Anticipate the Positive

Hi, Boomers,

I just came back from 2 days at the Los Angeles Festival of Books. This year it was held on USC campus instead of UCLA. It had been held at UCLA for more than 10 years. When I first heard the news that the festival of books was moving off my beloved UCLA campus, I was deeply disappointed. I teach yoga at UCLA and I was thrilled because I have a parking permit. I could walk easily enter the festival if it had been held on UCLA grounds.

So I met my booth-mate at the Vagabond Hotel just south of USC campus on Saturday morning. Stan the Man - award winning pie maker and blue ribbon dessert maker, along with his adorable mom - and we proceeded to divide and set up our corner booth. Throughout Saturday about 75,000 people attended. Lots of families; lots of kids, not a whole lot of interest in Sixty, Sex, & Tango, Confessions of a Beatnik Boomer. I was looking around for my demographic - the boomers - those without kids, those who were curious about what was under the title. Don't get me wrong, there were plenty of chuckles at my title. I heard the title echoing around the booth all day. That was awesome.

So without the thrill of the sale, I went forth and roamed the festival. It was really spread out and I seemed to walk forever. I dropped off my book to my author friends, and checked out booths that targeted speaking and writing and enjoyed the music and the energy. Surrender to the moment, dude. It was all good. Stan the man and I even had time to create a concept for a reality show. That I can't share with you all. But if it ever gets to reality TV, you'll be the first to know.

This first day, I got kind of philosophical about the book festival journey. "It's hit and miss," my author friend, Etan, told me. He writes and sells children's books and does a bang up job of it. So when I wasn't selling, I was networking. People who came up to talk to me at my booth were incredibly generous with their time and information. I accumulated lots of good ideas for my next incarnation into a speaker. I had to remind myself that my life, my work was a process in motion. Fluid and always positive.

Sunday brought some good sales but more heart-felt conversation about living a full life after 50. People shared stories, gave me thumbs up, smiles, laughter. Some even returned from the day before to thank me for the honesty of the book. A man who is a tango dancer wanted to talk tango. I gave him some tips about the tango walk. I riffed on the bliss of meditation as a meabs to open the mind. One young man came up to my booth, looked at the book cover, and handed me a card. "Did you ever think about putting your book on audio?" he asked. I looked at him as if he had two heads. "Wow! Did you read my mind? I've been putting that off for months," I enthusiastically told him. "I sure am interested." "Well, you've got a great voice," he said. "Would you like to do some readings for other books. Most people don't want to read their own books." Bingo! What a great day!

Keep an open mind, have an open heart, don't label what is in front of you, don't resist the present and surprises will come. I have no idea what will come out of the book festival this weekend at USC - certainly anything that comes my way would be somewhat different from a book festival at UCLA. The energy convergence is unique. So it's impossible to have any kind off expectation of an outcome. Yet, that's the beauty in life. Stay calm and serene and enjoy the grace of life. Oh, yeah.

Namaste

Joan

When the Journey Begins

Hi,Boomers,

I talked about you all weekend at the Tucson Book Festival. It was the first time I appeared in public with my book, Sixty, Sex, & Tango, Confessions of a Beatnik Boomer, except for my book signings. This was a big venue - the fourth largest book festival in the U.S. I had a booth all to myself, next to the CareMore Unit with a group of the most fun guys (they took blood pressure and established glucose levels) and a couple of ragtag men left over from the Stanley and Livingston scientific expedition in the Congo. I didn't quite get what kind of books they were selling but I loved their authentic costumes.

My booth was bare with just a table and a chair. But they had put a sign above the booth with the title of my book. I loved that sign. I had no cover for my ugly table so I went hunting for a table cloth. As I weaved my way around the booths that were setting up at 7:30 Saturday morning, I saw in the distance the end of a sign above a booth: Venice, CA. I got terribly excited and ran over to the booth to meet a fellow yogi from Santa Monica who wrote children's books. It was an incredible beginning to my two day adventure. Etan was a light that shone bright during the weekend. While were talking, a very nice man came by wheeling his boxes of books. He told us that for some political reasons he lost his booth. Something about a conflict with other people who were selling cookbooks, and he wondered if Etan wanted to share his booth. His cookbook was a visual feast of mouthwatering pies.

Here was a moment out of so many memorable moments that touched my heart. There was a silent pause as I waited for Etan's response. Etan wrote a series of children's books that were sensational and he had energy and salesmanship that rocked the festival. Etan was thinking.

He worked mostly alone, but I was a newbie an I didn't know the territory or the politics of book festivals.

"Let me think about it," Etan said. "Come back in a few minutes."

Stan, the baker of pies, was totally cool. He smiled and walked away with dignity. Etan and I continued to talk about yoga and I bought a few of his children's books for my grandsons. And then Stan came back to us. Etan looked up as he approached. I was just about to tell Stan that I'd be glad to have company in my booth. It seemed awful bare in there. Then Etan said it was fine if he took the corner table. In a way, I was disappointed because I felt I wanted to be generous, but Etan looked happy and so did Stan. So all was good.

I asked Stan if he had an extra table cloth. He gave me some blue plastic, and I went on my merry way to my empty booth. I gazed at my box of books with tape still across the top and decided to set the books on a table. The morning sun was heating up and bearing down forcefully on our row of booths. Out of some nervousness, I kept futzing with the arrangment of books because I had no signage, no flowers, no decorations. I took out my IHome speakers and played tango music. The day was beginning.

I met one of my neighbors. Penny published books and she was a competent and confident single woman who had an incredible handle on the publishing business. She became one of the most important people I met during the weekend. And there were many women who came up to me to introduce themselves and to take me by the hand to other people at the festival who were going to play a significant role in my future goals.

And the books sold, and the people came up to talk to me about the boomer generation, what was it like to live during the beatnik generation in San Francisco during the early 60s. There was dialogue about existentialism, Sartre, Camus, Kerouac, Ginsberg, Vietnam, the greed, hubris, and total disregard for those who were hurt by the U.S. financial markets. They were also very concerned about the lack of urgency to preserve our natural environment.

What I found interesting was that there was an equal number of men and women who approached my booth to discuss my book. I'm sure that at the outset they were attracted because of the title. It certainly wasn't the decor that attracted people to my booth. They found sixty, sex, & tango three words that required some discussion.

I began to think that the speech I was working on, the unbundling of the boomer mythology, was a topic that was very interesting to our generation. Everyone 60 and over wanted to dissect the various movements and social currents and psychological effects that the boomer generation had experienced and are still experiencing today. I found women to be more optimistic than men. But I found men to be more vocal about the economic nuances of what happened to our economy and how our generation would play out the next couple of decades. "What happens to us?" they asked.

What also surprised me was how many young men and women came to my booth to ask questions that related to the historical context of the boomer generation. Some were even curious about the meaning of being "beat." Of course, the sex part of the title was titillating to most everyone, but there wasn't much discourse on that. There was tango conversation to be sure, but most of the talk tended to be more pointed toward the quality of life in later years and what they should expect.

The question of what happens to us boomer now is an area that I want to try to answer in this speech I was writing. It turns out that the connectivity I had at the book festival with its most interesting and intelligent attendees were the key to my conceptualizing the answer. And I'm still working on it.

But what I take with me from this book festival is a sense that a representative population of Tucson are caring and generous and outgoing. It was a wonderful experience and I learned a great deal about the tone and style of boomers in a particular section of our country.

Namaste

Joan

Pity Party

Hi, Boomers,

When was the last time you were in a hospital, either overnight or for a few days or just an out patient center? I bet it wasn't an experience you'd like to have again. I know my seven hours in the UCLA out patient center was definitely not a walk in the park.

The good news is that I didn't need to use my last directives. You know, that form indicating how you would like to be treated at the end of life should something go wrong. Some doctor by accident nipped at your gall bladder while trying to find your appendix and you went unconscious and you explicitly desired not to end up on life support for more than a day.

I entered the UCLA out patient center at around 11 am on Friday morning. I had not eaten anything nor had a drink of liquids since 8 pm the night before. I was scheduled to have the laparoscopic operations around 1:30 pm. At about noon, I was ushered into a small room to strip and put on a gown. I got my Cleopatra book out and began to read. About 12:30, a male nurse came in to check me and ask me the same questions that were asked me upon admission. He stuck a needle into the top of my hand and my vein collapsed. Then he stuck a needle into my arm and tried to draw some blood.

"I'm dehydrated," I said weakly. "You won't be able to get much."

"Really? Why is that?" he asked without a trace of irony.

"Because the last time I had water was nine last night? It's now one o'clock. I usually drink water all day to hydrate."

"I can't seem to get any blood," he replied.

"I just told you I'm dehydrated and now my blood sugar is falling."

