How to Recover Your Footing When Things Go Awry

By Donna Sapolin for Next Avenue

 

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“A woman at 20 is like ice," famed Italian actress Gina Lollobrigida once said. "At 30 she is warm and at 40 she is hot.”

So, by that logic, at 50 or 60 she must be red-hot. In fact, the only characteristic she may still have in common with ice is how solid she is — how she reveals her inner self and the degree to which she's had to contend with people trying to walk all over her.

Yet the obvious depth and shimmering emotional intelligence that many mature women possess may not always be enough to let them keep their footing on thin ice.

There will be times when they’ll still feel as if they’re slipping and sliding across a frozen pond, trying to outpace the cracks opening up behind them.

I was feeling like that a few weeks ago, just as the chill of winter set in. Crucial things that had lent definition to my life were shifting and despite all the “practice” I’d had in negotiating big changes, restoring a sense of stability was proving to be a bit of a challenge.

Right around this time, I found myself at New York City’s Rockefeller Center, where I paused to watch the ice skaters. That place is always magical to me and it's especially captivating at holiday time.

But this day, it was a whole lot more — it served as a reminder that when pathways get slippery we may need to learn new ways of navigating them.

My eyes drifted to the center of the rink where a middle-aged skater traced the motions of her apparent instructor — a radiant woman whose long, gray hair sliced through the cold air as she spun around. The two women whirled in perfect synchrony, their torsos taut and erect and their arms stretched out elegantly to their sides.

I imagined myself not as a southerner who had always done her best to avoid treading on icy surfaces, but as an Olympic figure skater — steady on her feet and able to traverse the terrain with grace and confidence.

Truth is, marble tile is the only slick white substrate I’d ever set foot on that hadn’t scared me. Texan-tall with creaky knees and a long way to fall, the notion of balancing on thin blades to cross frozen water always seemed impossible and inadvisable.  

But now it seemed to be just what I needed. A few days later I signed up for a skating lesson with the instructor with the great hair and spent the first 20 minutes squeezing the life out of her hand.

My teacher (I’ll call her Heidi), a former top competitive skater, quickly sized up her mission: She needed to make a sizable dent in my fear before I’d be able to make any real progress. It was also important that I learn to stop, that I feel as comfortable falling and getting up from the ice as walking onto it.

She devoted the first lesson to communicating basic techniques while I held on to her for dear life. I’d only committed to taking one lesson, but she convinced me to take another. By the end of the second session my fear was all but gone and I was skating — really skating — gliding on one leg with bent knee while smoothly lifting the other out behind me.

After the lesson was over, I continued skating alone for a couple more hours to the mental prompts Heidi had provided: “Bend and glide, bend and glide, bend and glide.” I kept my gaze fixed on where I wanted to go and had a great time.

Heidi’s other instructive phrases went on reverberating through my mind long after our sessions. “Let loose,” she’d urged. She meant of her hand, but her guiding words have helped me release other inessential emotional "props," like frustration and worry. “Glide it out,” she’d said, reminding me that coasting is a legitimate means of progress, especially on the heels of conscientious effort.

Over and over she prompted me to stand upright but make myself soft, find the fun and skate around problems like ruts and people. And that’s exactly what I did — on the rink and off — and it’s made a world of difference. The old status quo that fueled my former sense of stability now seems far less necessary than moving forward (with at least one foot on the ground).

Interestingly, Rockefeller Center was never supposed to have a skating rink. To quote the landmark's official site: "The Sunken Plaza, as the area was originally called, was lushly landscaped and boasted high-end shops and restaurants, but few people could be enticed down the stairs leading from the Channel Gardens. In the winter of 1936, in an effort to attract attention to the Plaza, Rockefeller Center’s managers contracted an engineer from Cleveland to build a temporary rink. It became a permanent fixture.”    

Which just goes to show — when life feels like a deep pit or you find yourself standing on uncertain ground, a bit of willpower and creativity can go a long way.

Copyright© 2014 Next Avenue, a division of Twin Cities Public Television, Inc.

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Seeking Your Direction from Midlife On

Most people go through six stages – which are you in?

By Ed Merck for Next Avenue

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I vividly remember turning 40. It was truly the first time it occurred to me that this thing I call “my life” had a horizon, that the notion of dying might actually apply to me someday. It’s not that I had been in denial. There were just many urgent demands on my energy, such as supporting a family and moving up the career ladder.

I’m now nearing 70, and no one needs to remind me I am aging, or that I will die.

The years between 40 and 70 have been a mixed bag, at times exhilarating, at times downright challenging. What I learned along the way is that there are stages most of us go through. With advance knowledge of these phases, you will, I hope, enjoy a smoother ride.

Here’s my map, consisting of six milestones. It will take you all the way from an absorption in the external world of career and parenting (if that is your choice) to a sense of freedom that comes from shifting your focus inward.

Plateau

Most of us find ourselves in midlife enjoying a stable platform. The trials of moving from adolescence into a full sense of adulthood are safely behind us. Our orientation is comfortably outward. And the basis for our ego development is how we are perceived in the world. We are motivated, our path is clear, and our purpose is understood.

For me, family vacations during this period were activity intensive. Whether sailing, hiking, or attending ball games, the emphasis was always on having “fun in the sun.” Accomplishments and their tangible rewards made my ego feel “safe” as well, even if there was a turn in the road just ahead that I didn’t see coming.

Early Rumblings

Somewhere in our 50s we begin to sense a disconnect. What felt like a clear connection between effort and reward now seems less apparent. There are the beginnings of an inward tug, a subtle demand to pay more attention to our inner landscape. Larger questions begin to loom, such as: Who am I outside of my roles at work and home? What am I doing that truly matters? How am I helping others?

