SAYING GOODBYE

Saying Goodbye

It is late afternoon, and the sun is warming my face as I sit here under a tree burgeoning with baby leaves. The green of the leaf is a favorite color of mine, but it's temporary. Savor it while I can is my motto, and I do, but I am noting that its temporal nature has an underbelly, or should I say leaf, of sadness that tempers the moment. I am not good at letting go, and I know that endings follow beginnings. Nothing lasts. Just today, my husband wanted to throw our skis into the dumpster next door, and I wasn’t ready to just dump them. They are old, but perhaps they are still useful, and someone can use them. Our neighbors have just packed up their belongings and moved to Florida, and left a dumpster in their driveway to be picked up later. They are young but have visions of buying land in Costa Rica, and they are returning to Florida to save some money and be with family. Their dog, Athena, played with our dog Maya, and it was a delight to sit outside with them, regardless of the weather, and chat as we observed their play. This goodbye might have influenced my decision to 

To say goodbye and wish our neighbors well, we had a farewell beer at a local brewery that allowed dogs. It was fun, and to our surprise, the dogs contentedly sat at our feet while we ate. David and I do not take our dog out to eat, and we never go to breweries, so this was a novel experience and a treat. When the waitress came to our table, I thought she was asking if we’d like to order, and I said, yes, only to discover that what she really asked was whether we wanted to play trivia. It was trivia night, and the speaker and music were so loud that I misheard her to the amusement of our young friends. Earlier that week, we went with our dog-walking friends to see Michael, the Michael Jackson movie. These neighbors are middle-aged, but again, I was aware of my age as they were amazed that I wasn’t familiar with Michael Jackson’s music. 

I feel fortunate that our dog has introduced us to people of different ages, and that we can enjoy their company as they do ours. It helps me feel “with it” rather than an old fogey. I am fortunate to be with a variety of people and to remain active, curious, and open to new experiences. Like the leaves on the trees, I am aware that this too is subject to change. I do my best to balance the reality of my aging in my choice of activities. I take care to use a banister when I go up or down stairs and am aware of the perils of falling. I live in a two-story home and appreciate that I can still go up and down the stairs. I exercise, but wonder how long this will last, whether we should move, and what body and mind will allow. What is needed to age in place? I’m learning to respect my fears without being overwhelmed by them. One worry is being isolated if I become frail and my husband, David, were incapacitated or died. He and I have spent time looking at continuing care communities, but none have felt like the right fit. I am questioning whether the place is not compatible, or is it me who has a problem moving and accepting the inevitability of change?  What is wise? I went to chair yoga today and met two women in their nineties, sparkling with aliveness. Both lost their husbands, sold their homes, and moved into an apartment, and found companionship with each other. One woman in her late 90s no longer sees or hears well enough to drive, but her friend, who is 92, helps her, as she can still safely drive and serve as a guide. I find it inspiring.

This morning, I got up and checked whether the dumpster was still nearby. I wasn’t ready to let my skis go, but the dumpster does offer an opportunity to throw things out. I am resolved to begin decluttering, so when David asked if he could dump an old easel of mine, I said yes. It was weather-worn, with a bowed leg that made it unstable. No problem. I have another sturdier easel. I was OK letting go of it, but as I looked around our garage, with an old racing bike and snowshoes, I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to them. My mother collected cut glass, and I am the repository for these items. I remember how excited she got when she discovered a piece she liked and brought it home. My brother and his daughters don’t want them. My mother treasured every piece, but I don’t. Mom died in 1984, but my fear of disrespecting her by getting rid of them lives on.

I am not forced to let go of anything material now, but many of our things have outgrown their usefulness. A friend of mine is a death doula. She helps people emotionally and spiritually prepare for death. When she visited us last fall, she looked at all the objects we have in our house and suggested I photograph the ones that hold meaning for me and write a description of why.  I like this idea and have begun looking at what I have, asking myself which are special and which I’d like to give to a loved one. To my surprise, there aren’t that many objects. Much of what is important to me is non-material. Knowing this gives me perspective and helps me focus on how I live and whether it is congruent with my values. Is my reluctance to say goodbye to objects a deeper reluctance to acknowledge change and mortality? The past is past, the future yet to be. The real treasure is here now.

Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars

of light,
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment,

the long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders

of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is

nameless now.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned

in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side

is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.

“In Blackwater Woods” by Mary Oliver, from American Primitive. © Back Bay Books, 1983.

SPRING REFLECTIONS

   The season has changed, and the weather has warmed. Since my last blog piece, I have experienced the blossoming of fruit trees, the sweet scent of wisteria growing lushly on the side wall of my brother’s house in Sacramento, California, and spent a day in Seattle surrounded by mountains and the fecundity of its earth. As I write here, at home in New England, the snow has melted, and daffodils and crocuses are poking their way through the ground. Spring, heralding renewal, has arrived.

My visual and olfactory senses wake me to wonder and connect me to the rhythm of nature and the world outside of myself. There is a sense of timelessness when I meditate; I am still and peaceful, yet my perspective has shifted. The more I feel a part of It All, I also feel that the season of my life is nearing its end. It’s not a morbid thought; there is a peacefulness to it, but I can’t deny its inevitability. Visiting my brother Bob, who is younger than I am, and experiencing his struggle with dysautonomia and an autoimmune disease, has impressed me with his ability to live his practice of meditation and cope, but also made me sad. He has hiked in the Himalayas and taught QiGong for over forty years, but now struggles with fatigue and other symptoms that limit his activity level. The actualization of his meditation and qigong practice to maintain a positive attitude inspires me, but he’ll never go on long hikes again or travel with ease, which is a reminder of the limits of what is possible. Bob has written another book and still teaches and is a loving brother, father, husband, and friend. Still, I find it hard to see him disabled and wish I could make it easier for him. I have to let go, as does he, and savor our connection and live with what is true now.

After being with family for a week, I went to Seattle for a day to the Celebration of Life of my good friend Pam, who died in October. She is the first long-time friend of mine who died, and her death and the coming together of people in her life brought back memories of the transformational eight years of life that I lived in Seattle. I was in my late twenties and had just enrolled in the Graduate School of Social Work at the University of Washington in Seattle. Pam was also beginning her studies to become an MSW. We met in the library, both wanting the same book so we could waive out of the research course and do an independent project. I smile thinking about it. It was the early 1970s and the beginning of the women’s liberation movement. With another woman, we chose to do our research on couples who self-identified as egalitarian and had at least one child. We looked at their division of labor, child care responsibilities, and decision-making process. I remember laughing a lot as we created the questionnaire that we gave the couples. Our findings confirmed our belief (and experience) that the patriarchy ruled. This was the beginning of a long friendship. We graduated and attended the psychoanalytic institute in Seattle and launched our careers as clinical social workers. We continued to laugh, investigate life, and the workings of mind and heart.

I left Seattle in 1978 to return to the East Coast and began another period of my life. For a time, Pam and I lost touch, but about ten years ago, we resumed our friendship and, with laughter and tears, continued to share our lives and questions about life itself. She, like me, had cancer many years ago, and it was a surprise when, about six months ago, she was diagnosed with a new cancer that was very aggressive. She died about three days before I was to visit her, so it was important to me to be able to say goodbye, see her husband, friends, and be with people who shared time and love with her.

When I was diagnosed with cancer in 1995, I was confronted with my mortality, but even with recurrences and a diagnosis of breast cancer, I have been well, and I find it all too easy to forget that I will die and loved ones will die. I say the Five Remembrances, acknowledging that we are all subject to aging, illness, loss, and death, but the meaning often stays on a conceptual level. This last trip, the remembrances registered in my body and were not conceptual. Perhaps that is why I freshly savor the crocuses, white bells, and daffodils pushing their way through the earth, heralding spring. Their emergence reminds me that life continues afresh. The past is a part of me and influences my present and future, but what I have is here now. I want to treasure it. I give thanks that I have been given the time to integrate my past so it is part of my present, and I am alive in the now, and it is a present.

Ranier Maria Rilke in Letters to a Young Poet wrote,

Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart

and to try to love the questions themselves

like locked rooms and like books that are written

in a very foreign tongue.

Do not seek the answers,

which cannot be given you

because you would not be able to live them.

And the point is, to live everything.

Live the questions now.

Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it,

live along some distant day

into the answer.

There is much I do not know, but I appreciate our community and the gift of time and Zoom for us to connect and reflect on questions that arise as we age.

REMEMBER

          REMEMBER

As I begin this blog, the sun is out, and it is energizing. I confess, the weather alters my mood.  I am subject to seasonal affective disorder SAD, and I don’t like it. I recognize depression tiptoeing toward me, bringing a heaviness to my body and a lethargy to my spirit. I am craving warm weather and having trouble accepting the duration of the winter here in New England, with grey skies, piles of dirty snow, and icy roads and sidewalks. Driving and walking have been treacherous, and  I am more awake to the danger of slipping and falling rather than the wonders of the day. Thankfully, I realize this. I know spring will arrive, but I am impatient. Can I welcome my dislike of winter and my resistance to the weather as Rumi suggests in his poem “The Guest House?” No. I do not, but I do acknowledge the feelings that arise and their familiarity, and I know it will dissipate.

I feel lucky. I have been teaching Mindfulness Tools at the Center for Mindfulness at UMassMemorial Medical Center. The class meets for only 90 minutes for four weeks on Zoom, but a sense of intimacy and community develops, which cheers me and supports my ability to be compassionate and kind to myself and remember impermanence. Recognizing the futility of trying to change the unchangeable helps me remember there is much that is possible and to take myself less seriously. 

