Tag Archives: health

I’m feeling ALL my feels about ‘ageing.’

It all seems so unfair. All my life, I have desired straight hair. I was born with, not totally curly, and not totally wavy, hair. Most of the time it is an unruly mess, a mix of curl and wave sticking out all over the place. But now I do have straight hair. The only problem is, it’s coming out my chin!  

Somehow, I know without knowing how I know, this is part of the ageing process. And as I allow myself to think about this, a prickle of fear ripples around my heart space. My mortality taunts and I feel frightened. I grab the tweezers and furiously work to safeguard my permanence on the planet.

On the inside, I still feel all the ages I have been. My ‘wild child’ roars as much today as it did over sixty years ago. Probably more so. But not many people see the ‘wild’ these days. What they see is more of a thesaurus – wearing out, crumbling, declining, fading, waning, deteriorating -. just a few of the synonyms describing ageing on Thesaurus.com. On the outside, I have been reduced to a synonym. On the inside I want to ‘go a-wandering, with a knapsack on my back’, middle finger raised.

A few years have disappeared since I noticed my first chin hair, but my anxiety and dread around ageing still heckles. I am someone who has spent a long time learning to love my ‘true self’. But now I find myself surreptitiously stalking Google for information regarding face-lifts and eyelid lifting surgery.

 ‘A clean nude nail polish gives a more youthful appearance’, says one description. It takes a ton of willpower to stop myself hurtling out the door to the nearest supplier.

Feelings are for feeling,’ says Glennon Doyle in her latest book, Untamed.

“Feeling all your feelings is hard, but that’s what they’re for. Feelings are for feeling. All of them. Even the hard ones.”

Simple but powerful words. And I’ve been working on this lately – trying to feel ALL my feels, enter into them, embrace them and express them truthfully. Especially my fears and feelings around becoming old and dying. My list of worries looks something like this:

  • Friends dying
  • Family dying
  • Me dying
  • Fear of faculties going and becoming infirm
  • Being a drag on family
  • Vanity – my body and looks deteriorating
  • Losing my usefulness in society
  • Regrets and guilts
  • A certain amount of angst over not realising how short life is and having wasted much of it living to society and patriarchal agendas.

 Last week I met up with a girlfriend for coffee. When she asked me how I was, I decided to take the plunge and reply truthfully. Instead of giving my standard stock reply of, ‘I’m good thanks,’ I said,

“I feel I am quickly passing my ‘use-by’ date and this scares the hell out of me,” I spent the next few minutes unloading feelings, some of which I didn’t know I had until I started speaking them out loud. 

 At the end, my friend said, “Oh my goodness, me too, that’s exactly how I am feeling.”

The anxiety and dread that accompanies ageing isn’t openly discussed very often, especially among women. Plenty of tips about ageing well regarding looks and activity, but deep conversations, what it feels like on the inside, are sadly lacking. Being able to speak my deepest fears felt liberating. I was learning a valuable lesson about my true-self. True self-love, says tinybuddah.com, is valid at any age; there’s no expiration date to that.

 Getting older does not magically make you wiser. The old adage, ‘Age begets wisdom’ is a little misleading. There is more truth to ‘Age begets wrinkles’ than any sort of wisdom. However, getting older does allow for more life experiences, hence opportunities, for acquiring understanding. I would like to think I am using some of this wisdom as I traverse my ageing process.   I read somewhere that if f you want to grow old happily, it’s better to face fears of ageing sooner, not later. This doesn’t mean going into battle with them; embrace them rather than battle them. I find myself doing this often. It makes them a hell of a lot less scary and anxiety-ridden. 

To some people, I may be just a synonym, but my truth is, I am more than just my body. My noisy unfettered spirit refuses to be put in a box, tamed or labelled. So for now, and for as long as I can, I’m off a-wandering, middle finger raised. 

Life is not an entitlement

Life is a gift? It’s one of those clichés we all know but often give little attention to.

I certainly had no plans to use it or write about it. I didn’t even think about life as a gift, so, no one was more surprised, when, during a yoga class, the words, ‘Life is not an entitlement – life is a gift,’ entered my mind with such clarity and importance, I at first thought the yoga instructor had spoken them in a state of meditative bliss. As it turns out, it was one of my ‘moments of God’. Something that happens to me from time to time.

I had a fleeting sense something had shifted inside me. Did I take life for granted? Did I assume I was entitled to life?  Yes, perhaps I did. Once I removed the assumption I was entitled to life, I felt an immense appreciation and understanding of the preciousness of life. Of gratitude. Of how fleeting, fragile, precious and irreplaceable every moment is, between our first and last breath.