These are the early warning signs that change is ahead and, if heeded, will be seen later on as gifts. If, instead, we resort to denial and its kissing cousin, distraction, the symptomatic clues will develop into something more debilitating to our physical and mental health. Ironically, this is also commonly the time when our external work is in full-flourish mode, necessitating increased time and attention. Like the cartilage in a runner’s knee, our flexible sense of self is caught in-between two hard places, and isn’t fully reconciled to either.

My choice of activities during this stage became increasingly more introspective: music, art, yoga, reading and even some meditation. Our family vacations were now split between having fun together, and personal retreats for me – a direct reflection of the push/pull I was beginning to feel.

Crossroads

As the challenges of change intensify, we either choose to prepare in earnest for transition into the after-work years, or we go deeper into denial and distraction. But what does it mean to prepare? What are we preparing for?

In sum, we are beginning to shift from an outward gaze to an inward gaze – from a guidance system that keys off of the external environment to one that takes it cues from our inner being.

I spent many years honing the basic skills that drove my success in the middle years – in essence, an outwardly focused pursuit of achievement through a goal-centered, future-oriented, strategic and predominantly rational orientation to life. Now I felt an urgency to become more reflective, using skills that were instead open-ended, present-oriented and heart-centered.

Decision Point

Finally, we retire from full-time employment. If we’ve done our preparatory work, the still-budding capacities of introspection are strong enough to override feelings of loss and move us instead toward a sense of gain. There is indeed the potential for opening to a fresh and glorious life chapter.

But it often comes at a stiff price. Psychologists tell us that before creating a whole new sense of who we are, and what we’re here to do, we must first let go fully of the life we have lived and how we lived it.

At this point, I knew that the only way out was through. Jumping in deeper, I became certified as a yoga and meditation teacher, which both enhanced my own contemplative practices and launched me into my next stage: helping others.

Rebirth

With continued practice, a sense of awakening floods in, heralding a newfound life-chapter. We learn to better open our hearts, to even lead with our hearts. There is a form of ego relief as we move more clearly into a felt reality bigger than the confines of our own sense of self.

If that sounds too abstract, think of the rewards in terms of good health. Research shows that as we age, there’s a direct connection between our ability to let go of a rigid sense of self and feelings of being truly reconciled, truly happy. In addition, researchers say that those among us who experience high levels of happiness also enjoy bodies and minds that are freer of pain and disease.

Freedom

We all desire to become free – to be a slave to nothing and to no one, especially to our own expectations and conditions. The self-trust we have developed in moving diligently through the various stages brings us right to freedom’s door. And as we learn to open it with vigor and greater frequency, the benefits of abundance emerge. We are peaceful, able to feel deeper levels of compassion and empathy, and to engage freely in unconditional love for ourselves and others.

The journey, for me, was definitely worth the effort. May you feel that as well, and may you reap all the rewards that are yours.

Copyright© 2014 Next Avenue, a division of Twin Cities Public Television, Inc.

Front Porch is a not-for-profit support system for a family of companies that serve individuals and families through full-service retirement, active adult communities, and affordable housing communities.

More information is available a www.frontporch.net.

Framing Stories with Hope

by Nancy Gordon, Director California Lutheran Homes and Sunny View Centers for Spirituality and Aging, a Front Porch Partner

Since I started serving in the older adult world, I’ve had many elders tell me that growing old is a difficult process. As the saying goes, “It’s not for sissies.” They are often a bit bemused that they’ve lived so long and are sometimes unsure how to frame the future. What does hope look like at 90?

I’ve been thinking that as the losses mount up as we age that there needs to be room for lament. So often we tell ourselves and the elders we work with to “be positive!” It’s good to have a positive attitude, but it’s also good, I think, to be able to name what has been lost and to take some time to lament the loss of something that is precious. I’ve sometimes wondered if the elders we tend to label as “complainers” might end up that way because their important losses weren't validated and noted.

Read article in full at: California Lutheran Homes and Sunny View Centers for Spirituality and Aging

Creating a Story of Hope in the Face of Dementia

by Nancy Gordon, Director California Lutheran Homes and Sunny View Centers for Spirituality and Aging, a Front Porch Partner

Just note the momentary panic that we feel when a word or a name is on the “tip of the tongue,” when we can’t find our keys or our glasses, when we realize we’ve forgotten to pay a bill or make an important phone call. We joke about these “senior moments” and fervently hope that it’s just a temporary lapse, not the beginning of something more serious. So what is it that we are so afraid of? 

Dementia is an umbrella term describing a variety of diseases and conditions that develop when nerve cells in the brain die or no longer function normally. Alzheimer’s disease accounts for 60 to 80 percent of dementia cases. Other types of dementia are vascular dementia, dementia with Lewy bodies, mixed dementia, and Parkinson’s disease.

Read article in full at the Lutheran Services of America Newsletter

How to Live and Die Well: Buddhist Teachings from my Jewish Grammy

By Carmen Elena Mitchell, Front Porch Communications Coordinator

At 97, my Jewish grandmother was becoming a Buddhist (although, I’m not sure she would have put it that way).

This is what I know: 

My grandmother, Florence Pinchak Misurell, was the daughter of Russian Jews who emigrated to the U.S. in the early 1900s. Her mother, Molly Pinchak, worked as a seamstress in the New York garment factories and eventually opened her own dry goods store. She became a socialist, a suffragette and an atheist. And although she remained very involved in the Jewish community until the end of her life, sewing clothes to send to the Kibbutzim in Israel, she was a devout “non-believer.” 

The story goes that when my mother and father were first dating, Molly sat my father (an Irish Catholic who was having his own crisis of faith) down and grilled him on religion. “What do you think happens after you die?”

Read article in full here.