Mindfulness is a translation of the word Sati (Pali: sati; Sanskrit: स्मृति smṛti), literally "memory" or "retention", "to remember to observe". It is an essential part of Buddhist practice. I remember that I am not alone but part of something much larger than myself.  Having feelings of liking and disliking the conditions of our life is normal. Conditions change, and our relationship to them changes. It is part of the human condition, but they don’t need to define us. How we interpret what we experience is variable. It’s just a story I tell people. We are already perfect (and can always improve a little). There is no need for striving. Change will happen. The sun is out today, and tomorrow it may sleet or snow. I don’t know what the weather will be like when you read this, but as long as I am alive, my breath is continuing, and as I write the electricity is still working and keeping my house warm. I can even enjoy complaining…and laugh. It helps me maintain perspective. It is a release.

"You must ask for what you really want."' writes Rumi in the poem “The Breeze at Dawn.” I realize there are many things I want, and some are possible, but others are not. Now that I am old, I am aware that time may be infinite, but my life has a termination date, so the question has a fresh relevance. What do I truly want? The emphasis is on the “truly.” I’d like to be taller and reach the higher shelves in my kitchen with greater ease, but I am shrinking, so I now have a small stool in the kitchen that is easy to access and safe to use. I want to be independent as long as possible. I want to be able to adapt to changes in my body and mind. I want to make peace with loss. I want to set realistic priorities and be compassionate when I am self-judgmental, lost in the past, or worried about the future. I want to be loving and kind and be loved in return with kindred souls who share similar values. I want to accept that I may not get what I want. I want to be grateful for what I have and satisfied with what I am and not who I think I should be. 

“We have what we seek, we have it all the time, and if we give it time it will make itself known to us.” Thomas Merton

This is sometimes hard to believe but vital to remember. Prompts are helpful, so I have some favorite objects that bring peace and I collect inspirational sayings and books.  Relationships are important to me, and people I can turn to who are honest and caring. I have a favorite chair to sit in that’s comfortable and faces a window that allows me to look outside and go beyond myself. Being older, my memory isn’t as good as it used to be. I have to write numbers down and double-check times for appointments and things I must do, but I always want to remember to cherish good friends and how good I feel when I am generous and kind to another. Sharing what is meaningful is a gift to give and receive. I appreciate being able to choose to say no and be discerning in my use of time.  I want to appreciate my teachers, known and unknown, who help me remember my humanity and expand my world. I acknowledge that I am vulnerable and strong—and don’t always like the weather—and that is all right. It will pass. Doesn’t everything? I want to remember this and be grateful.

WEATHER

Acknowledging what is seems simple, but it continues to be a revelation that each moment is as important as the next. My practice is to open to it mindfully.  Easy? Yes. No. The valence I bring to what I’m experiencing gives me a sense of aliveness and keeps me involved and interested, but sadness is sadness, as is grief and joy, boredom, and anger. Cold is cold. Weather changes and so do conditions, which affect my moods and actions. Today, I found myself frustrated because I could not meet with our lawyer to make changes to the will for my husband and me. I had trouble entering the Google meeting room, and she had trouble with Zoom. I’ve had technological difficulties with the computer before and stayed calm, but not today. Only later did I realize that what really upset me was contemplating death and the loss of my husband, rather than technology. David, the lawyer, and I finally figured out a way to meet that worked for both of us, but it required flexibility and persistence. Once we were together, I could not calm down immediately and had to leave the discussion for a few minutes to gather myself together and not cry. Estate planning is important. We wanted to include our dog in our will and make some changes to our personal representatives. Talking about it brought me closer to its inevitability and my fear of loss and separation. Just like winter and the onset of frigid temperatures, it happens. We can prepare for it as much as possible, yet its timing, conditions, and consequences are unknown. Denial doesn’t work.

When I began meditating, I did so because I wanted to change, I felt unhappy, and I thought that meditating would help me feel better about myself and improve the conditions of my life.  With time, effort, good people, support, and dedication, it has, but it was not the effect of fairy dust and involved facing what is true with an open heart and mind. I have learned how precious it is to stay awake and meet the moment fully, however it may be.

I can’t separate myself from the pain of others, and I am having to limit my intake of the news. It’s worrisome.  I find myself getting teary at acts of kindness. The more I meditate, the more I realize how little I know and how sensitive I have become.  What I observe and how I respond are a bit like the weather; they vary. Conditions make a difference. The snow resting on the limb of a tree is beautiful, but if it’s too heavy, it snaps the branch. I don’t want to snap, so I ask, " What is needed now? What is too much? What is too little? Knowing my time is limited, I continue to examine how I am using it. This means facing limitations and examining the reality of my wishes. 

Meditation brings me joy, and it has also increased my awareness of harm and how painful I find it to open to the world as it is right now. I have been realizing that I walk within a certain bubble of expectations and experience, which has been protective but limiting. I feel very fortunate that I can lead meditation groups and continue teaching mindfulness. It keeps me honest and helps me live my practice. The people who come teach me as well as I teach them. My world expands as we practice together to
quiet the mind and open the heart, and support each other in facing the unknown. There are many questions and no one answer to act consciously with wisdom rather than from anger or fear. 


“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.” 
― Rainer Maria Rilke

Art Class

I’ve been playing around with drawing and painting since I was a child. It’s always been a way to express strong feelings without words and release them. I find it soothing and relaxing. I never saw myself as an artist, and I’ve been content to simply let color and form evolve on my canvas or paper spontaneously without worrying about its composition or form.  I never had formal training, and since I am working less and have more time, I decided to go to our local art museum and take some courses. My goal was to learn some techniques and meet some new people in the community, and broaden my sphere of interests.

    As a child growing up, my father would sometimes take us to Greenwich Village on a Sunday, and he’d talk to the artists whose work he admired, and I’d listen or wander around, fascinated by the scene around me. There were people with long hair playing guitars, and I imagined a hedonistic life of freedom and creativity. In my young mind, I fantasized that the life of an artist had a certain glamor and bohemian flavor quite different from my own experience living with my family in Mt. Vernon, NY.

    Now that I am older, I am more aware of the gap between my fantasies and reality.  My expectations about what I can or cannot do are not always reliable and require adjustment.  My mind says "oh no," and seems to freeze, and there is contraction in my body.  I get stuck in a sense of failure and self-criticism. This happened recently in my drawing class. I got frustrated with my rendition of a horse’s skull that the teacher had illuminated and placed in front of us to draw.  We were using both soft and hard charcoal to capture shape, shadow, and light on paper. As I gazed at the skull, I thought it was quite beautiful, but I could not capture its shape or the feeling it conveyed. I got lost in its details and kept erasing and redrawing the same area of the head. The way my eyes perceived the head and how my hands represented it on paper did not match. As the teacher went around the room, he stopped at my image and with his expert eye immediately detected my stuckness. He asked if he could sit down and took my place so his view of the skull would duplicate mine.  He smudged the charcoal lines I had worked on so many times, creating a shape within the skull. Eliminating this overworked area and simplifying the drawing gave a sense of wholeness to the head. He said that the details could be put in later, and I didn’t need to work so hard or be so self-critical. 

    I’ve always known I can be self-critical, but I never realized how much I want to get things right. I can tell others to listen to Big Bird from Sesame Street sing, “It’s OK to make a mistake,” but deep down, my fear of disapproval can trap me, and old feelings of inadequacy reemerge. Shortly after the class, I heard a lecture on the use of self-compassion in psychotherapy and how helpful it is in conjunction with mindfulness, which cultivates the ability to see things as they really are with acceptance. Accepting imperfection continues to be a challenge for me. It makes life much easier, but it takes time, patience and compassion and can trigger past conditioning. Change is not automatic.  It helps to remember I am not alone in this struggle, and the teacher’s kindness was helpful. I need to remember I am a beginner and learning something new.

    Change is always present, and as I age, it can be quite dramatic. I get surprised when my mind and my body don’t seem in sync, be it eye/hand coordination or something more serious, and I wonder if I can be accepting of my skills as a beginner in an art class and let myself relax and enjoy the process. I like to think this also applies to aging and the limitations that arrive with my changing body. It can be a surprise to discover that I can’t do what I used to take for granted, and I fatigue more easily. What are my expectations for myself? I know I will never be an artist like Georgia O’Keeffe, but what about Elana? Can I see the beauty of the leaves changing color in our neighborhood and not mourn their demise, but appreciate the life cycle and the crispness of the air? Can I put my whole self into the art of living and let myself make mistakes and begin again…and be free?

ROAD TRIP

ROAD TRIP

As I write, David and I are in the midst of an adventure. We are on a road trip through the Finger Lakes of New York and into southern Canada. The leaves are beginning to change color, and it’s a beautiful time of year. We’re also aware that our bodies may not be able to do a trip like this again, so we are experimenting in pacing and guiding ourselves rather than being on a tour. We have a loose itinerary based on recommendations from our Canadian friends who lived in this area and have been telling us how special this part of the country is for them.

 We have not done a road trip in years, and it is bringing back memories of one I did years ago with my parents and my little brother, who is no longer so little. My father was the driver, and my mother would give him directions, which would create contention.  Bob, my brother, and I would be in the backseat, tuning them out by looking out the windows and passing the time by playing an alphabet game.  We challenged each other to see who would be the first to complete the alphabet using letters from the licenses of cars on the road.

