Darryl the Curmudgeon used to swim at the Rec Center every day, like a tugboat, slow and steady, back and forth, with his snorkel mask on. He never lifted his head out of the water and he just kept crawling along, left elbow up, long arm extended forward, pull down, right elbow up, long arm forward, pull, long feet fluttering along at the ends of very long white legs. A mile would take about an hour. If I ever swam next to him in the lane, I could expect to pass him at exactly the same spot after exactly the same number of laps. His doggedness was inspirational (he was a lifelong athlete, originally a great runner).
Afterwards he limped over to the hot tub for his moment of bliss. He had a practice of pretending he couldn't hear so no one would speak to him. If they tried to get his attention, he would just smile and cup his ear and look brightly sorry not to be able to answer.
This Rec Center has been a regular part of my winter for 30 years. Amazingly, not much has changed in 30 years, despite occasional renovations and updates to the tropical mural on the wall. The swimmers are timeless -- a perpetual group of mostly older ladies doing water aerobics in the shallow part, and sometimes there is a group of mostly older ladies doing deep water exercise at the other end. They spend a lot of time chatting while the teacher on the side of the pool urges them to walk or hop sideways to the music. The lap lanes have a few fast swimmers but there are many more older, lumpy folks plugging along. I am right at home at this pool. There is nothing fancy about it. No towel service, no soft spaces in the changing room. It is basic and luxurious at the same time.
Today in the hot tub there were three elderly ladies having a jolly conversation about nothing much. They had just finished their aerobics class and they were feeling happy to be alive. Two of them got out to go to a class in the gym and one of them stayed longer to soak some more. I forget how we started talking, but I found a way to ask her if she had always been so dedicated to exercise. This topic has been on my mind, as many of you already know, and I was doing some random research. The woman was probably 70-something, she was heavy and not particularly athletic-looking. She had already told me that she comes to the Rec Center five days a week, for water aerobics and the recumbent bicycle and a weekly yoga class for seniors. She said, oh no, she had never done anything before about two years ago when she had another back surgery. Her doctor told her then that she could either melt into the couch and lose her ability to walk, ending up in a wheelchair, or she could get up and do something. She had always felt embarrassed about her body and didn't want to be seen in a bathing suit, even at the pool at her condo. But when the doctors told her what was awaiting her, she thought about it and decided it didn't matter what people thought of her. When she first came to the Rec Center to see about a water walking class, one of the ladies welcomed her and made her feel like she was part of the group immediately. Because of that warm welcome, she began to exercise. Recently she went to lunch with some former colleagues and they remarked on how healthy she looked.
Many lessons there. First, it is never too late to learn to exercise. Second, it helps to do it in a group. Third, it is very nice to be welcomed. Fourth, if you feel like you are part of a group, you will keep going even if you don't want to sometimes (she says she hates to get up in the morning, but she goes to 7:30 classes every day anyway). Fifth, it does not matter a bit what you look like in a bathing suit.
I knew all of this already, of course, but I only know it from personal experience or the experience of family members. I hadn't heard it from a lifelong couch potato.
I am related to lots of exercisers -- sisters, aunts, mother, sisters-in-law and even now my mother-in-law. It is hard not to want to proselytize to the others who are not yet exercisers. I am encouraged by the Hot Tub Lady, though. She gave me hope. Just got to find the right button to push, without being pushy.
Monday, February 27, 2017
Friday, February 24, 2017
Lessons Learned, Still Learning
We are going to a funeral this afternoon, and before we go, I want to consider the lessons I have learned this winter -- before the rabbis wrap it all up for me and say it better than I might. This has been a long winter for a family that is dear to us, and I have had the privilege of being part of the exhausting experience of helping someone at the end of his life.
This would not be how the family would frame this. And of course everything is in hindsight. But that is what we were doing: we were staying by his side while he went through a long and difficult decline. Throughout the whole series of hospital stays and moves to the rehab centers, there was always hope, of course. There was hope that he would be able to get strong again and be able to get back home to real life. But the hospital stays were very hard on him and the rehab was only occasionally uplifting. He struggled with great anxiety and this definitely made everything harder for both him and his caregivers.