Life is but a breath. We don’t think of life as being so fragile. It is not until someone is dying, diagnosed with a chronic disease, we get old, or when we see or hear something terrible happen around us that we catch a glimpse of the fleetingness and fragility of life.

People don’t want to hear that life is a gift, but until we truly understand that each day is a gift, we can waste life so easily. Feeling entitled to life is a trap. How many lives have been wasted because someone said, ‘I have the right to have, to get rid of, to control, to take.  It is my right.’ Entitlement is rampant.

Author Cynthia Occelli says we feel we have a right to material abundance, comfort, physical beauty, zero-problems, careers, adoring relationships, good health and all the other things our entitlement culture tells us we deserve.

  “There’s nothing wrong with wanting all these things, or pursuing these things, but life doesn’t owe you anything. It doesn’t owe you perfect or even good parents. It doesn’t owe you health, happiness, abundance, success, comfort, or immunity from pain and problems. It doesn’t owe you a job, a house, a bed, or a single meal. No one owes you kindness, love, recognition, empathy, apologies, or understanding. You aren’t entitled to a single thing. Your family owes you nothing. Your government owes you nothing. No one owes you anything at all.”

Life is short, it is brief, and things can change in a split second. Not every moment will be magical. We are not owed a perfect life. We owe life to be the best we can be, whatever our circumstances. I read somewhere that life will only have meaning when we understand it as a gift, an amazing gift. When we see life this way it changes the way in which we view ourselves, our own lives, and the lives of others.

No, life is not an entitlement. It is a gift. But if these words were given to me, then they are also for you. Your life is just as precious as mine. And when I see your life as a gift, there is no way I would want to harm you. I wish we could all see each other this way. If you don’t understand the very fact that life is a gift all the beauty, wonder, love, and experiences to be found on earth are meaningless. Life is a gift, an incredible, wonderful, mysterious gift.

That damned ego

There’s a saying in yoga circles; ‘leave your ego at the door before you enter’.

I wish I had known this pearl of wisdom before I attempted my first yoga session. Having come from a running background I felt certain my ‘fitness level’ would serve me well for a simple yoga class.

My fellow yogis consisted of men and woman of all age, size, ability and disability. I could feel my competitive nature shift into gear as our instructor moved us into our first exercise, a standing forward fold or, more commonly known as, ‘touching your toes’.  ‘Poof!’ ‘Just how hard could this be,’ I thought.

As it turned out, very hard indeed.  My toes? I could barely touch my thighs! Muscles that served me so well in running, refused to budge. Legs wobbled like a pneumatic drill as they tried, and failed, to balance without the other. I felt like the human version of gobbledygook.

Finally, the soothing tones of the instructor led us into, ‘Savasana’, a lying down resting position. ‘Let us empty our minds,’ she crooned. At that point my eyes flew open. My mind revved into high gear, screeching and chattering with inane, pointless, non-productive mind chatter. I walked out of my first yoga ‘beginners’ class nursing an aching body and a sorely bruised ego.

 

The dictionary describes the ego as, ‘a person’s sense of self-esteem or self-importance.’  It is who I think I am, not who I really am. If I were to give my ego a physical description, I would liken it to a photo filter – a layer that slides over me, making me appear, better and greater than I really am. It turns out I have many of these layers. They fit so perfectly it is difficult to recognize the true me underneath them all.

There is nothing wrong with aspiring to become the hero of your dreams. Confidence is healthy. It’s the ego that is destructive as it begins to grow and take control of our life and our thoughts.

Having and ego is not the same as having confidence. When you have confidence, you have faith in your own abilities and believe in yourself, says writer, Cy Wakeman.

“But the ego is something else, entirely. Unlike confidence, the ego operates out of self-interest. It seeks approval, accolades and validation at all costs in order to be seen as “right…”. Confidence vs Ego

I read somewhere that a bad day for your ego is a good day for your soul.  I’ve had an awful lot of bad days if I’m to be honest. About ten years ago my personal unhappiness threatened to annihilate me. When I tried to ignore or run from my unhappiness, I would run smack bang into myself.  For the first time in my life I started to ask: Who am I? Why am I?  So much time had been invested in creating me from the ‘outside in’, I had given no thought to my ‘inside out’. I did not consider my spirit needed attention at all. A mid-life crisis? A break-down? Yes, probably both of those; but more than anything, it was my moment of reckoning. I did not know who I was.

When the ego clashes with the soul, life can get messy. Eventually I landed in a place I didn’t expect. I had to look within. And I didn’t really know how to access that part of me. But as I unraveled the messes of my life from the inside-out, I could see how my ego had been crafted from the tendrils of my past. The ego is constructed from past life experiences. It disguises fear, anxiety and loneliness with grandiose masks of self-importance.