Traveling with David to some of the same places I visited over seventy years ago en route to visiting my mother’s hometown in upper New York state brings back memories and highlights some of the changes that occur with time and aging. I sit in the front of the car now, not the backseat behind my mother. 

There is no arguing, and we have a GPS on our phones rather than a map that my mother and father would interpret differently. As David and I travel, the countryside looks familiar, and some memories of walking along the gorge in Watkins Glen with my parents returned, so I was curious to see how it would be in the present day.

Watkins Glen is a gorge carved out over eons. Time is physically apparent in the layers of rock comprising the  sides of the gorge, which represent different time periods and the effect of erosion. The gorge seemed longer and bigger than I remembered. I wondered if I walked through the entire gorge or just a portion with my parents. I remember being impressed by the gorges depth and narrowness. This has not changed, but as I walked through it at the age of 82, I’m certainly changed, and I’m probably much older than my parents were at the time. My body, like the stone, shows wear and tear, and my perception of time is quite different than it was as a child. Time seemed infinite back then, and now I am very aware that it is very precious and mine is nearing its end. I also didn’t worry about mobility or need walking sticks.

David and I parked our car at the upper gorge so we could go down it rather than climb up.  As we walked through, we saw all the different layers of rock created by time and erosion. The top portion of the path was made up of shale, which is hardened clay, silt, and mud. The surface was uneven and ancient, carved by the river far below when the path was the river bottom. The pathway was wet and filled with puddles of water and newly fallen leaves from the trees high above. Those of us walking down from the top were met by people walking up. We were told the pathway had 800 steps, and I was glad that we started at the top and were working our way down. It was fascinating to see the varieties of people and how they moved either up or down along the path. I especially appreciated the children who were able to run with ease, free of fear, some holding onto their parents’ hands, others running nimbly by. Using my walking poles, I had to be very careful with the placement of the poles and my feet. It was an act of concentration and wonder; wonder about the forces of nature and the power to both destroy and create, and also wonder that I was still able to navigate this narrow gorge with safety and trust in my ability to do so. One woman on her way up as we were walking down looked at me, my age, and the walking poles and said, “You’re courageous.” I didn’t feel courageous, but I was aware of the need to be very cautious. I walked down from the top of the gorge, staying closer to the cliff wall rather than the edge of the path that overlooked the gorge. On passages that were particularly narrow and slippery, I held onto David’s hand. I didn’t realize that he was being careful too, and it wasn’t automatically easy for him either. There were waterfalls along the way, which were quite dramatic, and we stopped to admire them and take some photos. The very bottom portion of the trail detoured from the natural one, which was unsafe and made of wooden boards filled in by gravel and mud. They looked deceptively easy, but I found them even more difficult than what nature had created. We made it down, waited for the shuttle to take us back up to the top of the gorge where we had left our car, and on we went to treat ourselves to a good lunch. 

David and I have a loose itinerary based on suggestions, but we have no idea what each day will bring. We have been staying at a different place each night, and that is as interesting as some of the natural wonders that we’ve been seeing. Last night we were in a B&B, which is an old Victorian house built in 1885. As we arrived at night and fumbled our way to the door, one of the guests saw us and led us in. This was his third night staying there, and he knew how hard it was to find the entryway. It was an act of kindness. Then, noting our grey hair and fatigue, he took our suitcases and brought them upstairs. I don’t like thinking of myself as old, but I am old, and kindness and compassion bring not only gratitude but also ease to body and mind.  

Traveling for me is not only about the place we visit but also the people we meet. We are by Niagara Falls today on the Canadian side, and I really wanted to see the falls but wasn’t sure what would be the best way. Our server at breakfast told us about her dad taking people on a journey behind the falls. We followed her advice and went into a man-made tunnel behind Horseshoe Falls. We dropped down 130 feet in an elevator crowded with people speaking different languages, all tourists like us. A young man who was the elevator guide let us out and said, “Go to the right, and you’ll stay dry. Go to the left, and put on your poncho so you won’t get wet.”  We did both and got sprayed with mist and heard, saw, and felt the power of the water. It was mesmerizing to stand on a platform by the side of the falls and take in its power…and know that it was formed about 12,500 years ago and through erosion retreats back about one foot a year. 

I can’t measure ways in which I have retreated and accommodated to an aging body, but my wonder about nature and life itself has not abated. I’m grateful that I have a husband to share this with and that my body, even though it’s slowed down, is able to go to new places and freshly discover wonder.

WATKINS GLEN

Cultivating Non-Doing

We will not be meeting this July and August, but that doesn’t mean reflections stop or memories end. Our dog is curled up by my feet as I write. It’s warm and she doesn’t want to exert herself unnecessarily. At the moment, there are no geese to chase or other dogs to play with right now. Each day, a neighbor brings her dog over, and she and Maya dash around madly. When done, she comes in panting and plops down. I’m less active than she, but I enjoy sitting outside with her and listening to the song of birds. I’m cultivating the art of being peace and doing nothing but taking in the beauty of our yard and the simple joy of using my senses to take in the greenery of our lawn and watch how the shadows of the trees change position as the day unfolds. It’s later in the afternoon now. The heat is not scorching and the mosquitoes are not out yet. I’ve been reading a lovely book that I recommend, A Flame by Pico Iyer. There is no plot or shootouts in this book, only sentences he wrote while on retreat and in silence at a hermitage in California. I find it inspiring and refreshing. It’s not an escape from the world but a description of opening to it and feeling the light that is here. David, my husband, just opened the door and came outside to sit with me. He likes walking in the yard, and Maya follows him and then runs off to sniff some creature or investigate some new smells. The vegetables we planted in our yard are growing, and a lone goose just walked along the edge of our small pond. It seems that each day I have something I plan to do—and time goes by—and unless important, it loses its immediacy. I brought my watercolors out today, but they still sit in their case. I am thinking of you and prefer to write instead, to encourage you to savor this moment and rest in awareness. May you enjoy the cultivation of non-doing and have many new wonders to discover.

Wishing you a wonder-filled summer,

Elana

Thursday, September 9, 2025, is our next meeting. See you then.

SEEDS

Though I do not believe a plant will spring up where no seed has been, I have great faith in a seed. Convince me that you have a seed there and I am prepared to expect wonders.
~Henry David Thoreau

It is a wonder that I am here sitting in Sacramento at my brother’s home visiting him and his  family. As I write it is day 3 of our visit and I am still jet lagged and adjusting to time change and climate. It is currently 92 degrees on its way to103: Hot! We just visited Soil Born Farms, a farm created to educate youth in healthy food and build community. I find its vision inspirational and its actualization encouraging in these challenging times. It is heart warming to be with family and a wonder to be able to see how the seeds my parents planted in raising us have been communicated to my nieces and their families. We see the joy and the love that have taken root and sprouted in my brother’s children and the way they are living their lives and parenting their children. I did not expect wonders as I was growing up.My brother Bob, my only sibling, is six years younger than me and we were not particularly close growing up, but over time with effort and intention this changed. Not having children myself it’s special to have time with my brother’s kids and their families. Our time together is limited and precious. Time goes by so quickly. The children grow so fast and we want to be a part of their lives and their community. My parents are no longer alive but I feel their presence and appreciate how the seeds they planted have germinated. It is a wonder Bob and I are quite different but there is an intermingling of roots and interest. It is a wonder meditation and psychotherapy became central to both of us—a certain questing and desire to grow and help each other live our practice. We are close in heart but physically there is distance.

New England where I live is beautiful but I have always found California to be a special place and each time my husband and I visit Bob I am tempted to move out here. David and I consider moving but the roots we planted on the east coast are well established and the thought of beginning anew feels formidable. During our visit to Soil Born Farms I saw a display of seeds and bought some for our vegetable garden back home. I like the thought of California beans creating a beanstalk in our backyard. The beans are red. The beans we grew last year were green but the red ones are similar. They are described as 12-24 inches long cover tall vining plants. Last summer we had a bean pole that reminded us of Jack and the beanstalk. Our gardener erected a teepee of bamboo poles and the seeds grew up the pole and reached the second story of our house and we needed a ladder to get the high ones. It amazed us—a wonder from the earth to us. This summer I thought the seeds I bought at the farm would be our piece of California, but I discovered that they came from the Hudson Valley in New York. This made me smile. Physical distance does matter but seeds can be planted and grow in more than one place. We live 3000 miles apart but we are interconnected. Yet distance is an issue. I feel sad I can’t easily drop in on him and his wife or easily attend family events. It was special to see Lucas, my grandnephew, graduate to a yellow belt in karate and Noemi, my grandniece, dance in the aisle at her Mom’s community pop concert as she watched her mother sing, and celebrate Esteban, my niece’s eldest turn 13.

Traveling is more difficult. I had to bring my walking poles since I need to ambulate without limping. My stomach is protesting the change of routine and the food I eat when traveling, and enjoy eating with family, snacks on the plane, ice cream and gelato with my grand niece and nephews, and dinners out with everyone. Fatigue, however, is the biggest problem. I get tired. Sadly, Bob and I both share this too. I hold on to the wonder of it all and hope more seeds can be planted and that I can see them grow wherever they land. Relationships are precious and the planting of seeds as Thoreau writes, is a wonder.

PRINCIPLES

I am sitting outside as I write this, and the moment is filled with glory. I’m facing tulips that have popped open, bright and colorful, in a patch of freshly tilled earth next to an area readied for planting. Seedlings of lettuce, broccoli, and peppers are growing in small planters on my windowsill. I will plant them outside as soon as the weather is consistently warm and they have sprouted more. Birds are chirping, and our baby magnolia tree is lusciously plump, filled with pink and white blossoms. My husband, David, is alive and well with a new titanium hip and is able to walk. He still has pain from his recent hip surgery, but he is getting better, and I no longer must run up and down our stairs to bring him food and care for him.