But those are not the lessons I am talking about. I am really thinking about love, and what it is and how it works. We all know there are many kinds of love. The most obvious one, in this case, was the love that this family shares. This family has a culture of making connections and nurturing them. Starting with their own nuclear family, and then their larger family, and then people who they adopt along the way. This family is loved by people all over the map. They take people in and they pay attention and they keep track of details and they make a point of visiting and they remember everything and they ask good questions and they really, deeply care. They have an instinct for relationships. They know how to love.
There are things that are hard for them, the idea of losing each other (for example) is almost unthinkable. So this process of declining health due to aging and infirmity was incredibly painful for the family. It was hard on the aging person and it was even harder on the daughters.
Because this family is so good at love, and they are so interested in the lives of others, they find themselves in the middle of a lot of people who love them. This is where I come in, and where some of my closest friends come in. We wanted to be there for this family because they are always there for us, or they would be if we needed them. This outer circle kind of love is also something to ponder. I am sure it is not uncommon, and yet I don't know of too many examples in our culture.
I mean, we live in suburban Northern Virginia. This is a place of isolation and strip malls, a cultural desert in so many ways. In our case, the connection began because we all belong to the same synagogue. This group of close friends has spent years (mostly in the past now) doing intense amounts of work in support of our temple: serving in leadership positions, teaching, singing, helping in so many ways. And we bonded over this work, years ago. I have to give the synagogue a lot of credit for providing a place for us to do something long term and meaningful together -- long enough to create friendships that will last us until the ends of our lives, without a doubt. For many years, the main topic of conversation between us was temple business. Temple gossip, temple intrigue, temple crises. Rarely anything about religion, but not never.
In past postcards, I have described this group of friends that I am referring to. It has several names: the Friday Club (after my grandmother's friend group), Beach Babes (because we take retreats, and our first one was to a beach), Babes (because it is amusing), and Four Musketeers (one of our fathers named us that, and he is right). This group, as it turns out, has incredible strengths and talents. I have come to see that we are powerful. We are powerful because we are smart and hard-working but that's not what makes this feel different. What makes this different is the amount of time that we have put into creating the relationships we share. We have built something, without really thinking about it, and now I feel like we are a force to be reckoned with. We have been preparing for times that we don't even know about yet.
And was this one of those times. We have had a little practice, when one of our moms declined and died a few years ago. We stayed in touch and we did what we could to support the caregivers/mourners. We learned a lot about how much it means to each other to be available and attentive.
In fact, I don't have time to finish these thoughts. I have to go pick spinach and get some sweet potatoes ready for dinner tonight. We are hosting Shabbat dinner for the family and I should get up and do something. More on this later.
This would not be how the family would frame this. And of course everything is in hindsight. But that is what we were doing: we were staying by his side while he went through a long and difficult decline. Throughout the whole series of hospital stays and moves to the rehab centers, there was always hope, of course. There was hope that he would be able to get strong again and be able to get back home to real life. But the hospital stays were very hard on him and the rehab was only occasionally uplifting. He struggled with great anxiety and this definitely made everything harder for both him and his caregivers.
But those are not the lessons I am talking about. I am really thinking about love, and what it is and how it works. We all know there are many kinds of love. The most obvious one, in this case, was the love that this family shares. This family has a culture of making connections and nurturing them. Starting with their own nuclear family, and then their larger family, and then people who they adopt along the way. This family is loved by people all over the map. They take people in and they pay attention and they keep track of details and they make a point of visiting and they remember everything and they ask good questions and they really, deeply care. They have an instinct for relationships. They know how to love.
There are things that are hard for them, the idea of losing each other (for example) is almost unthinkable. So this process of declining health due to aging and infirmity was incredibly painful for the family. It was hard on the aging person and it was even harder on the daughters.