The nurse took the little bit of blood in the vile out of the room. I waited about fifteen more minutes and walked into the hallway. The nurses were all talking around the station.

"Hello," I called out to anyone who was listening. "Can I talk to someone, anyone?"

A nurse came over and I told her I was dehydrated. I went back to bed.

Several minutes later, a nurse came into the room with an IV hookup. On her heels came the anesthesiologist all perky and oblivious.

"Hi, how are you? I've just got a few questions?"

"No questions. I've got low blood sugar and am going to faint in a minute," I shot back.

It's very difficult to use my nice voice when I feel I have been ignored, and especially when the operation was to have taken place at 1:30 and it was now 2 pm.

"Where's the doctor? He's late." This time I was using my hostile voice.

"Well, you don't want the doctor to rush through his last operation. I was just with him and it took longer than expected. I'll get you some glucose." He wasn't smiling now.

I became sullen. Suddenly, I felt totally alone. I wanted an advocate.

Next came a barrage of other questions - the same questions asked me many times before by many other people in the hospital.

"How long is it going to be?" I asked the anesthesiologist in a slightly more polite voice.

Another half hour or forty-five minutes.

My head was about to explode. The once faint headache was not becoming a thumper. No food or water for almost eighteen hours.

"My ride is coming at 6. He can't come later. I have to be out of here at 6, downstairs ready to go. You have to put me in a cab if I can't get out of here at 6.

My doctor walked into the room. He was full of good cheer.

"Hi, how we doing?" he asked but didn't really want a response.

The anesthesiologist told him I had to be out by six.

"We can do that," my doctor responded. "My last operation was similar to what wer're dong with you. I'm having plenty of practice today."

Did he really say that?

I don't know what happened after that because I think the glucose was laced with anesthesia.

I woke up at 5:15 in a room without a nurse in sight. Where was my doctor? Where was my advocate? I was completely alone. It was having a pity party.

It was pouring rain outside when the nurse wheeled me out of the entrance. Water was hitting me in the face. The nurse had no clue that I was getting drenched. I spotted my ride, my savior, my knight in shinning armor.

"How did it go?" my wonderful friend asked.

"I dont' know. Never saw the doctor afterwards. Never saw a nurse. Don't know." I started to cry.

As soon as I saw my apartment building, my mood changed. I was never so happy to be home. I practically crawled up the stairs to my apartment in the pouring rain and realized that for the first time that day I wasn't lonely, for the first time I didn't need an advocate. My pity party was over.

Namaste

Joan

Back to the Basics

Hi, Boomers,

Remember that first career you started when back when in the late sixties or early seventies? Maybe some of you were in law school (the men) and some of you were studying to be school teachers (the women and some men) or nurses (only women) or doctors (mostly men). It seems like eons ago. But recently I revisited my first love, my first career in the theater.

I was a kid who knew what I wanted to do in my life from almost the moment I was born. In all the years through elementary school and high school and university, I wanted to be an actress in the theater. I never doubted my path. My mother spotted a little talent and put me through my paces: dance, piano, speech and drama in high school. She was a stage mother who hid behind the scenes. I went off to college to study theater, to be that actress and then to reach for the higher academic success as a college professor.

As with all plans so meticulously ordered, there was a glitch. I got married and ended up in Las Vegas, Nevada, far away from the hallowed halls of Berkeley in the 60s. I went to work at the Sahara Hotel in in the sumer of 1964, went on a belated honeymoon for a month in Mexico and ended back in Vegas, baby, Vegas and took to my bed for 3 months. I read every book that I had wanted to read in college and got fat. By January, I knew my isolation was on overdrive and I went to some place called Nevada Southern University to finish what I thought was my last semester of college. Alas, they didn't have a theater major - I had actually completed my major - and I had to start all over again with another major. So theater became my minor and history became my major with an emphasis on education. A year and a half later, I graduated with a teaching credential, fully credentialed in history and theater and went off to teach drama in high school. I was back in theater minus the PhD.

I had a wonderful career in Las Vegas. From high school teaching, I then taught at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas (name changes do wonders for the institution of higher learning), received a masters in Education and Theater and wrote two textbooks on acting. I acted in summer rep for years at the university and even ended up at the Kennedy Center one year to participate in the top ten theater productions around the country. I taught acting and stage movement as an adjunct professor. And then I reached the glass ceiling. There were no full time female professors in the theater department at the time and there wouldn't be for many years to come. There was no way to get a permanent position in theater, and so I went down the street and opened up my own theater. And for the next five years, I was ran a professional equity year round theater. It was what I had always wanted to do. Those were most difficult years of my life but the most joyful and fulfilling.

When my marriage was over, the theater was over. I left town and pursued acting in San Diego (kids in tow) and worked professionally for two years more. And then the party ended. I no longer felt the need to wait back stage for my cue. The year was 1982 and I went to Los Angeles and changed career directions and ended up in film school (American Film Institute) and never coached an actor or directed a play until two weeks ago.

The Jewish Women's Theatre is an organization that gives voice to Jewish writers, actors and artists. I was asked to join the board of advisors last summer. I'm not a joiner. I don't like groups without men. I like the mix of male/female hormones in a room. Women's groups creep me out. The matriarchs comes out in droves. Women get a chance to show power and get their mood swings validated without men watching. I said yes because I liked the idea of the format. Four evenings of salon readings. I pictured it like a reader's theater program. I like the idea of working with narrative material. My evening was to be called "Jewish Women Do Men." At the time, I wondered if Jewish women had a separate and unique take on men or had different relationships with their men that every other culture and/or religion didn't possess. I suspected that there is a universal context for relationship between men and women.

The director of the theater and I went through lots of narratives material, plays and poems. We selected the material and we shaped the evening. It wasn't fun. I wanted it to be fun but I was the new kid on the block and what did I know? I was used to working in the theater in collaborative relationships that were joyful and not stressful. Going back to a theater concept was suddenly angst. What was going on? Ever heard of mano a mano? This so-called collaboration had aspects of a dictatorship. I was mostly on the losing end. But we toughed it out over the material and I was reasonably pleased with the selections but not perfectly pleased. My eyes and ears were not her eyes and ears. I don't think we ever came to a full understanding of the material.

The director is supposed to casts the evening. I wasn't allowed to do that. Someone else picked the actors. We waited two weeks for a "star" to accept a role. Never happened. I finally brought in an actress that I knew would do a wonderful job. Then, I didn't have enough rehearsal time. That was standard operating procedure with this group. Nothing ever looked polished. Was I really in charge of directing or did I have a someone next to me to give me notes? I wasn't in full charge.

I was to do the first two pieces. The first piece was about how I know men through the lens of Argentine tango. Then my friend and I danced tango. My second piece was a reading from my book, Sixty, Sex, & Tango, Confessions of a Beatnik Boomer. I was back on the boards again, back in front of audiences. Piece of cake, I thought because I am in front of my yoga students daily. I "work" rooms of 60 students. I free-flow ideas and sometimes crack jokes and create an atmosphere in which joy prevails.

After several tough days with the person in charge of the theater, I was determined to go back to a theater experience that made sense to me, to get a sense of the actors, to rehearse more and to get a rhythm of performance going. I knew how to do that; I had done it for twenty-five years once upon a time in my past and I still had the chops to do it now.

I wondered: is what we once chose as a profession always available to us? Was I born with the capacity and the love of theater and was it true that I could never lose that feeling? Was it in my DNA?

"You really know what you're doing," the theater founder said to me one night at rehearsal. "I can learn a lot from you."

Years of classes on acting, acting styles, writing, directing, performing, organizing, setting plays for the seasons, having an eye for what is good and what works, for the tone and style and rhythm of a play or an evening - how do you learn that in one or two nights of watching someone direct or coach an actor. It's passion with a high degree of education and it's in your blood, your heart, your mind and it never leaves you, ever. That's what I learned through this experience and I never knew beforehand that it was possible to still possess the knowledge and skill of once upon a time having all of that inside of me.

The three evenings went very well. We all got better each night and by the third night we could have done a week of performances. A group consciousness had been built and joy came into our work. It was an ensemble and we were hitting our stride. It's what we do in the theater. It's what we love about the theater.

Namaste

Joan

Hail! to Keith O

Hi, Boomers,

I'm in a Boomer kind of mood right now. It's JFK's 50th anniversary of his inauguration and I remember it like it was yesterday. It was the beginning of the second semester of my senior year in high school, and I was pissed that I wasn't 18 and I couldn't vote for Kennedy. I was in Catholic school so JFK was like a God to us all. First Catholic president ever! Hooray, for the Catholics around the world. Hooray, for the Pope (Pope John XXIII)! Hooray for all of us Catholics who endured those Holy Name nuns and ugly school uniforms.