         I savor this moment. There is nothing to do or be. I rest in awareness and am content. Mind and body are quiet, and I am grateful for the conditions that have brought this into being. It’s a relief that my husband’s surgery is over and he is recovering. The surgery upset the status quo in our household. Even the dog has modified her behavior and now comes to my side of the bed early in the morning to be taken downstairs to go outside and pee. I like feeling needed, and I am glad I am keeping things running smoothly, but my body is exhibiting the wear and tear of stress. My knees hurt more, my toes are cramping, and I have pain in my shoulders. My stamina has decreased, and I get very tired. I know we are all subject to aging, illness, loss, and death. This awareness usually resides in the back of my mind, and now it is in the forefront. The body reminds me to heed it and acknowledge vulnerability. Change is ever present, and contentment depends on my adaptability and acceptance of this.

I’ve been realizing how much I depend on my husband and how much he has been doing in the house since I’ve taken over many of his chores: meal planning, cooking, grocery shopping, and driving. It’s exhausting. Thank you, David!  There are also a myriad of “little things”, he helps me with, like taking down a plate from a shelf in the kitchen I can no longer reach, or loosening a tight lid so I can open it and keeping track of what needs to be done to maintain our house, and doing it. Henry James writes about reciprocity. One of his quotes is, “It is good to give and to receive.” I hope we are in balance. I appreciate all the help I’ve been getting and the kindness I receive from him and others. It’s humbling to realize how much help I’ve needed.

It’s easy for me to lose my balance and fall, and walking the dog has been challenging for me. I huff and puff as I go up the hill by our house. When I meet our friends, other dog walkers, they too are wonderful, and I appreciate their help. If Maya, our dog, is getting hyper and frantic with excitement, I can’t calm her. Let her go, they urged me. I can let her go because they catch her and hold her steady until I reach her. They are wonderful; I feel protected, and I am learning how to handle her.

Since this has been difficult for me, David and I had gotten a Gentle Leader, a no-pull dog collar. In the past, David walked the dog, and there was no problem. I think he enjoyed Maya’s exuberance and let her pull him and go ahead of him, so he didn’t use it.  He is taller and stronger than I am, so managing her was never an issue. I am less than five feet, not particularly strong, and have trouble with my balance and fear of falling.  I needed to have control so she wouldn’t pull or jerk me about. I put the leader on her, but it wasn’t helping.  A neighbor who has two dogs observed her pulling me and stopped one day to ask if I knew that the Gentle Leader wasn’t attached properly. I didn’t, so he stopped, unhooked it from the dog’s collar, and attached it directly to her leash so it was free to move her head rather than tug at her whole body—and me. It worked! How lovely he noticed, cared, and acted. It was an act of kindness and filled me with appreciation and gratitude. Evan, the neighbor, didn’t have to stop and help me, but he did, and it’s been extremely helpful. I don’t find it easy to admit I need help, but sometimes I do, and I’m finding it's an act of love and connection. I’m just beginning to understand that the giver can feel good about giving, and it’s mutual. I feel grateful as the receiver. We need each other.

 I often wonder whether one needs to suffer to be liberated.  David’s surgery forced me to wake up to vulnerability and how much I rely on him and would miss him if he were gone. I also see how I have become dependent on him, and it’s worth examining. What can I now do that I have not been doing? What no longer needs to be done? What is important? It’s also helped me be more comfortable admitting vulnerability and the meaningfulness of connection.  All of us will be sick, have losses and die. We need each other. How rich.

Meanwhile, I savor the flowers and the glory of nature and give thanks to all givers and receivers. May we all live in love and rest in awareness with ease.

I look forward to the richness of connection with you as we acknowledge the vulnerability and wisdom that comes with aging.

WE WILL MEET THIS THURSDAY,

MAY 1, 2025 at 11:00 AM, EDT

 ! It’s here. The birds are returning to our yard, and I’ve been able to walk the dog and, like her, stop and sniff around as I gaze at the crocuses and daffodils pushing their way through the earth. My body/mind responds to the increase of light and warmth with increased energy and optimism. I read the news and am dismayed by the darkness of current events. I find it necessary to maintain my center and act from wisdom rather than anger, worry, or fear. I feel a bit like Anne Frank, who still believed in the good of people even during the Holocaust. I feel the pain of immigrants who fear deportation, people losing their jobs, cutbacks to the educational and healthcare systems, and the effects of these cutbacks. I recognize the need for compassion and remember the importance of love and kindness. It helps that I’ve been leading a meditation for the Mindfulness Center at UMass Memorial, focusing on compassion, love, and kindness that meets every Wednesday night. There’s power in sitting as part of a group. Even without words or discussion of ideology, there is a sense of warmth and caring that is open-hearted and inspirational.  It’s part of an online global community. It’s free, and you can join me if you like:

https://us02web.zoom.us/meeting/register/CgmTyIumRHayPIs7dFUVIg#/registration

Being in the latter part of my life has given time a new meaning, and I want to fill it in a way that aligns my values and dreams with my actions. I am semi-retired and have more time, so I decided to take a more active part in my community, enlarge my circle of acquaintances, and have some influence. I volunteered to be on the advisory board for the City Council.  It’s easy to criticize others, but I’ve decided to put my body/mind where my heart lies and go beyond my comfort zone to meet a more diverse set of people. I’m excited. I will be going out into different venues to get people interested in the city and its services and interviewing people for various positions on boards in the community. I was asked what I’d look for in my recommendations and I suggested an open mind…and a commitment to show up and listen to different viewpoints without rushing to judge and carefully evaluate action steps. I considered adding freedom from bias but I realize that we all have biases, including me. I don’t find it easy to listen to a person who disagrees with my views but I am committed to being open and respectful so I take a breath, bring awareness to my reactivity, and try to find an area of commonality that we can both agree upon. I’ll have to let go of the outcome but not hope.

The other day I was talking to a young friend about life choices. He was hoping he could keep everyone in his family happy. I’ve learned through experience that happiness begins with ourselves. I prefer thinking of the ability to live with ease. There are limits to what is possible. I found myself saying, “Life is messy,” and he reminded me I’ve said this before. The Rolling Stones sing, “You can’t always get what you want.” I want everyone to feel good, be healthy, and be at peace. I don’t want there to be war, poverty, greed, or delusion. I don’t like experiencing pain or observing how people can harm each other. I see people I love suffering, and I am limited in what I can do to make things better for them. I can bear witness, be empathetic, and stay centered.  That’s a lot.

I recently attended Soul on Fire, a documentary about Elie Wiesel, a Holocaust survivor and great humanitarian. “Wiesel lived with despair and guilt after surviving the Holocaust. He could not forget the suffering he observed in the camps or his inability to save his father from beatings and death after they walked together and survived the death march from Auschwitz to the Buchenwald concentration camp. Wiesel’s suffering opened his heart and motivated him to bear witness and document the suffering he observed in the hope that it would never be forgotten or happen again. In 1985, Ronald Reagan awarded him the Congressional Gold Medal for his humanitarian work. During the ceremony, Wiesel respectfully and unsuccessfully attempted to persuade Reagan, who was soon to be visiting Kohl, the chancellor of Germany, and asked him to cancel their visit to Bitburg, a military cemetery. Wiesel and the families of Holocaust survivors felt visiting the military cemetery was disrespectful since 49 SS men, the Nazi elite, were buried there along with the other soldiers. Newsmen later asked Wiesel if he thought he could change the president’s mind. Wiesel said no, but he was taught to speak truth to power. He stayed true to his principles, to never be silent if he perceived injustice was being done.  He is also quoted as saying "There are victories of the soul and spirit. Sometimes, even if you lose, you win."

What principles do you hold to be true? How are you living them?

Thursday, April 6, 2025 from 11 AM-12 PM, EDT is our next meeting

 

HINDRANCES AND ANTIDOTES

HINDRANCES AND ANTIDOTES

The temperature here in Worcester, MA, has finally gone above freezing after ten days of bitter cold. The snow is beginning to melt and the ice is retreating. Yay.  I started this blog a few days ago to put on paper my cries of anguish, ill will, restlessness, worry, and craving for sensual pleasures, like feeling the warmth of sunlight on my skin rather than a biting wind. In Buddhism, these aversive starts are considered obstacles to liberation and perpetuate suffering. Suffering is part of life, and meditation is supposed to alleviate it. Over the years, I realized that my understanding of liberation was incomplete. I thought that a liberated person was free of negative mind states and I’d be immune from suffering. I wouldn’t feel angry, frustrated, or depressed; instead, I’d face whatever happens with equanimity and be non-reactive, allowing myself to let go of the desire for things to be different than they are. Instead, I’m learning of the energy and courage it takes to apply my mindfulness. The more I desire my negativity to go away, the harder it is to release it. ‘Resist and they persist’ is a truism. Rumi advises in his poem The Guest House to invite them in …” welcome and entertain them all…and be prepared for a new delight.”  Hmm..

In principle, I agree with the wisdom of this advice, but it takes energy, faith and trust that my desire for sunlight and warmth will disappear if I can befriend these feelings with compassion and be curious about their arising rather than self-pitying when I am filled with aversion amid a cold spell while I am gazing at a grey sky. Practice has helped me decrease self-criticism. I don’t beat myself up like I used to for having negative feelings. I know everything passes, and this as an opportunity for learning, but it’s challenging.