Because this family is so good at love, and they are so interested in the lives of others, they find themselves in the middle of a lot of people who love them. This is where I come in, and where some of my closest friends come in. We wanted to be there for this family because they are always there for us, or they would be if we needed them. This outer circle kind of love is also something to ponder. I am sure it is not uncommon, and yet I don't know of too many examples in our culture.
I mean, we live in suburban Northern Virginia. This is a place of isolation and strip malls, a cultural desert in so many ways. In our case, the connection began because we all belong to the same synagogue. This group of close friends has spent years (mostly in the past now) doing intense amounts of work in support of our temple: serving in leadership positions, teaching, singing, helping in so many ways. And we bonded over this work, years ago. I have to give the synagogue a lot of credit for providing a place for us to do something long term and meaningful together -- long enough to create friendships that will last us until the ends of our lives, without a doubt. For many years, the main topic of conversation between us was temple business. Temple gossip, temple intrigue, temple crises. Rarely anything about religion, but not never.
In past postcards, I have described this group of friends that I am referring to. It has several names: the Friday Club (after my grandmother's friend group), Beach Babes (because we take retreats, and our first one was to a beach), Babes (because it is amusing), and Four Musketeers (one of our fathers named us that, and he is right). This group, as it turns out, has incredible strengths and talents. I have come to see that we are powerful. We are powerful because we are smart and hard-working but that's not what makes this feel different. What makes this different is the amount of time that we have put into creating the relationships we share. We have built something, without really thinking about it, and now I feel like we are a force to be reckoned with. We have been preparing for times that we don't even know about yet.
And was this one of those times. We have had a little practice, when one of our moms declined and died a few years ago. We stayed in touch and we did what we could to support the caregivers/mourners. We learned a lot about how much it means to each other to be available and attentive.
In fact, I don't have time to finish these thoughts. I have to go pick spinach and get some sweet potatoes ready for dinner tonight. We are hosting Shabbat dinner for the family and I should get up and do something. More on this later.
Wednesday, February 8, 2017
Every Classroom Is a Stage
When I was a little kid, I was shy about speaking in front of groups. This lasted all the way through high school -- I remember one horribly painful episode when we were each supposed to speak about something that we were passionate about. I actually cried while I was up in front of the class, and these were my friends. These people liked me and knew me and I still was so nervous and upset that I couldn't even get through a three minute talk.
That experience scarred me for years. I decided I was just bad at public speaking and I would not subject myself to that again.
While I was in college, I volunteered at an elementary school, helping fourth graders with reading and other remedial topics. I never felt shy there since these people were about nine years old and I was about nineteen. When I worked as a temp in Boston, I had one great job where I was a school secretary and I felt entirely in my element, never anxious and never overwhelmed. When I was in my early 30's I became a public school substitute teacher in the winter. Again, no nervousness. Kids do not bring out the anxiety in me.
By some strange twist of fate, I ended up as a Hebrew teacher for fourth, fifth and sixth graders over a long span of ten years. I think this is when I really found my voice -- even though I barely knew Hebrew, I had no issues with handling a classroom full of mostly uninterested children. My comedic timing got honed as I tried to be entertaining while tricking them into learning to read prayers. I sang in front of those kids, by myself, all the time, and was never embarrassed. Somehow they had to learn the tunes and they had no judgment about my singing.
At the same time, I had a regular gig as a Board member at the synagogue and I was required to get up in front of the congregation on four Friday nights and four Saturday mornings every year. I could feel my heart pounding as the time came for me to get up in front of everyone and deliver my two minute packaged message. As the years went by, this task got less scary and by the time I finally graduated from lay leadership, I had given speeches in front of the whole congregation at Rosh Hashanah, two years in a row, and I did not implode.
Now I can speak at farmer conferences, as long as I know the topic well. I can always speak at meetings with farmers, even spontaneously, if I have opinions -- which I always do.