It was a high flyin' Democratic world in those years. We just got rid of Ike, old Ike and World War II was a memory. We had hope and prosperity ahead and a good looking president and first lady. We didn't know a whole heck a lot about JFK except he came from a family of nine kids and had a father that was the Ambassador to England and before that Joe Kennedy bootlegged scotch into America from Ireland. He couldn't be all that bad. John Kennedy had a mysterious and beautiful wife who spoke like she had half of her throat closed up, but she knew a heck of a lot about art and she had decorating skills. They were both rich and endowed with smarts. And JFK knew all the best and the brightest in the Eastern establishment and that was when intellect counted as an attribute in those days. No one honored citizens who carried guns and spouted Second Amendment rights.

It's all nostalgic now and all "once upon a time in Camelot" fairy tale remembrances, but the real truth came out later and the picture got more complicated and more scary. I was listening to NRP this morning and heard a political science professor speaking about when presidents or heads of state lie to one another (think Wiki Leaks) or worse, when presidents and heads of state lie to their people. He just wrote a book about this subject with a very long title. Is it right or is it wrong? Is it necessary sometimes or is it not necessary at all? Lying. Mendacity as Big Daddy says in "Cat On A Hot Tin Roof." JFK lied to us. He never told us how dangerous it was during the Cuban Missile Crisis. We found out later in books and reports that we were hours from a nuclear disaster. Our president didn't want to worry us, and that was thoughtful and probably for the best because the true story as it materialized in later years was truly frightening. So the professor said that it was okay that JFK lied to us, but that ordinarily it was better to lie to heads of other states and nations than to the people. (see Wiki Leaks) Looking back on those 11 days of terror that we didn't know about, it seems to me the voting public could have come together in support and made it a moment of brilliance together. But what do I know of human nature.

So last night before Bill Maher, I was watching this new Piers Morgan interview show and noting that George Clooney is beautiful and sexy but not so fascinating as others think he is, and this fluff piece was dying on the vine as the real news about Keith Olbermann's leaving MSNBC woke everyone up. Days after Viacom bought the NBC, Keith O decided to bail from his truth perch probably because to stay on with his unique (part Billy the Kid/part Elmer Gantry) signature show would be an uphill battle with Viacom. It didn't matter that he built the NBC offshoot and made it into a success with Rachel Maddow and Larry O'Donnell following close behind. I think Keith O deciding to leave is about the truth, truth-seeking and truth processing in news today. We've got a lot of lying talking heads around town and the truth gets distorted and lost and the guys that do that are bullies. There has to be someone on the other side who dissects the failed logic.

On that point: last night on Maher's show, this conservative political writer for The Wall Street Journal had so many statistics and facts incorrect that Rachel Maddow had to stand up and cut through this guy's babbling nonsense to re-establish the truth. Gee, I hope Rachel and Larry aren't canned any time soon because we will have to search high and low to recruit the truth- tellers. You have to go a long way to find a Keith O- truth-teller.

Should leaders tell their constituents the truth? Damn right! We don't get enough of the truth. The truth should get us prepared for facing our issues head on with logic and planning and executing . The truth should be brave and unequivocal and a lightening rod for sound reasoning. We vote and we are owed the truth because when the lie comes out, it isn't flattering or reputable and we pay a price somewhere down the line.

I think us boomers can relate to that.

Namaste

Joan

Forgiveness

Hi, Boomers,

Sad times for the nation at this moment. We are all consumed with tragedy. We are looking for something or someone to blame. It's only natural. Innocent people were killed by a young man who saw he world differently than a normal, functioning, rational being. It happens too often in our world. The taking of human life has very little meaning in some parts of the world, even our world, our America. Since 1982, when the shooter was born, there have been something like ten other shootings by young men whose only rational thought was, "You're not making the world the way I think it should be."

I remember when 9/11 occurred in 2001. I was taking yoga teacher training at that time when the tragedy hit our nation with full force. We were all numb in class; we were waiting for some kind of direction from our teacher, Max Strom. We sat in silence for a long time in class. Speaking wasn't an option for any one of us. Max then reminded us that we couldn't do anything about this tragedy. He also reminded us that even though the deaths and destruction took place outside of us, we were still connected by divineness to everyone involved, including the high-jackers. What we could do in that moment in our yoga studio was to send our love and light to everyone affected by the tragedy, including the families of those who planned the attack because they had lost their sons in a futile effort to make the world into what they wanted it to be.

It is difficult to forgive when one follows an ideology to the letter, when one fantasizes that acts of terror will change people's minds and hearts. Ideologies promote the "you're wrong and I'm right" mindset that is so very destructive to societies. Everyone has opinions and everyone has the right to that opinion, but it is unlikely that people and societies who espouse their ideas will force others to conform. It's a useless supposition. It is a perception out of whack with human nature.

I had a sweet moment with my dear friend and fellow yogini on Sunday that brought the day and a half of non stop angst to somewhat of a normal level. Annie had read my book, Sixty, Sex, & Tango, Confessions of a Beatnik Boomer - in fact, she is in the book - but she had to let me know how important my last chapter was to her. The chapter is called, "Calm To The Core." It begins with a tex message from a Chinese royal named Hong-Shi (1704- 1727).

"When zen practice

is completely developed,

there is no center,

no extremes;

There are no edges or corners

it's perfectly round, frictionless"

The last section in the book is subtitled: "Forgiving is a Bitch"

It begins: "It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye."

It's challenging and completely exasperating to forgive someone. Annie struggled for years with forgiveness. It wasn't until her parents had finally passed away that she was able to come to grip with her anger and hostility toward them. She still struggles with forgiveness - there are good days and bad days - but the section on forgiveness has given her a deeper insight in the mantra of forgiveness and how it is so important for us all because it enables us to move on in lives. If we don't forgive, we never move forward, achieve change or transformation.

I wrote about 9/11 and wondered if that act is forgivable. Now, I wonder about Tucson and I wonder if that is forgivable, too. I wonder if it is possible to separate the actual horrific acts from the perpetrators who are flawed and psychically sick. I think it is possible and I think it is difficult. But if I do not forgive others, I cannot forgive myself. I will always keep my inner anger inside myself and it will prevent me from living a truthful and honorable life. For me, the essence of forgiveness is a spiritual practice through which I can acquire clarity and stay close to my inner truth. To forgive is to be filled with grace, honor, and dignity.

Hate never yet dispelled hate. Only love dispels hate.

Namaste

The divine in me recognizes the divine in you.

Joan

Food For Thought

Hi, Boomers,

Happy Birthday! The first of the boomers turned 65 as of January 1, 2011. Hard to believe, isn't it. We always thought that we would be young forever. Social Security? Medicare? Not us! Boomers don't age. The first of of were born in 1946, and for the next 19 years, about 10,000 boomers will cross that threshold every day. Most of us will hold off the thought of turning 65 through exercise or Botox or face lifts or liposuction. And we will never cede our youth to calendar years or statistics.

However, the fact remains that seventy-nine million baby boomers, about 26 percent of the U.S. population and there is no turning back the clock. So what is interesting about this statistic is that boomers will all march into their 60's with varying degrees of acceptance.

Certain buzz words may sting worse than the chronological number of 65. "Old," "older" stings. What about social security or medicare? Ouch! That means I'm included in an aging population. Sixty-five is usually associated with the "R" word - retirement. We're young, for God sake, and retirement means I'm old, therefore, obsolete. No one wants me. I'm invisible in society. I'm the last to be waited on at the cosmetic counter.

Retirement stings - either forced or voluntary. Of course, some of us won't speak of retirement because our savings are are not what we thought they would be at 65 and we have to continue working; some of us will continue to show up for work out of fear that we might be left behind at 65. It's important to remain relevant and hip and with it and part of the fabric of our community. We don't want to turn into unfulfilled, self-absorbed boomers who are racked with self-pity. Some form of work provides identification to our psyches. Most of us won't want to exit the job force at 65 or 66 and sit in contemplation until the end of our life - except my therapist who chooses to do so.

Since the last of the boomers to turn 65 will do so in 1964, it is not clear that we can ascribe a cogent set of characteristics to the entire boomer generation. I was born three years before the first set of boomers were born, but I do lump myself in to the boomer generation because I'm not typically a World War II baby. My frame of reference growing up includes all that is typical and familiar to that those born in 1946. I was raised in a more nurturing, child oriented environment. I could be seen and heard in polite society. Dr. Benjamin Spock was my mother's guru. While I learned something of human relationships via the television, I was treated to the finer subtleties of life through the movies. Yet, I wasn't captivated by marketing or advertising and never begged my mother endlessly to buy me an angora sweater or a poodle skirt. Because my parents were still old-school when it came to raising children, I wasn't convinced that the way to get through adolescence was through rebellion. "Rebel Without A Cause" was not my favorite movie. I was taught that one worked very hard to get what wanted or needed and kept a keen eye on book learning. There were no free lunches in my world.