Contemplation of death and impermanence is an antidote to craving more sensual pleasure. Being human, there is suffering. We are all subject to aging, illness, loss, and death. It can not be prevented. It is part of the human condition, and I am not exempt. It doesn’t mean that when a loved one dies or is diagnosed with a life-threatening illness, I won’t be sad or grieve. Meditation doesn’t eliminate pain and sorrow, disappointment or anger, but I do find it helps me bear what comes and learn from it.  I have more practice in hanging in there with myself, my frailties, and my conditioning. Thinking about death, I realize I feel sad that a dear friend has recently been diagnosed with cancer. My husband recently underwent a procedure that necessitated a night in the hospital. Visiting him brought back memories of times I was hospitalized and seeing him vulnerable made me concerned about his health and what the future would bring. He’s fine now, and so am I. Contemplating impermanence and facing death helps me treasure the present. The present moment is precious, and I am grateful that we are both here and together---and I know it will end.

In my early years of teaching Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction I bought a colorful and beautifully crafted magic wand and brought it to class. I waved it about and told the class I wished I could sprinkle them with fairy dust and all their troubles would vanish. We laughed yet it was my wish and perhaps theirs as well.  I’ve learned that the power to fix things lies within, and if I or we held on too tightly to the wish that something or someone outside of ourselves could magically relieve suffering, we’d all be in trouble and only suffer more.

Thomas Merton, a Trappist monk and mystic, wrote, “We have what we seek, we have it all the time and if we give it time it will make itself known to us. “

It takes time and courage to face ourselves and look within for what we seek. Also patience, trust, hardiness of spirit and perseverance. I find it humbling to realize I can’t prevent bad things from happening. I can examine the causes of suffering and look at what triggers it in myself- conditioning based on past experiences, wants and vulnerabilities. What I consider bad, hard to accept and strongly don’t like is personal. Some people may love winter and see it as an opportunity to ski, play, and have cozy times at home. I do not. I feel a bit like Goldilocks and the Three Bears; I want the weather to be “just right, not too cold or too hot.” I want to walk without walking poles and not worry about slipping on the ice.

Being 81, this is a period in my life when my body and mind noticeably change. Awareness of my negative mental states has reinvigorated my interest in them and their antidotes. I take out books and poems for inspiration, meditate, and I even googled hindrances and antidotes. The summary from AI:

In summary, understanding the nature of these hindrances and applying the appropriate antidotes is essential for anyone seeking to deepen their meditation practice and achieve spiritual growth. Through persistent effort and mindful practice, the obstacles of sensual desire, ill-will, sloth and torpor, restlessness and worry, and doubt can be gradually diminished, leading to a clearer, more focused, and peaceful mind.

I can appreciate the warmth of my house and the safety it provides. I am grateful for all the goodness in my life. I saw a robin this morning and I heard a bird chirping. I let myself regress and ate comfort food from my childhood—and didn’t feel guilty or judgmental. I decided it was OK to indulge and did it very mindfully with restraint. Popcorn is a favorite self-soothing item for me, so I measured out a small amount, put it in the microwave, and listened intently for the end of a popping sound so I didn’t burn the container. In my family food was associated with love -and self-castigation because it was fattening. I decided I wasn’t too fat, cut a slice of a delicious raspberry pistachio croissant, and returned the rest to the freezer. Good for me I thought and proceeded to open the kitchen cupboard and discovered chocolate coins left over from Chanukah, ate two and then one apricot. I knew this really wouldn’t satiate my craving, but I savored it and enjoyed its momentary release.

Sloth, torpor and doubt are other obstacles to awareness. My mind was dull when I was caught in my discontent, and I felt sluggish. I took a breath, examined the position of my body, realized I was slouching, sat upright, put my hand over my heart and felt the heaviness in the center of my chest, got up from my chair, took out my computer and began this blog.

 Doubt is the most difficult hindrance to counter.  During the bout of bad weather, it was hard to believe I’d experience a better day. Doubt is debilitating. It erodes self-confidence and blocks innate wisdom. Fortunately, I can’t stand feeling miserable for too long. It motivates me to seek relief. I began meditating because I saw it helped people feel happier and I wanted to be happier and more at peace. There are causes and conditions even for a feeling of funk. Following Rumi’s advice to welcome what is at my door, I’ve learned to notice the effect of my thoughts and feelings, test their reality, seek wise counsel, and be surrounded by people, places, and things that lift me up and inspire me—like being with you.

March 6, 2025 at 11AM EST is our next meeting.

I look forward to being with you. Let’s support each other to examine the unwanted with compassion and a steadiness of spirit, heart, and mind.

REALITY

REALITY
FEBRUARY 6, 2025

 I haven't been walking up the hill by my house very much lately. It's cold. It's icy, and I don't want to fall again. My husband, who is my companion, coach, and dog walker, is also reluctant to go as his hip hurts, and he will be having surgery at the end of March. Such is life. I don't always like what it brings: old age, illness, loss, and death. I must remember that living a full life means opening to ALL OF IT. I struggle to maintain a realistic attitude without being morbid or overwhelmed. I feel not only my pain but the pain of others. I struggle not only with limitations because of the weather or the state of my body but also with the state of the world. Everything changes, and I realize it's not always for the better. I breathe, feel my feet, and override my resistance to what I'm reading. Every day there is something new that disturbs me. Fortunately, something new every day makes me appreciate its presence. I am determined to stay balanced and clear and use awareness to cultivate wisdom and compassion. I've been noting how others are coping. Jim Acosta, one of the anchors on CNN who was punished for his views and relegated to a midnight slot, was quoted as saying, "Don't give in to the lies, don't give in to the fear, hold on to the truth and to hope."

 I take heart by being with people I love and respect who make the effort to face reality and am impressed by their courage and strength in maintaining an open heart and mind. I've been listening to dharma talks that help me remember my intention to do no harm and remind me that everything passes. The talks are sincere, based on direct experience, and reinforce compassion and kindness. I feel grateful for my meditation practice and the people who come to it. I hold dear to my heart each person I see on the Zoom screen and I am thankful for their presence. I feel my connection to each person and appreciate practicing together. It gives succor and helps me stay grounded and open to joy. We've been discussing the characteristics that aid us in living a life that has integrity and purpose: ethical conduct, generosity, patience, diligence, and wisdom. Last week we were discussing the benefits of generosity. One woman expressed her sense of oneness with all beings and the richness of giving to another so she could feel better herself.  She said that it countered discouragement.  Your pain is truly my pain, and so is your joy and kindness.
 
Lately, I've been focusing on "the ordinary”, and seeing routine activities as an opportunity to strengthen mindfulness. For example, I don't like brushing my teeth, but just like the rest of my body, they show wear and tear. I appreciate that I still have a full mouth of them even though all but a few are crowns, and I have an implant. I don't take them for granted like I used to do. I have never liked flossing or brushing my teeth because I usually wait until it is late and  I feel like going directly to sleep. Cultivating generosity includes being good to my teeth. I need diligence to brush earlier before I am half asleep and patience to do it completely, even if I'm tired. I've discovered that bringing mindfulness to the process makes it interesting. Doing it with attention is interesting.  This is a revelation. I love water and recently we got a waterpik as a present. It's fun to use, and I enjoy squirting the water into just the right spot in my mouth. My mouth feels fresh before I go to sleep and put in my mouthguard. I've stopped bemoaning having to do this. I now realize there are some things you just have to do because it makes sense. Being healthy requires a realistic assessment of what is needed and diligence in doing it. Resistance makes it harder. I say to myself, Floss, Elana, floss. It's not onerous when I do it mindfully, and I sleep better. 
 
Gratitude helps. I never fully appreciated the utility and wonder of having two hands until after I broke a bone in my dominant hand and had to wear a cast, which forced me to rely on my other hand which was awkward and created difficulties. I don't want to fall again. I'm finding it humbling to acknowledge my agility has decreased and my balance is off, so I'm more mindful when I walk and rush less. At home, my husband and I are making changes to the house to make it safer. We've installed handrails in the shower and built a second railing by our steps. It is helpful to focus on what I can control rather than complain or deny its need. I still don't like accepting these changes, but it's wise. I appreciate what I have and can do. I can still drive, care for my needs, shower, dress, and go to the bathroom. Yay! Someday, this might not be possible. 
 
T. S. Eliot, who writes in the poem "Little Gidding" 
"Humankind cannot bear very much reality." 
 
Sadly, I think this is true. I'm finding it hard to face what I don't like and I don't understand cruelty to self or others. I live by the tenet to do no harm. I challenge myself to be kind, respectful, and discerning. Nothing can change without awareness of its effect. It feels courageous to see things as they are--and then decide what is possible. I begin with myself. 
 
I'm learning I tend to push myself, but forcing myself to do just one more thing when I am tired is not a good idea. I've discovered naps are restorative, and I am more effective, kinder, and sharper after one. Sleep is a blessing, and non-doing makes sense and is enjoyable…and I still get surprised that this is so.  
 
Every day is precious. Sharing your presence with me is a present. Our coming together for meditation and reflection buoys my spirit and brings hope. It helps me face the reality of aging and the conditions in the world today. May we all support each other, treasure our friendships, be kind, and hold each other with love and kindness This, too, is real.
 
