The Next Best Thing to the Fountain of Youth…Yoga?

Quality of life is important to me. Nothing can be taken for granted as I age. Achy stiff joints, decreasing mobility, loss of strength, and a depressed attitude cramp my style. I happen to like my style very much and I don’t want it cramped!

Yoga was not love at first Uttanasana. I was in my fifties when my daughter cajoled me into attending a class. I pulled out a pair of ancient leggings and a tee-shirt I’d never wear anywhere else and trotted along. Of course with the kind of competitive spirit I possess, I threw myself into it that day, determined to keep up with the much younger crowd. It was a struggle. Even the Sanskrit words the instructor used to name the positions conspired to confuse me. The next morning every muscle screamed revenge. But my daughter’s enthusiasm was impossible to resist and after a while the poses became familiar. When I no longer had to concentrate so hard to keep up, I enjoyed the feeling of well-being that followed an hour on the mat. But I wasn’t dedicated. Months slipped by without so much as a downward dog.

Big changes took place as I launched into the sixth decade of life. I looked and felt older. Once it began, it was appalling how quickly wrinkles appeared, skin lost elasticity, and a roll of flesh settled on top of my hips. In addition to that, I didn’t have the flexibility I’d once had. My joints ached.

Then a younger friend died suddenly.

It was a painful reminder that I didn’t have forever. I recommitted to yoga and had a personal routine designed for me. Now there was no excuse. I didn’t need to go to a studio or enroll in classes. Everything could be done in the comfort and privacy of my own home whenever it suited me. I began to practice with dogged persistence and the results in my psyche were immediate. There was a sense of well-being and relief knowing that I was doing myself a great kindness.

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Photo from a post in January 2014: Monsoon Yoga on the yoga platform in the old house

Over time, the changes in my body were even more pronounced. I lost the fat around my belly and muscle appeared. My hamstrings stretched and I could balance on one leg forever if I wanted to. Even though I could see and feel the benefits, every day was an exercise in willpower. I’d bargain with myself: you walked three miles yesterday so you can take today off.

And then I got sick. For two months I couldn’t have dragged myself to the mat if I’d wanted to.

When I finally felt able to attempt the routine again, I was shaky and winded within minutes. It scared me how frail I’d become. But something had shifted. In spite of weakness and the physical effort required, each morning I awoke eager to practice. It felt like a gift. I knew that every day I could do yoga was a day of health and I didn’t want to miss it. With gratitude infusing my movements, it became far more than a physical workout. Time elongated, I disengaged from thought and entered a meditative state more in keeping with the spiritual roots of this ancient art.

Yoga in the new house: August 13, 2017

Now I’m 67, well past the stage where being lazy about self-care is an option. I’ll do my routine daily for as many more years as I can. When my body is unable to withstand the rigors of sun salutations and warrior poses, there are other options. Gentle yoga is one of them. I’ve heard the excuses people use: bum knees, weak wrists, bad back. If we do what our bodies will allow us to do, strengthen those parts that we can improve, we’ll be so much better off than if we do nothing.

Part-Time Vegetarian Seeks Meat

Forever I had assumed you either were or you weren’t…vegetarian. I was, with the exception of eggs, fish, and dairy. I got along quite well for about five years, but then noticed a decline in energy. I woke up tired and took naps in the middle of the day. I had to force myself to do yoga and get out of the house for a walk.

About that time I visited family in the U.S. My girls and their guys are meat eaters. While I was with them I decided not to rattle the cage. When in Rome, you know. So I ate grilled steak, barbecued chicken, burgers, and hot dogs. When I returned to Bali it was evident something had changed. I no longer needed naps. I jumped out of bed at rooster’s crow and went full speed until dark. There was only one explanation: meat.

The change was so dramatic I vowed to continue to include animal protein in my diet. Perhaps I had veggied myself into ‘iron poor blood,’ a phrase from a 1960’s TV commercial. In Bali, my meals consisted of fruits, vegetables, eggs, tofu and tempe, with an occasional Lake Batur fish thrown in. I’d supplemented with Bali coffee and kue, local empty calorie treats void of nourishment.

Image result for pre packaged rotisserie chickenKetut buys all my food at the local market. When he saw grilled chicken on the grocery list he asked, “How much you want? One-quarter? One-half?”I told him I wanted one whole chicken picturing the neatly packaged birds that turn on spits in U.S. supermarkets, their grease dripping into the pan below. “Ok,” he said.

The next morning he delivered everything I’d ordered, dragon fruit, apples, broccoli, shallots, garlic, lemongrass, and something ominous in a plastic bag. I was Skyping so he deposited the food on the counter and left. It’s always a high when I talk to family. I finished the call humming a Bob Marley tune as I tucked the produce in the fridge. I’ll admit, I’d forgotten about the chicken, but there was no mistaking what peeked through the translucence of the bag. I reached for a plate and extracted the contents.

Where was the neat container? And why did the creature still look like what it was, head and feet intact? The reality of ‘meat’ sank in. This wasn’t some mystery food that came antiseptically shrink-wrapped, sanitized and anonymous. This was unmistakably the charred remains of a fowl that yesterday had feathers – and life.

I stood in my pristine kitchen with chemically enhanced hair and painted nails, gawking at a reminder of a different reality. Living in Bali I’d rubbed up against it many times, but now it jarred. I knew too much. I’d been to the villages. I’d watched, unflinching, as chickens were slaughtered, drained, skewered, and readied for the fire.

But none of them had ever lain spreadeagled on my counter top.

The initial slam of shock passed. The smokey-rich odor emanating from the bird hit my empty stomach and saliva drooled into my mouth. Without further ado, manicured fingernails separated a leg from the body, foot and all. I took a bite. Mmmm. This chicken had spent it’s life unrestrained, scratching dirt, eating bugs, and dodging motorbikes in the road. The meat was firm, the flavor: strong, wild, and nothing genetically enhancing had gotten within a hundred miles of it’s muscular body. This was as naturally, locally raised, free-ranging, certified organic, GMO, pesticide, chemical and antibiotic free as it gets.

I chewed long, reflecting on the gift of food like this, savoring it.

My intention is to eat meat. In the process a life is taken. I don’t want to lose sight of the sacredness of that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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