Of late, there has been a lot of talk about the depressed state of boomers. Perhaps those boomers born later were fed the "entitlement" line - as in I'm entitled to my large pension, to my full 401K, my bailout, my medicare, my social security - were heavily disappointed when it came time to cash in or cash out. "Show me the money!" Well, guess, what? The money isn't all there, along with the expectation, the demand, the freedom of choice. Today, these are not always options in our lives. Maybe boomers thought all that "stuff" would keep us young and carry us forward to our heavenly resting place. And it's a pity that for some of us that it didn't pan out like that, but it's not the end of our boomer world.

The end of the world is thinking that we are still entitled to our fair share even though we might have made some bad money decisions, even though we might have been let go from our jobs before their expiration date, even though our economy tanked two years ago or more if we were just paying attention. Life is not always a level playing field.

I'm still working. I'm even planning to create other sources of income. I'm still excited by life at 67. At 67 my parents were still building homes and condos and apartment buildings. I remember them being so very young at 67 that I couldn't imagine them getting old and they really never did get old because life was still a joyous ride for them until the end. Those two people married during the depression and persevered to make their lives better and richer and more creative. And they set the example. They were the gold standard.

So boomers are young and vital still. It's a mind set and a vocation to be 65. If we are settled financially, we can volunteer and give back and make the lives of others more fulfilling. There is joy in enriching our lives at any age at any time. If we lack access to full funding for our later years, we can create many positives in our life. I just read an article about a Los Angeles poet who got laid off from her job at a museum and is now blogging about stories of people who have lost their jobs but who are making positive contributions to their lives by working differently and making a difference. We all possess tenacity and creativity if we just look deeper within ourselves.

Boomers don't have to make a wholesale redefinition of growing older. We are any age at any time as long as we don't buy in to labels, to statistics, to depression, to the mantra of the bad news on television. Turn off the sound and listen to your heart. That is where eternal youth resides.

Namaste

Joan

Post Dramatic New Year's Disorder

Hi, Boomers,

I think I have a computer hangover.

I made it through the new year's weekend of excessive, very excessive tango dancing in San Diego at the annual new year's festival with more than my fair share of sore feet and ankles. I never know what to expect from tango festivals; that is to say, I never know who is going to show up except my immediate posse of friends (both male and female) because we share our tango plans ahead of the event.

I attend these festivals for three reasons: to dance excessive tango for days on end; to sell my book (Sixty, Sex, & Tango, Confessions of a Beatnik Boomer), and to commune with good tango friends from around the U.S. and, hopefully, to meet new people and I can guarantee that I always do meet the most interesting people along the way. I bring ten books and I usually sell out. My dearest friend, Anne Leva-Midon (Tangoleva.com) sets up her booth of fabulous tango clothes and she lets me display my books. We hang out during the day and talk and meet all kinds of tango addicts.

This year the dancing was tremendous fun and energetic and the music was outstanding. All the D.J.'s were terrific. The weather was absolutely beautiful around Point Loma. The skies were crystal clear blue and the temperature had a nice snap to it during the day. And, as always, the company was sublime. I even took a side trip to La Jolla to revisit my old stomping grounds. I lived in that village for two years sometime in my past and used to vacation there during the married years. The view from the Cove always sends a chill up my spine. At one time in the not too distant past, I used to swim in the Master's Race from the Cove out to a buoy a half a mile out. The mile swim in a race with other women my age was always the greatest physical challenge for me - not just for the mile but I could get seasick if the waves were too rigorous. I'm a wimp for sure.

And now I'm sitting in the Apple Store in Santa Monica waiting for my turn at the Genius Bar. My CD player doesn't work. And, yes, it's the beginning of a new year but it's the same old relationship with Apple. This is the third time in a week that I have frequented this store and I'm wondering if I'm actually visiting the people who work in the Apple Store because I like them or do I really have problems with my computer. Sometimes I do have a problem and sometimes I don't - as in I've asked a dumb questions in the past and wasted genius people's time behind the counter.

But of late, the real intrigue, the real relationship has to do with that 11 inch, newly designed MacBook Air. I adore it. I thought I adored the IPad and I thought a lot about the IPad - probably more than I thought about any man in my life. But now I am only thinking about the Air. Sexy comes to mind. I pet it on the display table; I fondle it and lift it up to experience the lightness. I place my fingers on the keyboard and breathe slowly.

Do I want the Air because I'm looking for something exciting to celebrate 2011? Is it because I'm going to travel a lot in the new year and want something lighter? What is it with me and the compact, light sensuous MacBook Air? Is it a replacement for a boyfriend because I've given up on finding boyfriends? I feel I have a real disorder surrounding my desire. If the truth be told, my MacBook, my solid, beautiful 13 inch black MacBook still has life and love left in it. It has six months more to go before I we celebrate our third year relationship. It has been my constant and sustaining companion through thick and thin, through writing and editing my book, through travels to Curacao, to Denver, to Portland to Santa Fe, to Park City, to the monthly trips to Las Vegas. I even sleep with it sometimes. No, I don't cuddle with it in bed, however, because that would take it over the top.

I feel guilty. I feel fickle. I feel I'm cheating. I've just got to live with it without my Air. My gleaming silver Air. But it's faster in speed than my black MacBook. But they don't make black Macbooks anymore. I'm surly going to have to make my peace with my present computer state. After all, I brought in the new year with it and we were happy together. I'll think about it tomorrow at Tara. Good night, Scarlett.

I'm a day late, but a happy new year to all. Peace, joy and good health and let's add some needed prosperity.

namaste

joan

My Tao

Hi, Boomers,

It's Christmas day. It's quiet and everyone is napping except my son. He and I are watching the Lakers game. I'd love to be in the stands at Staples Center and watch the game with Miami up close and in personal. My sons have season tickets but they live in Las Vegas at the moment. They've been going to Laker games since they were in grammar school in Beverly Hills when their physical education coach took them to their first games. Even though they can't see the Lakers play at Staples regularly (they sell the tickets when they don't use them), they have vowed to keep the season tickets into eternity. Every once in awhile I got to see a game with one of my sons. I love basketball and I love the Lakers.

It's a peaceful day. I still feel the joy of being in Park City with my oldest son and his family - my three grandsons from and my wonderful daughter in law. This morning I took them to the airport to catch a flight to Florida to be with their other grandparents. Last night we had a family dinner with #2 son and his family - and another grandson and baby granddaughter - and it rocked with energy. Son #2 made a fabulous meal - he's an unbelievable chef - and I sat back in my chair with a glass of red wine and thought how blessed I have been in my life. For months now I have been astounded at the joy I have felt. For so long, my journey has felt like a bumpy road; but lately, it's been quite smooth. Is it my age - an arrival of some kind of wisdom? Is it the decades of putting one foot in front of another to keep my life moving in a positive direction? Is it finally that I have slowly realized that I have been so blessed with a sense of gratitude that life truly is peaceful?

The practice of my tao, my journey of truth consists in daily losing. I accept this idea of loss because it is in my surrender to it the loss that I stay conscious, offer gratitude, release attachments, and find balance in yin and yang of all that makes up my life.

The end of a year gives all of us the opportunity to pause and reflect about the state of our being, our souls, and to connect with ourselves in a more profound sense. In meditation, we learn to empty our minds and resist the impulse to fill ourselves up with needless thoughts and judgments, which only cause anxiety and stress. In the final days up to the end of the year, I find that clearing the mind of the unnecessary thoughts leads me to clear intentions in the days ahead.

As I bring in each new year, it has been my habit to celebrate the wonderful experiences of the past year and to note the losses as a positive learning experience. Then, I look forward to bringing in this new year with a sense of excitement and anticipation and positive energy. And I renew with conviction to my family and dear friends and to my devotion to yoga and meditation.

A happy new year to all.

Namaste

Joan

First Kiss and Six Degrees of Separation

Hi, Boomers,

Alas, I have some free time. My year old grandson is asleep with his morning nap and everyone in my family is out. The two older grandsons are in ski school and their parents, my son and daughter in law are picking up my ex-husband a lady friend up from the airport. I'm in Park City on a family week's vacation and it is so beautiful that I can't take my eyes off the snow coming steadily down every minute of the day and night. We are packed in and it is completely serene.