It’s easy to delete the layers of filters on your phone. But to be laid bare without those layers in real life, takes courage. The ego does not want you to know your true self. To embark on a journey of self-discovery is threatening to the ego. It takes a lot of personal work to discover who you are, and not to be enticed by the illusions of the ego.

I am not my ego. But sometimes I still feel like I have an inbuilt default button, that overrides all commonsense and spiritual sensibility. It can happen in a split second and I find myself responding or behaving in a way that is not truly me. Like my yoga class; given that I have years of health of fitness knowledge, why did I think I could partake in my first yoga class believing I would be better than anyone else? The real me knows this is not possible. The answer is simple – it was my ego!

That damned ego!

A love affair with running

Tucked away in a cobwebby corner of the garage, sits a tattered cardboard box packed with photo albums with pages full of running certificates and newspaper clippings. The yellowed clippings and faded certificates no longer decorate the walls of my home. Instead, they have become artefacts in my museum of memories. Nothing has been added to the box for many years, but the memories contained within, are Olympic in size.

I wish I could thank the young man who introduced me to running all those years ago, but he doesn’t know of our connection. I spotted him as I was returning home from a family trip. I was a young Mum with a nine-month old baby, a two-and-a-half-year-old toddler and living in an abusive marriage.  From the comfort of my car, I recall thinking, ‘this man looks so free’. Through my eyes, he glided effortlessly along the pavement, looking as though he hadn’t a care in the world. And I desperately wanted some that. I took my first running steps that afternoon.

I’d be stretching it a bit calling it a ‘run’. It is best be described as, a very short happening. Not knowing much about the sport of running, I donned a pair of old sand-shoes and sprinted out the door. I hurtled past 3-4 neighbouring houses, before collapsing in a breathless heap onto the steps of our local dairy. My ego took a wee bit of a battering, but in that short space of time, I knew running was for me. And forty years later, I still to run.

When I entered the running scene, marathon running was booming, especially for women. New Zealander, Allison Roe, was our local hero. Her Meryl Streep looks, and wins in the Boston and New York City marathons in 1981, roused the hopes and dreams in all of us. The running club scene was booming.  There was always someone with a new training idea. We did sausage-training sessions, backward running, up-hill bounding, downhill sprints, fartlek training and endless numbers of repetitions.

I was an average runner. Not quite fast enough to represent at national level but fast enough to pick up a few prizes at club and community events. On a personal level my greatest satisfaction was breaking the 3hr barrier for the marathon distance. Distance running was my favourite – from the 5km distance through to the marathon – I tried them all and loved every single moment of it. The friendships, the triumphs and failures, of my club and competitive days, remain a precious moment in time.

Running sparked an interest in the fitness industry which, in the 1990s, was still young and slowly maturing. We were right on the cusp of the fitness boom. I completed a Certificate in Sport, Health and Fitness and became an aerobics and gym instructor. I had a special interest, and still do, in encouraging women to move to feel better. Over the years I’ve dabbled in triathlons, mountain-biking and swimming. I am even a joint holder of a tennis cup, but nothing has compared to the enjoyment I get from lacing my running shoes and heading out the door for a run.

Why do I love running? Because it calms my yearning, quietens my spirit, and halts my impetuosity. It gives me moments of clarity otherwise unreachable in my daily life. Running has accompanied me through the trials and tribulations of parenting, soothed the angst of broken marriages, and, given me profound moments of idea, creativity and insight.  No problem seems as bad at the end of a run, as it did in the beginning.

When life gets busy, whether it be with family or work, exercise is often the first thing people, especially women, put aside. It seems unimportant compared to the needs of kids, job, friends, family.   But when life gets crazy, that’s when it’s even more important to make sure you don’t put your workout or fitness routine aside. I explain to people my exercise, is just one-hour out of a twenty-four-hour day, that is solely mine – time to be alone by myself, away from the busyness of life the other twenty-three hours demand. I guard this one hour of solitude almost ferociously.

Oh yes, the lovely lonesomeness of solitude. Over the years I have run with many people. Running groups, running partners and running husbands. But it is the solitude of running on my own I enjoy the most. No one to interrupt my thoughts.  No one needing anything.  Free from the influences of living in a connected society. Free to be me. Oh yes, solitude is indeed a sweet gift.

‘A man can be himself only so long as he is alone, and if he does not love solitude, he will not love freedom, for it is only when he is alone that he is really free,’ said German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer.

These days the term ‘plodding’ best describes my running action. But when I’m out in the fresh air, running alone, along my favourite trails, I am the Olympic champion of plodding. Anything and everything is possible. I feel like that young man looked all those years ago – free and alive.