Not So Steady Girl

Recently, I was diagnosed with an Essential Tremor, which happily they have a pill for. My doc says the pill won’t take it away completely, and it may get worse over time. As long as I can remember while using my hands for specific tasks, drawing, baking, making jewelry, writing - they would shake a little, hardly noticeable. I figured it was nerves or anxiety and paid it no mind, but occasionally when I wasn’t alone, someone would ask why my hands were shaking. Obviously, it was noticeable.

I used to enjoy singing, while the music played. Musicals from the 50’s and 60’s, blues, folk, torch songs, even opera. To my own ears it never seemed that I was ruining the song and I loved it, it freed me. Someone once told me they thought I sounded like Julie Andrews. Really? A coworker overheard me singing along to Madam Butterfly. (I was in my office with the door closed) A few days later he asked me to join his elite choir, I said I wouldn’t make it through the audition. He told me he heard me and there was no need to worry. My point is, I always took singing for granted. A few years ago my voice started wobbling, I couldn’t hold a tune or a note. The essential tremor is to blame for that. That makes me sad, I really miss singing along. It took me out of myself.

I gave up making jewelry a little while back. Between the shaking and my aging eyesight the pleasure was gone. I still bake, I use one hand to steady the other, but it’s becoming more frustrating and a much slower process. Luckily in this digital world hand writing and printing are no longer a necessity.

I stopped sketching shortly after I graduated art school. I got good enough to know that I wasn’t willing to put in the time to get really good. I didn’t work long enough at it to develop my own style. To be clear, not gimmick, style. I enjoyed sketching and I enjoyed working with pastels. Last year I bought a sketch book. I was thinking about trying again, but I’m afraid to. Now that I’ve been diagnosed with this essential tremor thing I’m thinking maybe this is the perfect time to start. Maybe a little shaking could free me, the way singing would. Losing my inhibitions, being impulsive through no fault of my own...this could work in my favor.

If I get up the nerve to try to draw again, I will. But the problem now is, what I have just written  makes me aware that not being able to sing anymore is the kicker. Not until now, did I understand how much I miss it. How disappointed I feel when driving alone and I hear myself try to sing. I laugh, but I’m sad. It’s a private let down, a lonely let down, something I shared with only me. I know it’s part of aging. I only wish I would have known how much it defined me before it was gone.

Running With Scissors

I am a relatively healthy senior citizen (at the moment). I am the correct weight for my height, and I am not on any medications. Because of my age, my shoulders are lighter in regards to being a “bad girl” in the health department.
For instance if I started smoking an occasional cigarette I don’t think I run the risk of getting lung cancer. Nor do I believe alcohol will effect my liver. Candy will no longer rot my teeth and running with scissors is not on my list of no no’s because I don’t run anymore.
So you see, aging has many advantages. I like the silver streaks in my hair and the lines in my face show character.

For me, there is one disadvantage to being a senior in this day and age. I always looked young for my age, which often led to not being heard, or taken seriously. It felt disrespectful and I imagined that as I aged I would be shown more respect, simply because my age would become more obvious. Much to my dismay as I changed, so has the world. Respect seems to have fallen by the wayside. The youth of today doesn’t care about wisdom or experience. Too many people know everything and so few want to listen.

The occasions I feel most respected are when I am among my peers. We are united in our previous struggles. We fought some hard battles, and we won many of them. Now we stand our ground banded together clinging to what unified us. I appreciate those even brief encounters more everyday.

So here are my words of wisdom to the youth of America. Smoke like a chimney, drink like a fish, eat candy in the economy size and run. Run, as fast as you can.
Because karma is a bitch.

A Dime for Your Thoughts

It was about two years ago that I started noticing dimes on the ground, on seats and other miscellaneous places. People say that when they come across various objects it represents contact from someone who is no longer with us. Pennies, butterflies etc. I had a sense that the dimes were a sign from my father, who has now been gone for over 50 years. Why I am just noticing this now is a mystery to me.

When I was a young teen I thought I had some psychic abilities. I saw auras, I heard things no one else seemed to, but mostly I just knew things. In my early twenties I had a vision that involved a close friend. The incident happened very close to how I had invisioned it and it scared me to death. I shoved whatever abilities I had into a deep hole and they haven’t come close to resurfing until this thing with the dimes.

What do the dimes mean? What, if anything is my father trying to communicate? I have no memory of a significant dime reference or encounter, but I was just a young girl.

So Daddy, a dime for your thoughts.

Watch It!