The other day I received a note on my Facebook page from a boy who gave me my first kiss in the back row of the Rafael theater in San Rafael. I was astounded and, well, so downright astounded that I coudn't move for several minutes. He was my first love in fifth grade, and he, a much older boy in the sixth grade, was my sexual experience. The First Kiss. I will never forget. And I remember vividly this first crush because I really liked him for a very long time. I'm that kind of girl: hard to let go of really like or love because people get close to my heart, inside my heart and I'm way too sensitive to that condition. This note from my first crush - a good kisser as I recall because I remember good kissers - gave me pause in so many ways.

It has taken me awhile to get use to this social networking gig. For so long, I resisted. In time, I just discovered that if I surrendered and accepted what is instead of fighting what I want it to be that I would be okay, it would be all right in my brain and I could cope. As a result of my released anxiety and rigidity, I've reconnected with a good portion of my high school graduating class and renewed friendships and even engaged in making really good friends with those people I didn't even know very well in high school. When I had my reading and signing of my book, Sixty, Sex, & Tango, Confessions of a Beatnik Boomer, at Barnes and Noble in November in Corte Madera, CA, I was astounded at the warmth and comfort of seeing some my old classmates who live in the area, and some even came from the east coast. I was elated and excited and I still carry that joy with me. And it was all a result of social networking. Who knew?

My first kiss reminded me that we are all separated by only six degrees. We know people who know people who know people and then we all know the same people in a few strokes. My fifth grade boyfriend was talking to some friends at his high school reunion in October of this year, and they were talking about "what ever happened to...." and my name came up. The two guys he was talking to knew me well in school - one from grammar school at St. Raphael's and the other from our high school, Marin Catholic High School in Kentfield. One was on the cheerleading squad with me and I adored him. He married his high school sweetheart whom I adored, too. Kind of reminded me of three guys in a locker room talking about the girls in school and how they discover who "puts out" and who doesn't. But thankfully they weren't talking about my first kiss but where I was and how I could be contacted on Facebook. So my first boyfriend contacted me. Turned out to be a smart guy and a blogger, too.

I also found an old favorite friend on Linkedin yesterday. I thought she still lived in Idaho and found out she is back in LA and I'm thrilled - we are joyous to have each other back in our lives. These connections have happened so often since this social networking paradigm has exploded that I am still in a state of wonderment.

In the beginning, I hated text messaging. I write in my book about my loathing of the construct of texting instead of actually hearing another voice on the phone (which I still prefer). It upset me to think that social interaction had taken such a wrong turn. But my private yoga clients kept texting me and it drove me crazy and in defense I had to text them back because I know they were too busy to talk to me on the phone to discuss changes in their schedules. I was finally convinced that I had to be involved in the texting connection. All my young and beautiful yoga clients were thrilled.

In our modern society it is difficult to have straight, honest social interaction. In my life, the only way left to me is by dancing Argentine tango. Through tango, one socializes and rediscovers a meeting point with people that can rarely be found in modern society: the embrace of two people, the shared wordless conversation with pauses and physical embellishments, the thrill of the music recognized by a man and a woman. Texting pales besides this kind of human connection. Tango has staying power because its conventions and traditions remain constant and comforting. I will never succumb to dancing apart to house music. It's the sterile cuckoo.

Today, there is an outright race to see who can reinvent the reinvention of the social networking media. I'm not going to be an old fogey about this state of affairs. Hey, I'm even one to download movies on my computer for entertainment because I'm too lazy or cheap or more than likely don't have a date to go the movies and experience the film in its glorious color and technology and immediacy of performance. I can take the easy way out, too, but it's not such an amazing experience without the full monty.

So we need to make accommodations to our social interaction. It's so much fun to hear from my first kiss, my first boyfriend, and so much joy to hear from my travel friend who is taking an amazing trip to Patagonia, and so happy to receive word from my oldest best friend since childhood that she is gathering her spirits after the death of her beloved husband and creating new traditions for the holidays. What could be better at this stage of my life to take up the slack of social interaction when everyone lives so far apart? I am blessed by the the instrument of the computer, the electronic age, and the genius brains of all those pioneers who take us to another level of communication.

The best thing about all this is that no one, absolutely no one, can take away from us the face to face, body to body embrace.

Namaste

Joan

Time Out

Hi, Boomers,

I've been a work horse all my life. It almost seems like I'm not living if I'm not working. It could be actually working like in an office or writing as in a screenplay or marketing my book as in Sixty, Sex, & Tango, Confessions of a Beatnik Boomer (I'm throwing that in for my friend who needles me about my endless plugs for my book) or taking care of children or grandchildren. But I'm always working at something.

The question has been: is it ever possible for me to actually relax and enjoy doing practically nothing or actually nothing. There are those who have no problem with that; I'm not one of them. At least, I haven't been up until recently.

Last week, on my vacation to Curacao, an island in the Caribbean that is close to Venezuela and part of the ABC islands (Aruba, Bonaire and Curacao), I became a believer that relaxation was possibility in my life. Maybe it was the company I was keeping on the island or maybe it was the island itself - the small isolated beaches that were practically empty, the sound of the water lulling me into a mindless stupor, the birds endless singing in the palm trees, the warmth of the Caribbean waters - maybe all of that was the reason why I was actually chilling. Or maybe it was the cherubic smile that was always on the face of my companion. But I gave up my control of my universe. I surrendered all thought, all anxiety, all sense of thinking that I was missing something elsewhere in the world. I relaxed fully and joyfully. Of course, it's always nice to have some help.

I love to travel. I feel like I can have full range of motion on with my life. The journey away from the comfort of my home and the routine of my life is therapeutic. I may fight my way into my time away from Los Angeles; I may not want to really go a week before, but when when I settle in on that plane to somewhere, I know I am in the right place.

Perhaps it's the seduction of wanderlust. It engulfs me from time to time and when I am away from home, I am truly away without much thought to what is going on back at the ranch. And I think I have become partial to islands because I felt the same way in Bali in August. These island cultures sweep me away with their indigenous populations and particular habits and behaviors. Their cultures fascinate me and I dive head first into the history of its land and people. There is so much to see and so much to learn. Judgments are limited and perspective enlarge.

We stayed at a place called The Scuba Lodge. It doesn't look much different on the outside from the other buildings in the block except for those buildings that are being renovated, and they, too, will eventually become little boutique residences for tourists. The buildings are all in the neo-colonial architecture style, each with a different brightly painted color. And if you know anything about Curacao, the locals love color. It's the most colorful island of all of the Caribbean islands. However, behind the gate of our choice of residence, we found the most charming atmosphere. A married couple from Holland (they moved to Curacao thirteen years ago) own and operate the Scuba Lodge and they also run a diving school. There is no sandy beach behind the building, but there are steps to the warm ocean waters where the divers enter. The scene is so serene, especially when we sit at the bar and look out over the ocean at sunset. The Dutch youth who work at the lodge are personable, bright, funny and way good looking. They make espresso and serve breakfast in the morning and if you want a late snack at night, they can whip up a tuna sandwich that will knock your socks off. The lodge is clean and well kept.

My friend and I practically had the run of the place. We arrived a week before the season officially began and we parked ourselves at the bar or danced tango in the big room surrounded by scuba equipment and wet suits and blasted our tango music. During the late hours of the morning, many people dropped by to socialize and catch up on some local gossip. We met people from Finland and Holland and Germany. The place reminded me of what Key West might have been like when Hemingway visited. People of like minds, travelers, writers, ex-Pats, gather in a place to commune with one another in an honest exchange of ideas and opinions. We can all discover the history of a place, it's origins and culture and present mood, but it's the people one meets on the road to that discovery which makes the experience come alive. During the days, we snorkeled at the various small beaches and saw live coral and so many types of fish that I lost track of them all. I can still smell the salt water and taste it on my mouth. Glorious days of floating and swimming will live on in my memory. The stillness in the water was incredible.

I am now sitting in my son's kitchen in Vegas babysitting three of my grandsons and looking forward to spending more of my vacation time with my family. This will be yet another way of letting go and surrendering to the present and not returning my thoughts to my home. Bodies and minds in motion - it's a wonderful place to be.

Happy holidays to everyone. A joyous and peaceful new year to all.

Namaste

Joan

Brother Where Art Thou?

Hi, Boomers,

It's always the best laid plans that go astray in my life. I was away for two consecutive weekends; one weekend was the tango festival in Albuquerque where I danced and sold my book, SIXTY, SEX, & TANGO, CONFESSIONS OF A BEATNIK BOOMER; and just last weekend I was in San Francisco for a book signing at Barnes&Noble in Corte Madera in Marin County. Just happened there was a tango marathon festival in San Francisco. Then I had a house guest staying with me for a week and I have been itching to blog and have had no free time. The week was a whirlwind of activity between teaching and my friend's needs.

