Word (s) of the Year 2018 - Wabi-Sabi

Wabi-Simplicity

Sabi - The beauty of age and wear

I’ve been selecting a word of the year for the last seven years.  Most of my life I made  lofty New Year’s Resolutions which left me in a shroud of shame and feeling like a dead beat for the rest of each year.  Lose ten pounds turned into thinking about food all the time and gaining ten pounds.  Be kinder turned into being a doormat, and writing my memoir left me with such severe feelings of vulnerability and writers block  I could barely sign my own name on a greeting card.    As I grew older I recognized I was the one breaking my own heart and stopped resolving, after one final resolution.  I resolved to ban shame from my life. Whether it came in the form of other human beings that needed to use it as a tool to feel superior, or from some warped idea on my part that it could be a motivator.  

I read an article which suggested rather than making a resolution that was accomplishment based, identify how you wanted to FEEL in the upcoming year. For example,  instead of resolving to lose weight, identify why you want to lose weight.  What is the emotion at the bottom of that? Maybe it is to physically  feel better. Your word then instead might be Healthy or Alive.  Or, maybe buried below that desire to lose weight might really be to feel accepted or loved.  Identifying how you want to FEEL opens up a whole new pathway and focal point for your year, guiding you into subtle changes that promote healthy living.    If you don’t identify the FEELINGS beneath the resolve to lose weight, but you are really wanting to feel healthy, alive, accepted or loved, simply losing weight isn’t going to get your there.   However, if your Word of the Year is to feel Healthy, you might actually ask the question at the start of the day, “What can I do today to promote my good health?”  Or, “Will taking part in a yoga class with like-minded others, help me feel accepted.”  You see the difference? 

It does take some soul-searching, but I can tell you at the end of every year, my Word has changed me.  Some years more profoundly than others, but I like to think of my word as divinely inspired road signs on my quest to be the me God created. And, I’ve learned it's  an endless journey, in His time, not mine. 

It all began in  2011.  My word of the year was BLOSSOM. My first experience in the New Year of blossoming came a week in.  I contracted Shingles. On my face. Every morning, across the left side of my face, a new patch of crusty looking sores opened up like time lapse photography of a flower; from bud to bloom to black death.  Blossoming for sure, but not how I saw my word revealing itself.  Horrified and confined to the house out of fear of emotionally scarring anyone who laid eyes on me, I had plenty of time to reflect.  My word was working.  Stress was at an all time high, and taking care of myself was not even on the to-do list.  What did that say about my professions of really loving myself? What a phony! By the end of the year, I understood the meaning of loving myself.  We nurture the things we love and under that care, blossoming begins.  I also learned it was possible to bloom wherever I was planted.  That was up to me. 

The words continued through the years: 

Blossom, Freedom, Fearless, Create, Authentic, Transformation.  

Each year the word would arrive almost through a series of mystical, ah-ha moments, or in a few cases, a couple of spiritual bonks on the head. 

Wabi-Sabi - the first time I became aware of the word, it was printed on the front of a greeting card.  I liked the sound of it, although it reminded me of the word Wasabi, that hot green stuff served with sushi.  Maybe it meant “hot stuff” I thought.  But, then it appeared a few more times in the form of messages and the definition was made clear. A few words leapt off the pages, leaving the rest a blur.  FINDING BEAUTY and ACCEPTING PEACEFULLY.  It referenced a way of life that sounded not only appealing to me, but necessary.

How many times in the past few years with the immobility of surgeries, health issues, money issues, and too much time on what I saw as very empty hands,  had I felt defeated and depressed.  How much time was I wasting pining for how I envisioned my Golden Years.   Financial security, good health, a mate, or someone to share adventures and explore the things I didn’t have either the time or money because of work, obligation, and busyness in what I viewed as my productive years.  Golden Years my ass, which also seemed to be growing faster than I could kick it back into gear.  I felt invisible with a voice that frequently seemed to be muted by no one interested in hearing it.  I thought I could deal with a few of the imperfections resulting from aging - the grey hair that was creeping up the hairline by my ears, wrinkles carved into the sides of my mouth, an aching body, and even the skinny bank account.  But was I really?  I had worked hard, been on my own more of my life than with any real help, never abused the system, paid my own way. Then I stopped.  Life is rarely seen as fair, by anyone. Everyone has their own cross, grief, and despair.   The real sucker punch to my heart was the feeling of uselessness that accompanied a ghost like existence. 

There had to be a pathway to acceptance without giving up.  There was. Wabi-Sabi.  

I think my intention is already kicking in.  Yesterday as I sat across from a very special, older friend, who I always looked at as living those Golden Years I craved, I said, “You know, I’ve simmered down some lately, and am looking at this time on my hands as a gift from God.  When I was working so hard, striving and zoned in on accomplishment, I used to wish for time to pursue things I love; like being creative, taking care of my spiritual body, and enjoying the grand kids and family activities.”  I have that now, and I am focusing on being grateful for all of that.” My next thought was, where did that come from?  Yes, it’s begun.

I can’t wait to see if this year ends with a real Wabi-Sabi lifestyle.  If it doesn’t, I pray that I will at the very least, peacefully  accept the natural cycle of growth and decay. Here’s to 2018 “hot stuff”.