I have always been a people watcher, when I was a child I sat, almost mute, at the holiday table. In fear of being trampled upon by words. It was a raucous table, everyone spoke at the same time. My Father's Mother had many siblings who had spouses along with adult children.
I did not speak. I listened and observed. Besides it was the fifties, I spoke when spoken to.

By listening I learned timing, and wit. By watching I learned expression and the art of reading people. I hate crowds when I am walking among them, but if I am able to sit and scrutinize, I am in heaven. When I do speak in a group, I try to make my words matter.

It is important for me to be heard. If I feel that I am not seen, not understood I will stop talking.
That is the beginning of the end.

Watch it.

Not Smart Enough

I grew up wanting to be an elementary school teacher. I would set up my stuffed animals and dolls in a line and call on them to answer questions I posed to the group. In High School, while researching schools my mother told me: "You're not smart enough to go to college". I was taught not to question my mother, so I decided to go to art school. My dad had always wanted to go to art school but his parents told him: "Men don't go to art school" and so it went.

In my third year as a Graphic Design major, I wondered if this was really what I wanted. It dawned on me that I was trying to fulfill the dream of my dead father.. Again, my mother stepped in: "But you can't do anything else!"

Now that I'm all grown up, it's very clear that I would have done just as well as my peers did, if not better, in college. Life is funny that way. When you have enough years under your belt to be able to just sit and look back sometimes you realize it all worked out.

Turns out I did get to teach, though not in the conventional way I had imagined. I taught various art classes at a technical school, I taught children at recreation centers, I schooled staff on a computer system and I even got to stand on stage and present that same system to an auditorium of avid participants.

People listened, and learned.

Hear that Mom?

Oh, By the Way...

Today is my half birthday. A natural question one might ask could be: why would a 63 and a half year old women announce or care about a so-called half birthday?

It all began as a child. I was born on December 24th. Which is why my Mother named me Carol. When I became old enough to understand that my special day was nothing like my friends birthdays, I had the brilliant idea to ask my mother if we could celebrate on June 24th, my half birthday. She declined.

At first it was just that my little friends could not attend my birthday parties. I can remember very clearly having the streamers and balloons hung, while standing in my party dress staring out the window as the phone calls filtered in. The falling snow was never a welcome sight, just one more reason to cancel. It wasn't like my mother was foolish enough to plan the party on the 24th, but still anytime around the holidays were just too jam packed with activities. The up side was there was always plenty of birthday cake leftover for days after.

During my teen years I avoided the whole party thing, in fact I began avoiding the entire birthday issue. When it was celebrated by a friend it usually was expressed through a note jotted on a Christmas card that read "Oh, by the way... Happy Birthday" or a gift wrapped with Christmas paper. Did I mention I'm Jewish?

In my twenties, if I had a boyfriend December 24th became more ironic. It often felt like an obligation to celebrate Christmas Eve with my boyfriends family. I was to learn that many families open their Christmas presents on Christmas Eve. So, there I sat while everyone around me joyfully opened gifts on MY Birthday. Occasionally, someone would spill the beans about my secret which only made it worse.

I realize this isn't tragic but take a look at it from my eyes. Imagine you are dating someone for awhile, it's your Birthday so you go out to dinner and maybe he buys you some nice thoughtful gift, or not. When I was growing up, everything was closed on Christmas Eve. Restaurants and movie theaters were not an option, besides Christmas Eve usually trumped birthdays.
So in general that time of year just got to be a bummer.

Once I reached my thirties I decided to do my own celebrating. Not only did I order a small cake from my local bakery, I bought myself a generous gift each year.

Generally speaking, I am not fond of holidays. It feels I am required by society to have fun, spend it with people,and be festive. Maybe my lack of experience in the festivity department has led me to this place of bah humbug.

It wasn't all bad. I remember one time a co-worker prepared a lunchtime surprise party at work, it brought tears to my eyes. Friends over the years have also taken me out for simple dinners or lunches (not around the holidays) in celebration, and I thank them for that. Also I am not totally against celebrations of Birthdays. I surprised my Mother with a big bash when she turned 50.

But today, as I pay tribute to my non-birthday, I sit quietly beside my husband who was born on December 27th.

Everythings Coming up Roses

I had a rose bush against the adjoining fence, the rose bush naturally grew in and out of the fence taller and taller, blooming year after year. The beautiful sweet scent caught you as you walked past. Weeds grew to the size of trees behind the fence and I could no longer keep up with the dense growth. 

Two weeks ago my neighbor had everything removed professionally, my rose bush became a stump.

Today I already saw at least ten, two inch healthy sprouts shooting out from the flat, seeming lifeless stumps that remained. 

I thought, I am that bush.

I am a rose!