But the essence of the San Francisco trip was my book signing - an event that was a kickoff for my 50th high school reunion next year. I landed in Berkeley on Friday night with my friend, Marc, who picked me up at the Oakland airport and I was immediately hit with memories of Berkeley in the 60's. I seemed to be carrying nostalgia for hours on end as memories engulfed me. There was San Francisco looming as we crossed the Bay Bridge; the hilly city streets I was so familiar with; Broadway and Columbus; North Beach, the Broadway studio, which was once a bordello where we danced tango on Friday night. I was tripping.

Before I knew it I was headed to Marin on Sunday morning to have a delightful brunch with an old school chum and his wife. Then to the bookstore to set up and then the arrival of friends from high school, especially my oldest best friend since I was two years old. It was so good to hug her and be in her presence. And those from my high school class were absolutely terrific people who evidently live with a lot of happiness.

Then, out of nowhere, I feel a tap in my shoulder. I turned around and there was my sister in law. It took me a moment to re-adjust to my surroundings. I thought I was in Vegas and I suddenly forgot what I was supposed to be doing.

"Where's my brother?" I asked without thinking. "He's coming," she responded casually.

There he was. My brother was walking towards me smiling like he had just swallowed the canary. That cool cat, my brother. I was speechless and feeling so loved that I wanted to collapse in tears.

"Did you drive from Vegas?" I gulped. "Of course. We left this morning?"

'You're crazy," I joked.

"Wouldn't miss it, Joan," he said with joy.

Who does that? Who loves his sister so much that he wouldn't miss her reading in our home town? What did I ever deserve to have a brother who is so selfless and tenacious, a man whose values have always been in the right place.

"Did you visit mom's apartments in Greenbrae?" I asked.

"Yep, all five are there and in great condition."

My mom and dad built apartment building in the Greenbrae hills and they are a great source of pride in my family.

The reading, the event with old friends who were smiling and laughing and supporting was icing on the cake. I loved this moment more than ever because my brother was there! I decided to read from the tango section of my book and then my friends and I did a tango demonstration. And there were questions after and there was so much interest that we could have gone on for another half hour. My brother had never seen me dance tango. It was special.

I think that there could be no higher joy that seeing my brother walking up to me in the Barnes&Noble children's section that afternoon. I know I will cherish this memory and experience for the rest of my life and it will be one of the highlights of living on this earth.

Namaste

Joan

Tango and Other Addictions

Hi, Boomers,

My favorite doctor friend, one of the most important opthamologists and plastic surgeons (neck up only, please) in Los Angeles, said to me today, "I wish I could live just one day of your life."

She has no idea what a crazy day inside my body and mind can produce. And sometimes, I'm even surprised at how my day turns out. Be careful what you wish for, my adorable and brilliant friend because your world is incredibly fulfilling. Besides, my friend studied music at Julliard, which makes her the envy of my eye, and she and her doctor husband go to Africa to to take care of those who have so little in their lives. Now, that's a life worth living!

I went to a tango festival in Albuquerque, New Mexico, over the weekend with a stay-over in Santa Fe for two nights with one of my very best friends, a designer of tango clothes and other fabulous outfits. I went to the festival with my load of books to sell (Sixty, Sex, & Tango, Confessions of a Beatnik Boomer) and with my best intentions not to dance like a maniac for two and a half days. I was mindful that I did have a serious condition called pneumonia. That condition doesn't go well with high altitude and Albuquerque is about 5,000 feet (Santa Fe about 7,000 feet). I barely made it to a couch in the Hilton Hotel where the tango festival was going to be held. Except for Thursday night when I arrived, I found out we had to drive to another destination for the milonga (the venue where we dance tango).

I walked in to a warehouse that had been transformed into an urban chic, totally cool atmosphere. We could have been in Soho for all we knew. Old doors from around the world lined the walls and tables were decorated with clever bright paper flowers. The dance floor was full and tango music filled the room. My expression changed from dog tired to excitement.

My addiction began to take hold. I'm like Pavlov's dog. I hear tango music and I have to dance. This has been a sixteen year addiction, but not the kind of addiction that I trekked off to Buenos Aires and lived there for years and forsook my family and all personal responsibility. Although I have been to BsAs thirteen times, I only once heard the call to move there and then it passed as quickly as it came upon me (Hey, Joan, why don't you teach English as a second language to Argentine executives every day and dance all night and that would last about a week and I'd die of exhaustion).

But I stil have a deep love affair with tango music and dance. I'm often thrilled and elated by its rhythms accompanied by the characteristics sound emanating from the bandoneon, the instrument created by a German just for tango music.

Three years ago, I decided to try to lead a normal life unlike the nomadic life of a tango dancer. I stopped cold turkey from going to Buenos Aires every year. I realized that I'd never see more of the world if I just kept repeating myself as a tango dancer going to Mecca once a year. What more could the Argentine world offer me in terms of personal growth and experience?

I pulled away reluctantly that first year and went to Costa Rica in March, the usual time of my trip to Buenos Aires. I felt liberated. It was like I had abandoned my pack a day habit and my trip to someplace else became a triumph of personal strength. And then I went to Spain and Morocco the next year, and then I went to Bali and I was seeing the world through different eyes and difficult cultures. And I felt I had choices once again.

And suddenly, I began to notice that I was becoming a better dancer, a more mindful interpreter of the tango music. a dancer whose detachment found a deeper attraction to the tango world.

I was dancing one night at the festival with a really adorable young man who has danced about three years. And he was a very good dancer, rhythmic, sensitive to the dance conversation, attentive to his partner. He has a smile you could drown in . There was a break after the tanda (three or four tangos played in a row after which there is a break) and Rick was telling me how much he loved to dance tango and how he wished he were me - someone who had danced for sixteen years and traveled to Buenos Aires frequently.

"Be careful, Rick," I said. "You can drown in tango and never grow. It's kind of a trap like all addictions. One sees the world in fantasy when someone is an addict, no matter the drug and it's dark down there in addiction-land. It's hard to climb out but I haven't been to Argentina in a long time and I don't miss the scene."

Rick looked at me totally riveted and was silent for a short time.

"You're right, Joan. I've felt that, the darkness sometimes when you feel too much or go too deep in tango. Too much tango can stunt your growth and it's hard to come up for air."

"Too much of anything can stunt your growth. Tango doesn't produce growth. Tango produces more of tango and that's when there's too much attachment, too much fervor, and too much of anything is never good."

I danced the weekend in spurts because my breath wasn't fully back. I did see my old tango maestro on Friday night and we danced like we had been dancing for the last decade together. We danced seamlessly and he glided me across the floor as if I had never left his arms. Tango is still my drug of choice but I was sure that I would continue to take steps toward personal growth and exploration in the future. Let's hope it lasts.

Namaste

Joan

I'm Down, But Don't Count Me Out

Hi, Boomers,

Nothing like getting sick, I mean really sick like in the worst pneumonia sick, like I mean the kind they call "whopping pneumonia, and "that's the worst right lung I've ever seen," to get one thinking: how the hell did I get this sucker?

Denial is one way I got sick. Over working is another way I got sick. Not resting between my yoga gigs is another way. Like not paying attention to my life and how it's going.

Okay, okay, I'm awake. I've sort of got it. I teach 27 classes of yoga Monday through Friday. On Friday, I consider myself resting with one or two classes at most and they are fun and one is tango. I always have my after the tango lessom margarita with my friend, John, and we discuss politics, the pros and cons of voting, and real estate. I'm his new real estate guru and I love having that friendship thing going on whereby I protect him (adore him) like there is nothing more important on the planet for me. The weekend is gravy: I dance and rest somewhat on the weekends.

Lately, however, incorporated into my regular work schedule is the planning and marketing and book signing for SIXTY, SEX, & TANGO, and trying to get some articles out of the PR person I hired, and flying to Vegas to see my grandchildren - now five - I got myself into a pickle, Olie, and I've got pneumonia to prove it. What'd ya think of that kettle of fish?

Not good. Last weekend in Vegas I ran around with both my son's growing families - to lunch with Jordan at his school, to Luc and Greyson for Shabbat lunch at their school, to family gatherings, taking care of two babies, and then a change of plans. Greyson got a kid's modeling agent and there was a photo shoot in LA. on Sunday I drove back to LA with son #2, wife and two kids crushed between two baby seats with the air condition blowing on me. What a life! The LA shoot went extremely well but I was "on call" for that hour and a half. A late stop off for a fabulous milkshake at "Million Dollar Milkshake" and I was home. Yep. There is a fplace called "Million Dollar Milkshake" in West Hollywood on Santa Monica Blvd. (plug for you guys)

There was no rest and the week began again. My muscles started to ache on Tuesday night and I thought I had the flu. All week, I delayed and delayed and put off and put off until I was huddled outside the doctors office on Saturday afternoon waiting for them to open emergency care. I couldn't stand up.

