Frailty (Part 1: The Body)

"It's hell getting old."

My grandmother used to utter this phrase throughout my early adolescence... all the way through my twenties and up until the time when her dementia had taken such hold as to make personal observations on the world more disjointed and fearful.

I understood what she meant; and I instinctively knew (even before my counseling training years later) that it communicated a very important component of her worldview and cognition/perspective on her aging. She was tortured by getting older. She found the journey rife with disappointment, fear, pain, grief – and ultimately approached it as something to fight against with an incredibly stubborn yet sad sort of acceptance. She believed she had no control, but rather had been consigned to a process of slow and steady devolution against which she was trapped and inert.

So I got it—as an outside observer and loved one who tried to stay as patient and present as possible, all the way up until the end. But I didn't really understand the true weight of that statement until this past year. 2012 was the year of bodily revolt; a year that began a deep questioning as to my livelihood, my sense of self and identity, my ability to care for my family, and a fear of the future.

I had always considered myself healthy. I had a early adulthood filled with physical performance, dance, an active lifestyle, and the complete absence of worry that I might ever be physically impeded. I had a relatively successful pregnancy, and our daughter was born healthy.

And then it all shifted. Not necessarily suddenly, but in the distorted-over-the-shoulder view of hindsight, it felt like falling down a hole. A deep, dark hole with no discernible bottom.

It began with my feet. The anchors of stability I always took for granted. With increasing pain, they stopped working for me... became so tender I could not walk for more than 500 feet or so, let alone dance or teach others to dance. I had to buy all new shoes; got fitted for orthodics; rearranged my schedule and routines to account for limited mobility; went to PT twice a week for months on end, still waking up each morning to gingerly hobble out of my room and attempt to begin my day on feet that did not feel like my own.

This was the lesson: An opportunity to relearn the concept of "my," of permanence, of fixed identity and self-description as truth. What's remarkable is that I began this post in 2012, and I'm finishing it in 2017. The lesson continues. The journey has morphed and twisted and gone places I could not have anticipated... but the lesson continues to be one of making peace with frailty and accepting impermanence. Particularly when it comes to an aging (and it turns out, ill) body.

May your frailties bring you revelations. May you make peace with groundlessness.

Loneliness

Since making the transition from graduate student to stay-at-home mom, I have noticed an increased sense of loneliness. While I have enjoyed the time with my daughter and have seen our relationship strengthen, I have felt a widening gap between myself and others. Adults. Friends. Colleagues.

There is a sense of isolation—perhaps tied, in part, to the fact I have no job at present that takes me outside the home and encompasses a purpose beyond self or family; perhaps related to the monetary and logistical realities of finding a sitter whenever I want to attend a show, go out with friends, or enjoy a date-night with my husband; maybe even somewhat self-inflicted and tied more to my state of mind and chosen perspective than anything else.

Perhaps entirely self-inflicted. Loneliness is, after all, a state of mind. It is a perspective... a narrative based on my perception of the elements of my life... a chosen label affixed by no one other than me to a series of emotions and thoughts I experience and then refuse to let go.

Author Dr. Brenda Shoshanna is credit with this quote: "When a sense of hunger, loneliness, dissatisfaction and craving comes, don’t blame it on others, or on circumstances. Instead, stop and look within."

So what is it then? Why the dissatisfaction, the tension, the sadness, the restlessness, the worry, the exhaustion? What is in between this state of blech and the simple joy of peaceful alertness and presence?

It's a stuckness I have encountered so many times its akin to a recurring dream. Sometimes that's how it feels. As if I have gotten trapped in a labyrinth of my mind and hazily look around for the exit while knowing full well the exit is simply to wake up and stop being there.

One of the greatest lessons I hope to learn in this lifetime is the ability to maintain peace. To be at peace and find a sense of grounding and ease that remains somewhat steady and stable. A sort of calm interlacing with my core. I don't think you can be lonely if you are truly at peace... probably because you not only value your own company, but also because you never forget there is no such thing as separation on a spiritual (and perhaps even scientific) level.

So I must look within. Continue meditating, utilizing my dharma buddy/husband, recognizing my daughter as another teacher and incredible gift, and loosening my grip on an attachment I have yet to fully recognize with alertness and accept with intention.

May you regain a sense of connection in spans of drifting. May you look within with bravery and persistence.