Our next gathering is Thursday, February 6, 2025, at 11:00 AM EST.
 We'll discuss how we face the realities that challenge us. Do you agree with T.S. Eliot that humankind can not bear much reality? Does meditation help?

You are welcome to invite friends, but please have them register on my website.
 

Here's the Zoom link and meeting information. It's the same link as the one we've used before.

Zoom Link for the Aging with Wisdom group

Thursday, February 6, 2025 at 11 A.M. EST

Meeting ID: 810 4110 5987

Passcode: 744390

Copyright © 2025 Elana Rosenbaum, All rights reserved.
You are receiving this email because you opted in via our website.

Our mailing address is:

Elana Rosenbaum

3 Rollingwood Dr

Worcester, MA 01609-1211

Add us to your address book

Want to change how you receive these emails?
You can update your preferences or unsubscribe from this list.

BEING PEACE

BEING PEACE

 My husband and I don’t celebrate Christmas, but the holiday spirit fills the air and it is infectious. I love the lights, the upbeat music, and the sense of community fostering generosity and goodwill.  We celebrate the solstice and the increase of daylight. We also light a candle for 8 nights to celebrate Hannukah. It’s a Jewish holiday and represents the rededication of the Temple in Jerusalem in 70 AD and the miracle of oil for candles lasting not one day as expected but for eight. I find myself spontaneously practicing Muditā (Pāli and Sanskrit: मुदिता) it is a dharmic concept in Buddhism, especially sympathetic or vicarious joy—the pleasure that comes from delighting in other people's well-being. Others’ happiness becomes mine. It feels much better to receive joy and the sense of abundance it brings than to focus on what I lack. At the same time, I hold in my heart all those less fortunate than me and acknowledge that I miss having children of my own or family closer in proximity. I give thanks for Zoom. It allows me to observe my nieces and their children in California coming together to celebrate the holidays and open presents. The children’s wonder and joy are contagious, and I appreciate sharing in the festivities and being a part of their lives. I do not take it for granted. I feel the oneness of life and wish we could all cultivate a sense of community and interdependence every day. The human condition requires tending, I feel the tenderness and vulnerability of us humans. We need each other. You affect me and I affect you. I wish peace on earth and goodwill existed for everyone throughout the world.
 
My awareness of the gift of breath and life itself—and the importance of good medical care has been heightened recently. I’ve had pneumonia this month and it’s brought back memories of the time I was hospitalized for my stem cell transplant back in 1996 and I developed pneumonia and people worried whether I would live. I went to urgent care twice this month as I didn’t respond to my initial dose of antibiotics and spiked a high fever. Both times were on a Sunday, and the second was three days before Christmas. The waiting room was full, but everyone was patient and treated respectfully. It was medicine at its best. I was impressed with the quality of care and the compassion of the hard-working staff. They were efficient, cheerful and competent. I did not like the fact that the doctor very conscientiously listed all the reasons I was considered a high-risk patient, age being one of them, and recommended hospitalization. A friend of mine worked as a nurse in the hospital and had just mentioned how overcrowded it was and how beds were in stairwells. I felt my body could recover with outpatient treatment and agreed to go if this didn’t work. The doctor understood my fears and used all of the resources he had available at the Urgent Care Center, which was unusually well-equipped, including an IV infusion of antibiotics and a CT scan. I was impressed. 

As I write, I no longer have a fever and I feel my energy returning. I am VERY thankful. I take to heart the gatha (mindfulness verse) Thich Nhat Han created.
     “Breathing in I calm
      Breathing out I smile
       Dwelling in the present moment
       It is a precious moment.”
My breath is coming in and going out. I am alive. I am thankful. I’m able to think, write, eat, ambulate and go to the bathroom myself: Wonderful. It’s a gift to be out of bed and sitting in a comfortable chair in my living room writing this blog. There is cold and snow outside my window, but it is warm where I sit. I am upright and I have a caring husband. I am thankful I am not alone. I am thankful modern medicine has antibiotics that are available to fight infection—and they are working…whew!
At the same time, being 81 reminds me that illness comes to everyone, as does death. I am not special. My husband and I went over our health proxies and what to do should one of us become very ill or die. We also have cemetery plots, and David looked up where they are and who to contact. This is not a joyous activity, but it is practical and needed. Meditation is not only a way of thinking but an acknowledgment of what is—and life and death, health and illness, joy and sorrow are included. But…now I rejoice and give thanks.

Last night, I woke up thinking about this blog and realized we will be meeting after New Year’s Day and it will be 2025. Another year will have passed. This is often a time for reflection and a retrospective of the year. When I look back at 2024 the events take a back seat to a sense of deep gratitude for the people in my life and the work that I am fortunate enough to do. It is wonderful to lead meditation groups, teach mindfulness and savor the good in life so I can face the foibles of my own heart and mind and the tragedy of wars, greed and hatred and stay balanced and whole. I wouldn’t mind losing a pound or two and I can always be kinder and more generous. I believe this year calls for continued faith in humanity and my strength, resilience and wisdom to face the unwanted. I don’t find reality easy to accept. Like my Dad, I can be unrealistic and build castles in the air. That’s why I like the statement by Thoreau.
“If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them.”
― Henry David Thoreau, Walden

May we trust our inner wisdom to see and do what is needed.
May we love ourselves and each other.
May we all live with ease and know peace and joy.
HAPPY NEW YEAR.

GIVING THANKS

I began writing this blog before Thanksgiving, and now we have returned to our daily routine and entered the holiday season. This time of year is about giving, but it can also heighten stress as giving may feel obligatory rather than a reciprocal exchange of appreciation and care. The commercialization of the holidays often dampens my spirit, prompting me to pause and reflect on the many gifts I have received.

 Every day, I do my best to remember and give thanks for the gift of life. I do not take my ability to walk for granted or the ability to have a mind that thinks and a meditation practice that cultivates awareness and kindness. I remember, again and again, it’s not all about ME, and as I groan, complaining I ate too much at the Thanksgiving meal, I am glad my body allows me to digest food and I have enough to eat and can share a meal with others.  I am also mindful of those who suffer from food insecurity, war, and famine. I give thanks for the plentitude in my life and the love I receive. I feel enriched by the people in my life and their values, even as I am disturbed by the news highlighting the fear, greed, and anger that creates division.  I worry about what the future may hold, but I commit myself to finding light in the darkness. I see the good in people but try not to blind myself to potential dangers.

Dr. Robert Eliot, a cardiologist who studied stress wrote, ““Rule No. 1 is, don't sweat the small stuff. Rule No. 2 is, it's all small stuff.”  

David and I had an early Thanksgiving with family and had no plans for the actual day. Our neighbors, a young couple with two children, invited us for the actual Thanksgiving dinner., They made us feel very welcome and made a spectacular meal. They kindly sent us home with a care package in a recyclable container. When we got home, feeling satiated and grateful, I placed the container in the refrigerator. David, wanting to be helpful, thought the container wouldn’t keep the food fresh, so he transferred the food into a plastic bag. I had watched Valerie, our hostess, carefully put the leftover stuffing, roasted vegetables, sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce and turkey in the container appreciating her generosity and how beautiful it all looked—and watched as David dumped it all out smushing it together! Ick! In the grand scheme, it’s small stuff. He acted quickly and there was nothing I could do about it. Did the warm feeling I was holding last? No. To my credit, I did not express my dismay with anger, but I could not let it go completely—I dreamed about it that night.  Now, I write about it…but I can smile. At lunch today I dumped the food out of its ziplock bag and managed to separate the different items. It still tasted good. Thank you.

Acknowledging what we may consider small and still appreciating the larger picture gives perspective and makes a big difference in how we meet the unwanted. My meditation practice has helped me acknowledge what I am feeling and have more choice in my responses.

 When I was a child in kindergarten, my teachers would have us recite a short prayer before we received our milk and cookies. It went like this

 Thank you, God, for the world so sweet.

 Thank you, God, for the food I eat. 

Thank you, God, for their birds that sing.

 Thank you, God, for everything.

For years I recited this prayer to bolster my spirits and comfort me when I was scared. I grew up in the era after World War II. I felt my parents cared for me, and I never wanted for food or shelter.  However, as a sensitive child, I absorbed some of their worries. My parents didn't have much money and lived in a one-bedroom apartment in my father’s parents' house. It was a duplex. They lived on one side and my aunt and cousins, who babysat for me, lived on the other side. Other relatives, who we’d visit, lived up the hill. 

 I liked school, had friends and felt safe, secure and happy. My mother, however, worried alot and did not like living with her in-laws. When her parents became ill and mentally unable to care for themselves, her brothers decided that it would be a good idea to move my grandparents, my Bubbie and Zaydie (Yiddish for grandma and grandpa) from their home in upstate New York to live with my parents in a house they helped my parents purchase.  So, at the age of ten I moved from a small apartment in a house with one set of grandparents, whom I liked, to a larger house on the other side of town, where I knew no one, to live with a set of grandparents I barely knew. This solved my uncle's problems and allowed my Mom to move away from her Mother-in-law, with whom she had a difficult relationship, into her own home with more room for my brother and me. This was supposed to be a good idea but from my 10-year-old perspective it was disastrous.  I didn’t know Bubbie and Zaydie well, they spoke only Yiddish which I didn’t understand, and they either had Alzheimers or dementia . It was heartbreaking for my Mother and scary for my little brother and me. 