Looking Good-Part Two - Rejuvenate My What ?

I think how we deal with the aesthetics  of aging depends on  a number of things,  mostly,whether you are at the younger end of the baby boomer timeline.   In my 50's a panicked me grabbed at every beauty and anti-aging invention known to man; at least the ones that wouldn't send me to the poor house like plastic surgery or imported embryo placenta.  Do  poor houses even exist these days?  I think they are now called "the streets".   I had been a young widow, already alone for half a decade then and I was convinced if I didn't stay ahead of the flab, age spots, and wrinkles, I would never attract a charming, like minded, 50 something widower to walk hand in hand into new beginnings with.   I kept my mind sharp too staying abreast of current events and culture, joined Lumosity, took College courses and picked up some foreign language CD's. Clearly  my attempts at being a desirable old broad - mind, body and soul  didn't matter to that widower pool - I noticed most of them weren't all that fussy, they were either racing into a commitment with some still fertile, nubile chunk of arm candy.  Or, there were the ones, that within three months without their spouse, hooked up with the first woman that sent them a wink on a dating sight, or engaged in a little cha-cha-cha at the singles clubs.  In my experience widowers seemed to race through the grief process much faster than widows.  They just couldn't stand to be alone. There is a marked difference in the grief process of the male and female sexes but that's a discussion for another day. 

The mirror ruled my day in my 50's. If the reflection looked good, I was good.  If it didn't, well, it was a shopping trip, a new beauty ritual, or an extra few laps around the neighborhood in my state of the art and the newest craze, THE ROCKER BOTTOM TENNIS SHOES, guaranteed to burn twice as many calories and tone your legs.   With humility I must say, I would have been the perfect walking (yes, cheesy pun intended)advertisement for their shoes with my 50 something killer legs. They  certainly looked far better than the chicken legs I pranced around on in my 20's.  Now in my 60's,  I want to send that company my bill for a right hip replacement.  Power walking on shoes that teetered from side to side seems a high price to pay for calves of steel.  Although the ego then, would have said it was totally worth the string of compliments that came from even total strangers back then.  Aging does something to the ego - like sucker punches it out of you. 

I really was moderately (ok - wildly) vain. You would not catch me going to Spin Class, or Zumba without a hint of lip color and maybe a sweep of eyeliner.  Without it I felt like a refuge who lost her lips and eyes in the war against aging. A generous amount of illuminating powder backed up the claim, girls don't sweat, they glow.   In my 50's my gym trips were  going to battle- against the bulge, but I had to look good doing it.  

 I get a little alarmed at my lackadaisical  attitude to maintaining the illusion of youth these days.    Now, I  slink in the front door at the gym,  slither along the wall and park my yoga mat in the far corner.  If they'd stay on my face during downward dog,  I'd probably wear sunglasses. Incognito me, except some smart aleck would likely recognize me from a decade ago, and say, "Hey I knew that lady before she lost her battle, and lips, in the war. What a shame." 

Sometimes it  can be depressing but I like to think one of my strong suits is the ability to pull out relatively harmless coping mechanisms and those hard earned tools I've accumulated to screw my head back into a place of right thinking.  When I am feeling bedraggled and defeated by the siren song of youth and it threatens to smash me up against the rocks, I watch the Real Housewives of Orange County.  I can't even hardly write that out loud.  I feel the earth shake and my Dad, who was a bitter enemy of television, let alone stupid, shallow television, rising up like the ghost of Christmas past to scare me into a good book. Relax Papa - Real Housewives is good medicine for my occasional regretful aging soul.  A  therapeutic marathon viewing reminds me of how ridiculous it looks to chase youth at any cost.   These ladies aren't your typical working class gals and have at their disposal all those things I was talking about earlier that I cannot afford; plastic surgery, botox, high end cosmetics and even on staff make-up artists are as common as a pedicure.   They've lifted faces, bobbed noses, traded up for bigger boobs, frozen fat,  and lasered their skin into painful looking sunburned blobs.  All that work and expense and they are constantly screaming at each other about kindergarten mentality playground slights, drunken brawls, and gossip.  I think if I had that kind of money, I'd invest it into spiritual cruises with Deepak Chopra, or a summer at Chautauqua Institute, or sessions at Omega improving my mind and expanding my soul. 

The latest attempt at maintaining youth from these middle age gals was when Kelly decided to upgrade her vagina. Yep, you heard me, it's called Vaginal Rejuvenation and this procedure was broadcast for all the world to see.  Now, I have heard after birthing children and/or as we age, the bladder can need a little face-lift of its own to help with leakage.  That sounds medically necessary.  But a vagina upgrade so you can have the vagina of a virgin? Yikes! Some things are just better left in the past.  I laughed so hard through the episode I thought my next surgery would be bladder reconstruction.  

Why do we put so much time and value into a body that's destiny is to disintegrate and turn to dust instead of investing in the eternal soul that does survive that body's demise.   

I turned the television off and vowed tomorrow I would hold my head high at the gym,  place my yoga mat right out in front, and maybe I would leave the lips and face bare.  Nah. I'm still a proud purple heart recipient just a little nicked up and wounded in my battles against the aging process, but I am not dead yet.