Got up this morning at six to go workout. Yet again. I've been at it the better part of eight weeks now. That I'm working with a personal trainer and paying big bucks for the privilege assures that I am sticking to it. Unfortunately, it doesn't get easier. Well, it would but she's on to me and just when it seems I've got the hang of whatever exercise I'm doing, she adds a variation making it just a bit more challenging. I remember well answering her question about how I felt after our very first session, "Great! You didn't make me sweat or cry and that's good!" While I haven't yet cried, believe me, I'm sweating now!
This morning she asked me if I could tell any differences in myself and my body since beginning this self-imposed torture (my descriptive phrase, not hers). Yes. Yes, I can. Things that used to jiggle a lot seem to be jiggling a bit less. A tummy that used to remind me of being three months pregnant seems to be lying a lot flatter with less effort on my part. I feel more confident performing some of the exercises she runs me through. Less wobbly on the balances; better form. That kind of thing. And the weights, though not all that heavy in the first place -- two and three pounds -- seem lighter to me even though I'm doing more repetitions.
So why am I putting myself through this expensive, self-imposed regimen? Age and conceit. I am reminded of the phrase from a poem, "Do not go gently into that good night. Rage, rage, against the dying of the light." At least that's how I remember it going. And that's what I'm doing; I'm not going into my sixties gently and I refuse to allow age to slow me down or become an excuse for gaining weight and losing my shape. I'm raging in my own age appropriate way.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Life: An Improvisation
The other night I went out to listen to jazz at a local restaurant. I went solo as my husband was out of town. I sat with a fellow jazz lover we have gotten to know over the years since we have been so often in the same place at the same time and we clearly all enjoy jazz. He's slightly older than me and has never been married.
As we sat and listened to the quartet play what I will call contemporary jazz, we managed to carry on something of a conversation. He shared the joys and tribuations of searching for companionship via the internet. That, the music, and the book I'm currently reading, THE ART OF CHOOSING by Sheena Iyengar, got me to thinking about patterns, both in music and in life and why some of us follow one pattern and some another. Why some marry once, others multiple times and still others not at all. Why some live far from where they were raised and some never leave their hometown, the place of their birth. Why some take a job and stay in it a lifetime while others either move up the hierarchy or switch professions. Why some women work and others choose to stay at home. We are not given a guidebook upon birth, and when we finally set out on our own, we certainly have no hard copy set of directions telling us what to do. Our parents, family, community, and culture provide, kind of by osmosis, a point of view, a perspective, a set of criteria for making choices that most of us either don't recognize as such or acknowledge exists. We think we are in charge, we make the decisions, we choose.
So where does music come in, jazz in particular? Improvisation. Music is, if nothing else, a set of patterns of notes and rhythm. There is an endless variety possible. In jazz, there are standards and those standards are recognizable but the musician can then improvise, impose origniality on a known tune. A good example is "Somewhere Over the Rainbow". We have numerous recordings of this song by various artists and each takes this lovely tune and makes it their own by improvising. In some cases the tune is still recognizable because the set pattern is still present in some form or another. Yet in a few cases, improvisation becomes something apart from its origins. And then there are the artists who explore their own limits, compose their own songs. Some will have a recognizable pattern within the new tune and others, frarnkly, I question whether there is any pattern at all, which perhaps becomes a pattern by default.
It occurred to me as I listeneed to the contemporary jazz quartet whose music was all new to me and as I lintened to my acquaintance recount his life story, that living is something like jazz. There is a pattern for us to flollow set for us by tradition and culture as practiced by our parents and our community. Some of us are very comfortable with things just the way they are prescribed and thus our lives reflect clearly the pattern we inherited. Others of us deviate from the pattern. We improvise. Each of us improvises to the extent we are comfortable. Some of us improvise to the point that our origins are not recognizable. So guidebook or no, set of directions or no, each of us finds a way of living, chooses a way of life that fits us. Some of us marry, make a home, have children, and establish a career. Others of us do variations on that theme. The question I still have, however, is what determines who will and who won't improvise and what determines to what extent. That I'll have to give more consideration.
As we sat and listened to the quartet play what I will call contemporary jazz, we managed to carry on something of a conversation. He shared the joys and tribuations of searching for companionship via the internet. That, the music, and the book I'm currently reading, THE ART OF CHOOSING by Sheena Iyengar, got me to thinking about patterns, both in music and in life and why some of us follow one pattern and some another. Why some marry once, others multiple times and still others not at all. Why some live far from where they were raised and some never leave their hometown, the place of their birth. Why some take a job and stay in it a lifetime while others either move up the hierarchy or switch professions. Why some women work and others choose to stay at home. We are not given a guidebook upon birth, and when we finally set out on our own, we certainly have no hard copy set of directions telling us what to do. Our parents, family, community, and culture provide, kind of by osmosis, a point of view, a perspective, a set of criteria for making choices that most of us either don't recognize as such or acknowledge exists. We think we are in charge, we make the decisions, we choose.