Exhale: 

I didn’t know the words for Metta back then—“May I be safe and protected, May I be happy, May I be healthy, May I live with ease.”  However, I did remember the prayer I recited over milk and cookies. Whenever I got scared, I’d repeat it to myself, and I found it comforting. As an elder, I now understand how difficult the situation was for my parents to care for them as well as us and experience their demise. I wish I could have expressed more gratitude towards them and said thank you more often for caring for me and teaching me about loyalty, perseverance, and love.  They showed me it’s possible to find light in darkness. Thank you.


Let's reflect on gratitude and give thanks for the gifts we have received in our lives, past and present. Thank you for being part of my community. I hope you can join me

Thursday, December 5, 2024 at 11 AM, EST

You are welcome to invite friends, but please have them register 

Kindness

I don't usually consider myself elderly, but I fell twice last week. The first time, I tripped over the hem of my pajama bottoms and fell on the rug in the bathroom. The landing was soft, and only the pinky on my right-hand hurt, but I fell again the next day. After my art class, I got distracted by the logistics of putting my suitcase filled with art supplies into the car. I fell on the curb. Ouch. I know that falling is one of those nightmares that an older person does everything to prevent, but up until then, I didn't feel elderly. A woman nearby saw the fall and asked if I needed help. I said yes, and she kindly helped me up from the ground, put my suitcase in the car, and ensured I was OK. It was humbling, but I appreciated her help.

I have always prided myself on being able to fall gently and harmlessly. This is a skill I perfected back in the days when skis were metal, and there was no snowmaking, so slopes were often icy, and moguls were big and hard. I used speed to make my turns, and it was rare not to fall at least once or twice on my way down the mountain. I always picked myself up and continued on the run. I took my resilience for granted and never fully appreciated my hardiness. Now that I am older, I am aware of my vulnerability and the need to listen to my body. My balance can be off and my bones are more brittle. My days of feeling invincible are over. I use poles when I walk, and I don't go skiing. Yet, I like to think I am still young. My spirit says I am still alive and vibrant, but my body tells me to be careful.

I minimized my fall and drove to the physical therapy appointment that I had scheduled and didn't want to miss. I go to strengthen my hip and be more balanced when I walk. The therapist kindly checked me out, swabbed a bloody spot by my knee, felt my pinky finger and said," You know you could have canceled." He suggested having my hand checked out. Deciding to be prudent, I went to urgent care, and indeed, I did break my 5th metacarpal, the bone on the side of the hand by the pinky. A cast was created for me that went up to my elbow and didn't allow movement in my fingers. I maintained a state of calm during this procedure, but it's harder as time goes on. My equanimity is being tested. I miss being able to drive, and I need help doing some of the daily maintenance tasks required for self-care. I have always said that it's good to give and to receive, but I'm finding it hard to be dependent, and it seems like it could be a prelude to future needs. Boy, do I now appreciate having two hands and being able to take care of myself. It has also highlighted how much we need each other. I'm very thankful that I have a husband who cares for me and is willing to help me. I realize how hard it is to be alone and the importance of assisting another person with generosity and compassion. All of us are subject to aging, illness, loss, and death. It's part of the human condition. It's not only me that falls.  We are all vulnerable. Kindness makes a difference.

I did my best to maintain my routine and go for my morning walk, but zipping my jacket and buttoning my coat was hard to do with one hand. It's also tricky getting into one. I was happy I had some with wide sleeves that fit over my cast and thankful that I had a husband willing to help me, but he wasn't home. It was a beautiful day but cold. I found a jacket that snapped and zipped, and I could do the first few snaps, so I went out… and it was very cold. I needed my coat fully snapped. I saw a woman who regularly ran past our house. I didn't want to interrupt her run, but I was getting colder, so I stopped her and asked for assistance. She was delighted to help and did up the remaining snaps. It was a lovely connection.

I proceeded up the hill and bumped into another neighbor walking her dog, Poppy. She's a young woman with a small child who works as a speech therapist at a rehab center. She noticed my cast and was very empathetic, so much so that I felt free to confess that using only one hand was hard, and I didn't like it. She said, "It's OK not to like it." which prompted me to speak loudly and emphatically, "I don't like it." I said this with feeling more than one time, and we both laughed. It made my day.

I feel very fortunate that I live in a neighborhood where people say hello to each other. We are of different ages and experiences but are all subject to life's ups and downs. My experience emphasizes the importance of support, compassion, and generosity. I feel immense gratitude that I live in an area where people can express caring, and I hope I do the same. It also felt great to say I don't like this. Sometimes, we forget that equanimity doesn't mean that there is no struggle or dislike of something terrible that has happened. It is about facing what is true without getting lost in anger, hatred, or despair. We are a part of a larger whole. It's not just about me but all of us. We affect each other. I have immense gratitude that my break will heal, and I will continue to be mobile and have support. It's too easy to focus on what's wrong rather than appreciate what is correct and working. I still have trouble with accepting the break. The wish to have my hand fully functional again is vital—and that's ok. I still can laugh, and I've gotten good at feeding myself with my left hand.

When I listen to people in my classes tell me what happened to them, which causes pain and is difficult to manage, I always appreciate the strength, resilience, and courage it takes to maintain equanimity. We need each other. Coming together and sharing is powerful. I feel fortunate to be with you this Thursday, November 7 at 11 AM,EST. I hope you can join me as we discuss our vulnerabilities and strengths.

CHANGE OF SEASONS

I am always curious about the confluence of external conditions with internal ones. I notice how the weather affects my mood. It’s raining today, allowing me to sleep later, forgo my morning walk, and begin this blog. It was delicious to be in bed, let sleep overtake me, and feel snug and comfortable. I savored the luxury of non-doing and feel very fortunate to be safe and protected, have shelter and food, no current crisis, and have people in my life I love. There continues to be too much pain in the world and too many people with insufficient food or shelter and fear dominating their lives. Loss, illness, and death will always exist, but I wonder about the delusion that takes hold in the face of its enormity that prevents us from acknowledging it. Must suffering always be with us? What’s the balance between doing and non-doing? Rest versus action? 

I just heard that a good friend of mine has a serious illness. Pain in me arises as I listen to her. I know what it is to get bad news. I know the importance of maintaining a wise heart and mind and not drowning in sorrow or being overwhelmed by fear. It’s not easy. An ongoing meditation practice helps, but love and support are also needed. Knowing one’s limits is also helpful. I have to limit my exposure to the news. I want to turn away from the scenes of violence and horror arising from prejudice and fear, but I also need to be informed. I ask, who are we? Is fear and anger needed to maintain power and experience success? As meditators, what can we do to influence society? These are big questions and no simple answer, but I am committed to facing what is true rather than deluding myself of its existence.

I’m becoming more aware of what I don’t see or want to feel—not only the spaces between breaths but a person holding a sign at an intersection asking for help, or stopping and waiting for a person to cross the street rather than rushing through with my car. Everyday kindness can be very meaningful. Little things can be big. My husband inspires me. He does hospice work, writes postcards to get out the vote, and buys diapers to give out to impoverished families. I continue meditating and leading others in free meditation sessions and do some teaching, but I wonder if this is enough.

Research shows that mindful meditation enhances one’s quality of life and decreases stress, but at the same time, it heightens sensitivity. I find myself tearing up more easily—especially when I experience goodness. My neighbor offered to dog-sit our pup, Maya. His thoughtfulness moved me and motivated me to reach out more to people in need. I don’t like feeling pain, mine or others. People in an MBSR class would often question why they should meditate. They discover pain in the body they had ignored or a habit that wasn’t helpful, like judgment or self-criticism. Some drop out, but others hang in and soften, knowing we are all part of the human community, and we are not alone. 

Life can be hard. Bad things happen. The practice of mindfulness is practical and cultivates clarity, joy, and wisdom. This leads to knowledge and greater choice and understanding, but also limitations. Facing ourselves is humbling. I discover parts of me I don’t like, like greed, wanting more of the good and less of the bad, be it food or news. As I age, I am more aware of my vulnerability, what supports vitality and growth, and those that deplete it. I ask, can I hold them both and remain steady and calm inside and out?

Every year, as the weather cools and days grow shorter, the leaves where I live change color and fall from the trees, leaving them bare. The weather is colder and more bitter, but the sun is often bright and has clarity. Snow falls, and it is beautiful, but if it lasts for a long time, it freezes and becomes hazardous. I used to equate this time of year with death. My mother died in October, and I remember praying for her to suffer less and live longer. In the past, I felt sad as summer dwindled and fall began resisting the change of season. Now I realize the trees are not dead but hibernating so they can be replenished and renewed as the earth warms and the sun moves higher into the sky.

I no longer ask how my meditation is going or question my worthiness. I ask whether I embody my practice. Are my actions in harmony with my principles? Am I being generous? Kind? Do I respond with thoughtfulness or reactivity to something disturbing? My wish is that my practice be of service to others and I maintain a steadiness of presence and continue cultivating kindness and generosity that will spill out into the world.

May there be love and understanding.

May there be peace.

Let’s come together and support each other in facing our challenges and finding peace and joy.

PLEASE NOTE, WE ARE MEETING ON WEDNESDAY IN OCTOBER.

Here’s the date:
Wednesday, October 2, 2024 at 11 AM, EST

You are welcome to invite friends, but please have them register on my website.