I was almost delirious and in severe pain as I walked into the doctor's waiting room. Of course, I had just driven back from an hour and a half session with my website designer in Long Beach of all places. I was sitting in Starbucks, where else, and freezing and sucking on some good tea and drinking water by the galleons and not quenching my thirst. I had been dehydrated for days. When I got into the doctor's office and was given a blood panel, it took twenty minutes to get the blood and I passed out sometime during the time arm #2 was being drained. The chest XRAY proved conclusive that I had whopping pneumonia. As in, "I'm going to whop your ass if you don't get a new attitude!"

"I need to put you in the hospital," Dr. Boui said. "A case this severe calls for complete bed rest, preferably in a hospital."

I immediately pictured myself in a hospital bed in a shared room with someone wheezing and grunting and millions of bacteria gathering around me to infect me with staff.

"I'm sorry," I said to the doctor. "That's not possible. I don't do hospitals." Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, please never put me into a hospital.

"Then you must do nothing for four days," she replied with the upmost seriousness.

I almost laughed out loud but I knew this was serious. I had been a very bad girl and I must be punished, I thought, so I'll take my punishment like a soldier.

"Yes, I promise," I replied with my most serious actress face.

I was so relieved just to crawl out of the office and cross the street to CVS to get the antibiotics that I didn't even care of a car ran over me on San Vicente. I waited for the drug that would give me my old life back.

The pharmacy only had three pills left. I wanted to scream but instead I cried. I cried in CVS, not for the lousy service and the creepy store and the snot-nosed kids trying on their Halloween costumes, but because I wanted my fix.

"Come back on Monday afternoon and we'll get you the rest," the eternally sweet pharmacist said to me.

They gave me the three pills free because I was so pathetic and I walked feebly out of the store, thinking I was home free. But I wasn't free of anything, including my continued need to work and be productive and stay close to my family. In spite of having to rest, to go to bed at 7 pm and soak my sheets with sweat all night, I was so wishing that I was at my gala milonga Saturday night dancing with my adorable new Greek friend who had dressed up especially for me. God, I hate it when it works out that way.

I remind myself of a petulant adolescent who wants what she wants what she wants. It's not a good state to be in, but I am reflecting today as I blog that all hope for me may not be lost. This is a moment for reflection and for care. Om namah shivaya - translated to "I honor the divine within myself." I say this mantra every day but I evidently haven't understood it lately. So, I'm deciding to really take care of myself. I'm going to Curaco in December for a real rest.

Namaste

Joan

Bragging Rights

Hi, Boomers,

I was recently talking to a young mother about being a grandmother. I have five grandchildren at the moment, and I was telling her how sometimes unreal it all felt to have so many grandchildren, to love unconditionally so many children from my children. At that moment, I got all choked up and emotional.

I felt there had been no preparation for being a grandmother. Once my progeny left home, a declared all out freedom of movement, freedom of speech, freedom to do dumb things without children bearing down on me and co-opting my energy. It felt unbelievably liberating. It didn't feel unbearable - the empty nest and all of that. It didn't feel emotional disconnecting. No more meals to make, rules to make, beds to make, suitcases to pack and unpack, daily laundry to do, papers to write, prom dates to take pictures of, ski trips to pay for, cars to by, and the list goes on.

I am a parent who didn't feel depressed at sending my boys to college. I even encouraged the to choose a college back east. They went far away to meet new people and get new experiences and travel when then could do so. I saw them on the holidays or parent's day and finally graduation. Off to work, now, boys and get a good job, find a nice girl to marry.

And it stopped there. Stopped at find a nice girl and get married. Raising children was a memory, a dear memory sometimes and a nightmare memory other times. We've all been through it and we all know the drill.

Then one day, the oldest son, wants to get engaged. His intended is adorable, getting her PhD in psychology, stable, rather wonderful family, and all looks rosey for everyone. The wedding is large and beautiful, the parents are beyond happy, the guests are having a blast, and the honeymoon is a success.

And then one day two years later, my daughter-in-law is pregnant. And one day without warning, a baby boy appears and I am a grandmother. I don't know what to do, how to feel. Anxiety pervades my being and I am lost in another title. I thought I was done with titles. I was a wife and a mother and a significant other and those were enough titles. Sufficient! Basta! I wandered around being a grandmother for the first year. Just as I was getting the hang of it - diapering, feeding shifts, strolling, napping, crawling, talking the first steps, first words, building lego towers, dancing to music, picking up from pre-school - another grandchild is born. There were two grandsons now. I was going through it again. Different dynamic. Different little boy's personality. Same dance all over again. Lots of visits to Las Vegas to the family. Lots of flying. Lots more love and happiness and disconnect from grandmother title once I return home.

Son #2 gets finds his love, gets engaged, gets married in the meantime. Two years later, he has a boy. Now there are three. Are my arms big enough, strong enough? I still feel like I might not have the hang of being a grandmother. I'm single. My ex isn't the grandfatherly type and shows up every once in awhile. One day my oldest grandson asks me why Papa and I aren't living together. His idea of grandparents are that they live together in the same house. Papa and I do not live together, haven't so for decades.

Then another boy. And then several months ago, a girl. A girl! A real girl! Joy, joy! And I am in love with all of them and I finally find myself believing I am a grandmother.

I told the young girl that it sometimes felt surreal being a grandmother, but now mostly it feels real. Being a grandmother is another state of being. That's what I didn't get at the beginning of my grandmother journey. I'm operating on other cylinders as a grandmother. I'm not a mother. But I am responsible as a mother would be for the care and nurturing of my grandchildren when I am present with them. But then I am not there everyday so I have to be extra, extra conscious when I am with them. My job is to stay present with them in their real time and not worry about anything else.

My son said to me at breakfast this morning as we were about to drive to Los Angeles from Las Vegas for a photo shoot for his son because my grandson was signed by an agent to be a kid's model that if anything would happen to his wife and to him, I wouldn't be able to raise his kids.

"You wouldn't be able to do with other grandparents do," he said casually.

"You'd better believe I could take care of the kids!" I shot back. "I still have it in me to raise a few of my grandkids!"

"No, you wouldn't," he said.

"Yes, I would and don't you think otherwise," I proudly responded. "I still have the skills and fortitude to do it."

"Well, you are organized," he remembered.

And I'm still a mother lioness, I wanted to say, but stopped my protestations because I had made my point. My son wanted the reassurance that I would always be there to be a grandmother, and I believe I gave him every reassurance.

The photo shoot of his son went splendidly. It was amazing to watch a two and a half year old understand the camera. The photographer said he's get a lot of work with his look. He's the picture of all American apple pie with dreadlocks. Edgy, huh?

I've got bragging rights today.

Namaste

Joan

Pasionately Passionate

Hi, Boomers,

I spent the weekend dancing tango in Portland. I love the city of Portland. And I love dancing in that city. The combination is unusually pleasing. Portland is an old and new city. Even as it gentrifies it has an older charm. And it was raining over the weekend. It was a sweet and even rain, bordering on romantic. I felt warm and cherished by its consistency. In my tango world, the city favors the young. And Portland is crazy about tango. It is one of the best cities to dance in within the United States.

When I go away for the weekend to dance tango in other cities, I always meet up with my old friends and often meet new people. It has been interesting to me that most people who dance tango are very bright individuals. Conversation isn't always about tango, although it dominates the interest scale. I'm fascinated by what people do in the professional world. There are ER doctors, lawyers, ex-state troopers, engineers, dentists, environmental consultants, CFO's, accountants, astro physicists, musicians, computer scientists, web designers, massage therapists, nurses, and every other profession you can imagine.

There are not many yoga teachers, but dancing tango is a moving meditation and so it fits well with my profession. Tango is about breathing through the music and the movements and staying absolutely present - in the moment full of consciousness. And it's somewhat addictive emitting adrenalin and serotonin and dopamine into the body's system often causing exhaustion at the end of the evening.

Dancing tango often overtakes a person's brain functions as it promotes the repetition of its musical rhythms and familiar dance movements. It is often good to sit back and take breaks because a milonga can last all night - at the minimum four hours.

What did I get myself in to sixteen years ago? I've been all over the western world dancing tango, to Buenos Aires about thirteen times, to Denver, and New York, and Santa Fe, and San Diego, San Francisco, Albuquerque, and there are plans for more places to visit and dance. I understand that the dancing and music are my passions and I understand that tango is also part of my social life. And I also realize that I am one fortunate lady who just happened to wander in to a tango show in 1987 and found myself enchanted.

It's good to have a passion. And, yes, the passion has to be in balance with life. Not easy sometimes, but it's mentally and emotionally healthy to let all the light into our souls and live as richly as possible.