So where does music come in, jazz in particular? Improvisation. Music is, if nothing else, a set of patterns of notes and rhythm. There is an endless variety possible. In jazz, there are standards and those standards are recognizable but the musician can then improvise, impose origniality on a known tune. A good example is "Somewhere Over the Rainbow". We have numerous recordings of this song by various artists and each takes this lovely tune and makes it their own by improvising. In some cases the tune is still recognizable because the set pattern is still present in some form or another. Yet in a few cases, improvisation becomes something apart from its origins. And then there are the artists who explore their own limits, compose their own songs. Some will have a recognizable pattern within the new tune and others, frarnkly, I question whether there is any pattern at all, which perhaps becomes a pattern by default.
It occurred to me as I listeneed to the contemporary jazz quartet whose music was all new to me and as I lintened to my acquaintance recount his life story, that living is something like jazz. There is a pattern for us to flollow set for us by tradition and culture as practiced by our parents and our community. Some of us are very comfortable with things just the way they are prescribed and thus our lives reflect clearly the pattern we inherited. Others of us deviate from the pattern. We improvise. Each of us improvises to the extent we are comfortable. Some of us improvise to the point that our origins are not recognizable. So guidebook or no, set of directions or no, each of us finds a way of living, chooses a way of life that fits us. Some of us marry, make a home, have children, and establish a career. Others of us do variations on that theme. The question I still have, however, is what determines who will and who won't improvise and what determines to what extent. That I'll have to give more consideration.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Reflections While Walking
Last evening I went for a brisk walk after having met with a friend for dinner. My walk took me through my neighborhood, down a busy road heading to downtown. I turned toward the river well before hitting Main Street which took me to a canopied dirt road with homes only on one side and the forest and river on the other. It was dusk and the locusts were singing loudly. As I got into a rhythm, my mind wandered from the here and now and visited the distant past. When I was a little girl I'd spend many weedend evenings at my grandmother's home in the foothills of the Ozarks. Her home was located on the top of a hill overlooking a small town. Well, more a village really. Anyway, it was a peaceful time in a peaceful place. I'd lie in bed next to an open window peering into the darkness while listening to a symphony of nature's making. Locust song, whip-o-wills, bobwhites, an occasional distant dog barking. Nature even provided a light show, hundred of fireflies blinking in the black of night. It was the late fifties and my little piece of the world seemed safe and logical.
As my walk neared its end, the here and now intruded on my memories. I thought about what I understood about myself and the world back then and what I understand about both now. The truth is, I didn't really understand anything back then. I simply accepted what was offered me. Expectations for me, whether specified by word or deed, were clear and prescribed. They permeated my existence -- in the literature I read, the school texts I studied, the TV shows I watched, the family life I enjoyed. My future, though not yet clear, had limits. I could be a nurse, secretary, or teacher. I most assuredly would be a mother.
This evening on this walk, I am still bombarded by sounds; most, however, are not natural but rather man-made. There are fireflies but few in number. The world I inhabit at sixty-one is less safe and illogical. The life I have lived thus far exceeded the expectations prescribed back when I was a child of the fifties. As I grew through the sixties and seventies, both our nation and I dealt with unrest and growing pains, some of which had always been festering below the surface. Things are more complex, less predictable, more diverse, and depending on your point of view, more interesting or not. Certainly there are more open conflicts of belief, lifestyle, and expectations.
I find myself wondering about how my life would have been had I not challenged the limits prescribed for me or more interestingly, had I challenged them more. I regret the loss of the certainty and the feeling of safety that comes from innocence and naivete, but I cherish the confidence that comes of pushing the limits to some extent and with some success. I'd like to think I've still time to challenge expectations even more.
As my walk neared its end, the here and now intruded on my memories. I thought about what I understood about myself and the world back then and what I understand about both now. The truth is, I didn't really understand anything back then. I simply accepted what was offered me. Expectations for me, whether specified by word or deed, were clear and prescribed. They permeated my existence -- in the literature I read, the school texts I studied, the TV shows I watched, the family life I enjoyed. My future, though not yet clear, had limits. I could be a nurse, secretary, or teacher. I most assuredly would be a mother.
This evening on this walk, I am still bombarded by sounds; most, however, are not natural but rather man-made. There are fireflies but few in number. The world I inhabit at sixty-one is less safe and illogical. The life I have lived thus far exceeded the expectations prescribed back when I was a child of the fifties. As I grew through the sixties and seventies, both our nation and I dealt with unrest and growing pains, some of which had always been festering below the surface. Things are more complex, less predictable, more diverse, and depending on your point of view, more interesting or not. Certainly there are more open conflicts of belief, lifestyle, and expectations.
I find myself wondering about how my life would have been had I not challenged the limits prescribed for me or more interestingly, had I challenged them more. I regret the loss of the certainty and the feeling of safety that comes from innocence and naivete, but I cherish the confidence that comes of pushing the limits to some extent and with some success. I'd like to think I've still time to challenge expectations even more.
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