HOME

I’ve always thought of home as a place where I resided. It was external. In meditation, home is an internal oasis of spaciousness and calm. My meditation teacher instructed me to return home when I noticed my mind wandering and I was lost in thought. Home could be the breath, a word or phrase or even feeling your feet touching the floor. It served to anchor the mind and foster equanimity—except when it didn’t. In my early days of meditating, home was problematic. I didn’t perceive it as a warm and welcoming place where I could rest. It evoked some painful memories. Sometimes I’d have an attack of the “if onlys”. If only it (me) was different then I could be happy. If only I was married…then I’d be content, If only, when I was married I didn’t live in Worcester…then I’d be happy. If only… I got restless if I spent too much time at home. I wanted to be busy and be doing something new and exciting. As I have aged, I get tired more easily and I am less enamored with doing and much more appreciative of simply being. Home is where I can rest and appreciate “just this”. I enjoy sitting in a chair and reading a book. I like going grocery shopping and examining the fruit and vegetables. I like that I am in remission from cancer and can walk, breathe, and use all my senses. I know I am in the latter years of my life and bad things happen as well as good ones. Nothing BIG happening feels like a miracle. Everything changes but I am here now, alive, awake, and present. It’s a gift. I do not take it for granted.

In the past when I returned from vacation, I was disappointed it had ended. Now I realize that vacation is a state of mind. Returning home helps me experience anew what I often take for granted. I freshly appreciate the comfort of my bed. The mattress is not too soft or hard and supports my back. I’m enjoying my bathroom. I don’t have to climb over the side of a tub to take a shower and the water pressure and temperature are just right. I even find doing the laundry satisfying. I didn’t rush to unpack but I listened to my body and rather than immediately put everything away I only did the essentials and went to sleep early. The house looked good. It was undisturbed, nothing major broken and the plants hadn’t died: Heaven. Of course, there are bumps in my equanimity. When I awoke the next day I went to my car to go to an exercise class and I couldn’t open the car door. As I looked down at the key I held in my hand I realized it was not the one for my car but David’s. We take his car for our vacation and leave mine behind. I searched all the places I thought it could be and couldn’t find it. This upset me. I was especially upset because this was the second time I did this. David reassured me that it wasn’t so bad. Since this happened before we now have a backup key. About two years ago I couldn’t find my car key and we were forced to have a new one made. About six months later I found the key hidden on a clip in my daypack. This year I did not take the daypack. I am hoping they are in another “safe” location and will be retrieved.

It’s good to be home but being at the beach in the summer is special. Our puppy, Maya, is now four months old and she became socialized by running with other dogs early in the morning along the beach. Dogs are permitted on the beach until 10 AM, and a group of regulars walk their dogs. We see many of the same people year after year. We remember their dogs and they remember ours. We received condolences for our loss of Zeke and admiration for our new pup. Maya was admired, and petted, and people noticed her growing bigger and more confident. “She’s found her voice”, one woman said. We felt like proud parents and cheered when she overcame fear and leaped across a creek on the beach that fed into the ocean.

Re-entry after a beach vacation is often difficult for me. Our first day back was hot and I missed walking with David and Maya along the shore and going for a quick swim. I loved walking along the path to the beach under a canopy of trees that opens to a vista of sand, sea, and sky. I feel one with nature and the rhythm of changing tides and seas. I sit in our yard behind our house. It too is beautiful but different. I am home here and there. Here are neighborhood dogs for Maya to play with. Maya is meeting them, and I feel appreciative of the tips their owners, our friends, are giving us. She is engaged with her toys, but we must open the door for her to go out into the yard to pee or poo. It takes time for her to reacclimate too. She has had a few accidents since we were back. We are training her to use the doggie door, and the yard will be fenced in like it was at our rental so she can go out on her own again. Nothing stays the same, dogs, people, the beach. How fortunate to have a home inside and out—just this: Enough.

I look forward to sharing our summer experiences and what they have taught us at the next Aging with Wisdom group via Zoom. I hope you can join me September 9th at 11AM , EDT

Finding Wonder

We’ve dared!  On Sunday, July 22, the day after we returned from Iceland, we drove to  New Hampshire to a breeder of Springer Spaniel puppies. I got the email announcing their availability while on vacation, and I responded in the euphoria of the trip, the land, and the people of Iceland. Zeke, who died in November, was a Springer, as was our very first dog, Chaya. Each was special. It’s a bit wild getting a puppy at our age. David worries about their care after we are gone (have died). I agree that this is relevant, but I am focusing on how she will enhance our lives now. We both have more time and enjoy observing her enthusiasm and excitement at discoveries. I have gotten some books on puppy training and am motivated to train her effectively and consistently. This requires David and I to work in tandem and use our mindfulness training to listen to each other honestly and not rush to judgment.  There is much to learn and a lot of not knowing. I’ve been realizing we are the ones who need the training. The dog will follow.

We’ve chosen a female dog, and we’ve named her Maya Hekla. Maya can mean a dream, and Hekla is the name of an active volcano in Iceland. We were on vacation surrounded by volcanoes when I got a notice of the availability of Springer puppies, and with the high of new sights and a joyful time away, it seemed appropriate. Puppies, like the volcano, can erupt anytime and surprise us.  They are dynamic,  bring change, and, being young and growing, are continually being formed. I find it both challenging and refreshing. Maya can also mean illusion. I hope that choosing a puppy rather than an older dog and being optimistic about our ability to care for her is not an illusion but a dream we can realize.

As I write, Maya is sitting on a pad in my office. We’ve walked her. She has pooped and peed and is calm. I know this will change. Then, we must decide whether she needs to go out again. We are learning to read her cues. The other day I saw her making circles on the top of our stairs; I rushed up and took her out, and she pooped. I was proud. Then later, I decided she could sit on a pad in my office, and she surprised me and pooped again on the floor. Exhale. I thought of the song I sometimes have people sing from Sesame Street, “It’s Ok to make mistakes,” and I ordered a portable crate for my office so this would not be repeated. It taught me to pay attention to her movements. As I write again today, our rhythm is more in harmony, and I recognize the signal to go. Satisfaction!

I appreciate writing about Maya rather than the effects of aging. I’ve been reflecting on  “just this.” “Just this”. One of my teachers used this phrase during meditation, and I’ve adopted it. I find it mind-blowing to be with experience without judging it, good or bad. It’s “just this”. If it feels good, how marvelous, or ugh, I don’t like it. I know whatever it is, it will change. Of course, some things are easier to bear than others, but I’m learning about perspective and wise action. Maya is learning about good/bad at this stage of her life. We give her treats when she poops and pees outside. We pet her when she is calm and are in the process of controlling nipping when she is excited. The learning is reciprocal. We’re teaching each other. I’m learning to be more observant and patient. She is learning what behavior leads to a treat. David and I are learning to value each other’s judgment without rushing to push our views onto the other. There is no right or wrong but “just this,” observing the effect of our actions and the thoughts and conditions that drive us.

David and I spent almost two weeks in Iceland and had a wonderful time. It is a land of fire and ice. The interior is not inhabitable, and most of the population lives along the coast. There are two intercontinental plates, the North American and Eurasian. The plates move apart about two inches a year. This gap is visible, reminding us that the earth is not as solid as we think and, like the mind, is constantly moving and changing. At a spot above this divide, the first Icelandic parliament met in 950 AD and was considered advanced for its time. The land itself influenced their laws. It influenced me. The hot springs, volcanoes, lava fields, and wind absorbed my attention. I felt one with the primal forces of nature. I loved that every town had a swimming pool and hot pools of different temperatures. David and I went with a friend to a pool in one of the towns to be with the locals. There was a giant water slide for kids and a smaller kiddy pool with a small slide. I stripped and scrubbed my body in the locker room with females of all ages and sizes and explored every pool and temperature.  I returned to the hotel refreshed and admired the community it fostered.  

I am home now. Worcester looks pretty, green, and settled. It, too, is beautiful. I appreciate “just this.” Summer is not yet over, so we won’t be meeting this August, but I look forward to seeing you in September for the Aging with Wisdom group via Zoom. We will gather again on Thursday, September 5, at 11 AM EDT. In the meantime, enjoy “just this.” May you find wonder in the ordinary and be refreshed.

Warmly, Elana

Hello & Happy Summer

I thought I’d say hello and send wishes for a lovely summer. Just a reminder, we won’t be meeting this July or August but I wanted to share a piece from Martin's The Sage's Tao Te Ching: Ancient Advice for the Second Half of Life  “The Truth of Getting Older”.

THE TRUTH OF GROWING OLDER

Life is always too short.

We will never be able to see everything we wanted to see, do all the things we wanted to do, or achieve all the successes we thought so important.

But to arrive at a quiet mind, and a serene spirit, is the supreme accomplishment.

If we do this, we have done all.

The truth of growing older cannot be described, only experienced.

We are unaware of becoming sages, we just know that we are at peace.

We are unaware of being wise, we just know that we are content.

We are unaware of being generous, we just enjoy giving ourselves away.

Do what you can each day.

Enjoy your goals and plans.

But the cultivation of your spirit is your greatest task.

What other reason could there be for the life you have been given?

I like the idea of cultivating a serene spirit and a quiet mind. Let’s be good to each other and do what we can to be generous and loving.  I can’t always be content but I can remember how important it is to stay awake to ALL of life and how fortunate I am to have goals and plans. I attended the retreat with Jon Kabat-Zinn and other mindfulness teachers last month and found it inspiring.  It was lovely to reunite with old friends and make new ones, all committed to bringing mindfulness into the world and doing what is possible to reduce suffering.  I left with a deep appreciation of the power of community and the importance of falling awake (opening with awareness) to what is. May you cultivate your spirit with compassion and generosity and discover wisdom and peace. 

I hope to see you at the Aging with Wisdom group (via Zoom) in September on the 5th.

Warmly, Elana