Old Age Day by Day November 8, 2010

I had a good weekend. On Saturday we saw a sublime performance of Alfano's Cyrano de Bergerac, with Placido Domingo in the lead. It was perfectly cast, the voices were gorgeous, as were the sets costumes, orchestra, the whole shebang. I wept buckets in the final scene. Rostand's play has more to say that I used to think, and acted well, it sings with complexity. Alfano's music was complex as well - modern and dissonant yet melodic and passionate. Very interesting.

Then we had dinner with our older son and his wife, and that was delightful. We hadn't seen him in a year. But it felt like a day, as we, as usual, had plenty to talk about.

Then yesterday my friend and I saw a touching, lovely documentary - Tibet in Song - that was educational, beautiful to listen to, and riveting with the story of a Tibetan man living in India who goes back to Tibet to record folk songs and is imprisoned for it. I'd so love to have the soundtrack.

Then the dogs and I watched a DVD of Carole King and James Taylor at the Troubador. It was an exceptionally musical weekend. And this morning, when I was walking the dogs, I found I could sing all of one of the Spanish songs from my chorus without score or words. Yeah!

Old Age Day by Day November 6, 2010

I received the good news this morning that a friend's surgery went well. Until I know, there is this buzz in the back of my head. A little worry theme that accompanies whatever else I am doing. And how my mood has lightened by the reassurances, and my breath airier. At my age, there is a lot of this sort of thing. Many friends struggle with health issues and tests where the results are awaited with fear and hope. I don't think it gets easier, but it is now a familiar world - this world of loss and pain and fear. Every day I am grateful for health. It's what I pray for most with those I love and those I don't even know. With health, all other problems can be tackled. Without it, the challenge becomes in striving for it, or some semblance of it.

Loss of a sense of control has given me a sense of the gift of health. The pleasure of walking, bending, lifting, using my hands. Last night I was knitting as we watched a pretty awful movie, and suddenly I noticed my hands didn't hurt and I could knit without a break. Gratitude washed over me ( though I was more thankful when the movie ended). It's wonderful. My hands work. They were never pretty, just short and stubby fingers, a child's hands, but they do a good job of work, even now.

And my eyes are still fighting the good fight despite a degenerative eye disease. Thanks my body, thanks for your Rocky like determination.

Old Age Day by Day November 5, 2010

I've already had a brisk walk with one friend, and am about to have tea with another, and lunch with a third. How fortunate am I? Yes, I know girls can be mean, but my women friends have been the rock upon which my life has been built. And when a friend and I drifted apart, it was usually mutual, or a gentle disentanglement from an unhealthy situation. Sometimes we remind others of a person they have difficulty with, and that plays out and then we realize it (through therapy or gradual insight) and we disengage. I used to hang onto friends out of loyalty - whether they were good for me or not. I treat myself better now. I apply the scale. On balance - is this relationship good for me or miserable? With long time friends, I tend to tuck in, roll with the punches and wait it out. Newer people, I make decisions. I trust my feelings more.

But the biggest change is being kinder to myself; being my own advocate. I have decided (fanfare) that not everyone has to like me. I don't need to twist into a pretzel to be entertaining, more loyal, more thoughtful, more wonderful. I can just be who I am. And if it's a one way street in their direction, I quit. I need some energy thrown my way. I've relaxed so much from not needing all that "love" that isn't genuine because I'm not genuine. I laugh more. I don't get my knickers in a twist.

I'm quite a pill to swallow. If it feels good going down, fine. If it doesn't spit me out. I'm waterproof now.

