final quarter of my life as fulfilling as I can.
Maybe I CAN find and win a woman, a new friend I can love as well as I did Nancy for nearly four decades. Risky and challenging, YES! But a worthwhile endeavor nonetheless. One thing my long and idyllic marriage to Nancy taught me is that the best of men prosper when they have a good woman to live-UP to. It's no small or simple task to love well, to put another first, to earn and hold the love of a best friend.
Nevertheless, the process of loving someone well is always growth-producing. The good life always demands stimulation and growth. I've always been a learner and teacher, lived the sort of life that demands I pay attention and constantly learn how to live in richer ways.
I don't always like the demands of such a life. But I remain disciplined. My life is something like yoga. I hate it but love it much more. Still, I refuse to give in to laziness. What are those nearly lost lines from some old Emerson poem I read all those years ago in high school? Something like:
So nigh is grandeur to our dust.
So near is god to man.
When duty whispers low, thou must.
The youth replies, I can. . . .
To the degree I live those few lines, I remain youthful, at least by that standard.
Every living moment demands one's very best effort. My recent ten-day hospital sojourn was a perfect example of what I mean. It's no easy challenge to remain your best possible self when you're accustomed to a vigorous life from which you feel temporarily removed. There you lie mostly flat on your back, through long-idle days. Nurses, doctors, and support staff wander in and out every hour of the day and night. Your best self demands interest in these visitors: you set aside your book, produce an authentic smile, a bright greeting, a willingness to present a well-punctured arm for still more blood samples and the like. These health-care workers deserve at least an Up-beat manner, even when they suddenly awaken you at 2:00am in the morning. You're not in control of anything except your reactions to the demands and challenges of the moment. Their job is to get you well. Your job is to treat them well.
No excuses! That's what I mean by insisting upon producing one's best self at the worst of times.Here's the point I'm coming to: the good life is largely a series of challenges that force continuous RE-inventions of the self. Illness or exhaustion are no excuse. I know I need to be aware that my very best self is always there awaiting my summons. I'll either get with my best self, or risk losing its magic -- and the joy of my life. The message?
Constantly re-invent oneself. . .
Or lie down and die!
Or lie down and die!
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