Recently, a fellow citizen activist and promoter of local foods sent out a request for farmers to come to an elementary school in Takoma Park and talk about farming. I said I would go. It has been a few years since I was in a fifth grade classroom, but that is my favorite age group. So smart but not yet smart alecks (by the middle of sixth grade they are incorrigible).
She started the program by talking about good food/bad food, no farms/no food etc. Then she turned it over to me. Because I could talk for an hour to any age group now about farming, I just find out while I am there what is going to come out of my mouth. I try to find a way to let them know how multi-talented farmers need to be. I let them try to get into a body position for planting or weeding something and then I tell them to keep at it for three hours. We taste radishes and turnips (ugh) and celeriac and beets (not so bad). And then the program leader guides the class through making beet hummus. After ten minutes, one of the kids notices that the room looks like a crime scene, with DIY blood all over the floor and all over their hands. Fifth graders are very funny. I tell them not to worry if their pee is pink later on. They think I am funny.
Schools teach kids about public speaking at a young age now, and that is a very good thing. It took me many years to get over my fear, and I was lucky to have so many classroom hours with non-scary children to help me. It was fifth graders who taught me to speak with confidence, and it is aging that lets me think I have something to say.
That experience scarred me for years. I decided I was just bad at public speaking and I would not subject myself to that again.
While I was in college, I volunteered at an elementary school, helping fourth graders with reading and other remedial topics. I never felt shy there since these people were about nine years old and I was about nineteen. When I worked as a temp in Boston, I had one great job where I was a school secretary and I felt entirely in my element, never anxious and never overwhelmed. When I was in my early 30's I became a public school substitute teacher in the winter. Again, no nervousness. Kids do not bring out the anxiety in me.
By some strange twist of fate, I ended up as a Hebrew teacher for fourth, fifth and sixth graders over a long span of ten years. I think this is when I really found my voice -- even though I barely knew Hebrew, I had no issues with handling a classroom full of mostly uninterested children. My comedic timing got honed as I tried to be entertaining while tricking them into learning to read prayers. I sang in front of those kids, by myself, all the time, and was never embarrassed. Somehow they had to learn the tunes and they had no judgment about my singing.
At the same time, I had a regular gig as a Board member at the synagogue and I was required to get up in front of the congregation on four Friday nights and four Saturday mornings every year. I could feel my heart pounding as the time came for me to get up in front of everyone and deliver my two minute packaged message. As the years went by, this task got less scary and by the time I finally graduated from lay leadership, I had given speeches in front of the whole congregation at Rosh Hashanah, two years in a row, and I did not implode.
Now I can speak at farmer conferences, as long as I know the topic well. I can always speak at meetings with farmers, even spontaneously, if I have opinions -- which I always do.
Recently, a fellow citizen activist and promoter of local foods sent out a request for farmers to come to an elementary school in Takoma Park and talk about farming. I said I would go. It has been a few years since I was in a fifth grade classroom, but that is my favorite age group. So smart but not yet smart alecks (by the middle of sixth grade they are incorrigible).
She started the program by talking about good food/bad food, no farms/no food etc. Then she turned it over to me. Because I could talk for an hour to any age group now about farming, I just find out while I am there what is going to come out of my mouth. I try to find a way to let them know how multi-talented farmers need to be. I let them try to get into a body position for planting or weeding something and then I tell them to keep at it for three hours. We taste radishes and turnips (ugh) and celeriac and beets (not so bad). And then the program leader guides the class through making beet hummus. After ten minutes, one of the kids notices that the room looks like a crime scene, with DIY blood all over the floor and all over their hands. Fifth graders are very funny. I tell them not to worry if their pee is pink later on. They think I am funny.
Schools teach kids about public speaking at a young age now, and that is a very good thing. It took me many years to get over my fear, and I was lucky to have so many classroom hours with non-scary children to help me. It was fifth graders who taught me to speak with confidence, and it is aging that lets me think I have something to say.
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