Old Age Day by Day November 4, 2010

We are going to the opera Saturday to see Cyrano, with Placido Domingo. I've seen him before, and he's magnetic and has a gorgeous voice. It may not be the same now he's in his seventies, but he gets all my empathy. I actually love the story so much. I was a great one for Hugo and Dumas and the romantic French melodramas as a teenager, and I adore Cyrano. I identified with him completely. I, too, felt not conventionally pretty enough to attract the beautiful people, despite being funny and smart. I knew early on looks got you farther. And I had the fatal irony Cyrano represents: I was as superficial as the people I ridiculed, for I was attracted to the gorgeous ones as well. The silent guy with knockout eyes. I imagined him with depths of feeling and smoldering intelligence. Probably he had nothing interesting to say. So here were a bunch of us having crushes on others, and we should have turned to each other and taken a good look, a long look, but we were part of the culture. At about seventeen, I started to get it - that probably some pretty interesting guys were hiding behind acne. I began talking to one in chorus, and he was funny and satiric and opinionated about everything. I was, too. I asked him to the holiday dance at school, and we went steady for the spring semester. By the time I left for college, even handsome guys somehow liked me, and I had my pick. Something had changed. Probably the glasses replaced by contact lenses, growing out my thick black hair, the clothing styles, and definitely mascara played a role. So my ugly duckling days were mostly over, and though there was always a sense that a gorgeous guy wouldn't probably want me on his arm, I now knew that narcissism was boring to be around.

Cyrano is a glorious story, but it's a story about adolescence, and clinging to beauty over substance. Cyrano's passion was for a shadow, without substance. That is his lesson to us. Roxanne is vain and not worth the effort.

Old Age Day by Day November 3, 2010

Well, the elections are over. I'm going to focus on the Giants' parade today, though I'm not going, just focusing. With politics, I attempt to take the long view. What goes up must come down, what has been learned must be learned again. Self interested people appear to triumph, but eventually the people they manipulate wake up. Having a sense of humor is essential. Work for what you want, don't gripe about it. Money doesn't necessarily trump experience. Ugly campaign ads often backfire, but not always. In an election year, Thanksgiving seems such a relief - we can remember the cooperation that allowed the Pilgrims to flourish, and the irony that they declined to show their gratitude to the Wampanaogs. NOW we are grateful, now that the saviors are on reservations. Hum. Guess Thanksgiving isn't much of a relief for us Indians.

As usual, California did it's own thing. We ain't white enough to get excited about a party of tea with pretend Indians. We aren't impressed with big bucks - after all, we have Hollywood and the attendant rehabs studded throughout the state. We know money doesn't make you wise or just or generous. Glamour is overrated.

I voted early but not often. I don't pretend to think I helped fix anything. I pray when I want to address that angle.

Old Age Dday by Day November 2, 2010

Well, the Giants won the World Series. Wow. My Dad would have been so excited. All those games at Candlestick wrapped in blankets, drinking hot chocolate, all the morning breakfast table discussion second guessing the manager, all the worship of Mays, McCovey, Cepeda and Marichal. My Dad was built like a baseball player, as is my brother, and he had the heart for it. He loved tennis, but would have adored being a baseball player. These Giants broke our hearts - Renteria alone was a whole novel, and the kid pitchers, the baby catcher (my favorite position always), the manager who said nothing and kept giving his guys a chance, including Burrell right up to the end. It was baseball drama at its best, and I didn't miss a minute of it.

My husband said this morning that he felt lousy, and he hadn't had even a beer last night. Well, emotion wrings you out as good as any alcohol, and I think he's exhausted from watching the game and holding his breath.

Our younger daughter watched with us, and I just want to say, Dad, you got us all hooked, even the one who doesn't remember you (maybe I helped with that, or the older kids). Our hearts belong to baseball.

Old Age Day by Day November 1, 2010

I must say, I love this technology where I can wake up the morning after Halloween and see photos hot off the press of my granddaughter and foster granddaughter in their costumes. They both looked so cute, and I got to share in their delight, even though I didn't see either of them. And the kindness of their mothers to include us makes me proud.

Today is another warm, sunny fall day. It is November now, but I've been watching the world series diligently, so summer feels not yet gone. And tonight I don't have Spanish, so I can watch the next game. Seeing so many young players is fun. There lives are before them, and their bodies and minds are making a dream come true.

It gives me back a bit of my youth, and I'm grateful for it. Not that I want to go back, but I get to relive and remember my own Halloweens, my kids' and the baseball days of summer. Nice.