Namaste

Joan

A Tug of War or is it Divine?

Namaste, Boomers,

"The divine in me recognizes the divine in you." Namaste

I was passing a picture on my bookcase of my parents the other day and it a strange feeling came over me. I wanted to talk to my mother. I wanted to hear my father's laugh. And they were not around. My mother died in December of 2009. I missed her very much. My father died nine years ago.

I felt my inner child coming into my consciousness.

I wanted to tell my mother what was going on in my life; I wanted to talk about the publication of my book and I wanted to tell her that I was single and happy and not to worry about me. At that moment my grown up/adult woman met my inner child. It was a lovely moment, a moment without conflict or drama. It was just a moment of inner contentment.

I talked to a friend of my family today and he told me how proud my mother would be that I had arrived at this state in my life where joy met contentment.

I don't have to be at war with my inner child. My inner child is no threat to me even though I am an adult. It's okay to want to be near and close to my mother and father and to have them by my side again even though I am all grown up and taking good care of myself. I am well aware that any serious attempt to grow psychologically and spiritually involves some pain and sadness. As one of my tango friends wrote to me, "that's when stuff surfaces."

It's probably therapeutic to have some discourse with our inner child. The inner child can come out to play in the most unexpected moments, like dancing tango or practicing yoga or even in meditation when the mind is clear and allows emotions to rise to the surface. Of course, sometimes it can be frightening to experience my inner child take over my adult mind for several minutes. It can be disconcerting to our adult state. 'What are you doing to me, inner brat. I want to say, "Leave me alone. I'm find. I don't need you mucking up my present moment."

But my deep breath brings me peace and I let that inner child be and I find that I am no longer afraid of the emotional connection. I know it's okay to feel like I want to go back into the womb or to retreat to age of five when my mother was always there to help and comfort me. I let spontaneity reign free! I allow the inner child take over go with the emotional flow. I laugh and play and love freely.

I think my inner child helps me better understand my adult spontaneity and my creative impulses and allows me to rediscover the past clearly in terms of love rather than fear.

I was dancing tango the other night at a Wednesday milonga and my partner of the moment was telling me that my nose was cold, like a cat. I thought the remark was so playful and childlike and I made a meow sound during the tango. He laughed and I laughed. After the dance was over, he told me how nice it was to hear the meow sound and I put my hands over my face like a child would do in embarrassment and I thought how childlike I felt. The moment felt new and old at the same time. It reunited the child with the adult and my emotion, my joy, felt pure.

I often feel this kind of childlike freedom when I dance tango. It's reminds me of how I felt in therapy when my therapist told me that he wanted me to keep my inner child alive - he called it my inner pony - because that childlike energy was a part of my adult energy.

When I'm practicing yoga, I often feel like I'm flying high on a trapeze above the ground with pure joy without one iota of fear in my body and, without any mental resistance.

Tango and yoga are fearless experiences and effortless constructs for me. They somehow get near my inner child and touch the deepest part of my soul.

That's where my mother and father reside, too, in those deepest parts of my unconscious. When I bring that love and need into my conscious being it is a divine moment.

Namaste,

Joan

I Took A Trip To The Moon

Hi, Boomers,

I've been busy it seems. I started a new writing project. Not a book but a monologue on a theme that is to be part of the Jewish Women's Theater group salon readings for this coming year. This particular theme is: "Jewish Women Do Men." I've got plenty of material, but I have been wrestling with the format. I'm used to writing in a book format. I have to think "monologue." I'm under a seven to ten minute time limit - mostly like five minutes but I'm trying to stretch it. The fun part is that I will be doing it as a reading. But for some reason I'm stalling now. It's not that I have writer's block because I can yenta with the best of them. I think I keep getting interrupted by the clatter in my brain. I need to go away and write.

And I will tomorrow. I'm going to Las Vegas to be with my family over the Jewish new year. L'Shana Tova. Happy New Year to all my Jewish peeps. I think I've really been excited about being together with my family, having dinner and seeing the grandkids run around and play and take care of the new babies - Jude and Penelope. Bliss for me.

And last weekend over Labor Day I attended the Denver Tango Festival. There are two in Denver - Memorial Day and Labor Day. I'm still breathless about it all. The dancing was sublime. I had a wonderful experience. And yes, I was selling some copies of my book, Sixty, Sex, & Tango, Confessions of a Beatnik Boomer, and every last one was sold by the second day. I also brought a bunch of advertising 4x6 cards and they were quickly gone. What really astounded me was that most of the people who bought my book were men, even men much younger than 60! I'm wondering if I got the demographic wrong. Men scooped the book up and asked lots of questions and laughed out loud at my chapter headings and were full of enthusiasm about the project. Husbands were trying to entice their wives to look at the book but they weren't exactly that interested. Although I must say that the young girls who are my friends gave the book to their mothers and those women loved it. Anyway, it was all so much fun and exciting and I'm still a little on the moon about it.

Speaking of being on the moon, my beloved Jungian therapist retired at the end of August. I put a call in to him a week ago and wished him well. Mike, my therapist, changed my life. He had a profound influence on my psyche and on my spiritual journey. He's all over my book. In fact, he gave me the courage to write it, but he didn't know that because I didn't even know it until I began to write my memoir and Mike came pouring out.

Mike called me today to officially say good-bye even though I hadn't seen him in 2 years. We were kindred spirits - the same age, the same sensibilities, the same humor and wit and love for all kinds of things we found in common.

"What's in store for your retirement?" I asked Mike.

"I'm going to explore my two million year old man inside of me and then maybe go to the moon," he responded with a lilt in his voice. "Then I might get a place in Washington in the middle of nowhere and contemplate."

I knew Mike was deadly serious about his plan. There really is a two million year old man inside of Mike. I wish I could stick around to get to know him better.

"I want to find a place, too, to go to contemplate," I said.

"It can be inside or it can be outside, Joan."

"I know that, Mike, because you taught me that I would always carried my sense of Self with me wherever I decided to venture."

"That's right, Joan. You carry yourself and that inner pony that sometimes acts up. Don't ever lose that pony."

I promised Mike I wouldn't perfectly tame my inner pony because then life wouldn't have as much joy and be as much fun.

Maybe I'll get to go to the moon some day, too. And maybe Mike will be a fellow traveler.

Namaste

Joan

Expect the Unexpected

Hi, Boomers,

I'm excited today. In fact, I've been excited all week. I feel like I'm high all the time because adrenalin has been surging through my body with more than its usual speed. It was a good work week, teaching yoga every day - getting back to what I love doing. After experiencing the spiritual connection to Bali, it was a great feeling to connect my mind and body and breath in movement and intention. I also worked daily on marketing plans for my book, which was like another full time job. I even made time to dance tango on Wednesday night at one of my favorite venues - El Floridita on Vine and Fountain.

I was only away about 9 days but it felt like I was away a month. I guess that's a good sign that my vacation was terrific. And I'm still carrying Bali around in my heart, in my head, and in my future.

Okay, I won't beat around the bush. I'm having my first book signing tonight at my Saturday night milonga - the place where I regularly dance tango. It's actually called The Tango Room and we just celebrated our ninth anniversary at that particular studio.

I don't know what to expect from a book signing. But I'm just going with the flow and having a good time. Invitations were sent out and plans have been made to celebrate all 60 year old women in our tango community. It's free to all of us who have reached the 60th decade. A milestone for sure, and yet, we are all really very young at 60 it seems to me.

My book, Sixty, Sex, & Tango, Confessions of a Beatnik Boomer (still shamlessly plugging, aren't I), deals with turning 60. One day, right in the middle of being 60, I startled myself by consciously recognizing that I had turned 64. It was just a number to me. Nothing more than a number. I felt like I was 19; I acted like I was 19, and I moved like I was 19. In fact, I didn't move as good at 19. I like to think that living with joy, with yoga, with dancing tango has lead me into surrender and acceptance of living gracefully in my 60's. I'm now two years older than when I started writing the book and I feel younger. I feel like Benjamin Button decreasing in age. Maybe I'll die looking like a baby.

So tonight I celebrate many gifts I have been given: my family - sons and daughters in law and brother and sister in law and adorable nephew, my grandchildren - all five of them - my wonderful, loving friends, the tango and the pleasure and happiness that the dance has brought into my life, the ability to actually write a memoir about living joyously with gratitude and love.

I reflected today that I never had a vision about a book signing in my future. I just wrote daily for a year and a half joyfully. Sometimes I got so high on life that I wanted to scream. And sometimes I did just that. I screamed. Strange to me that I didn't have a vision of an outcome sometime in the future. It was just about the process, the journey that was a kick. So today I am surprised and I am grateful. And I wanted to share that with you.

Namaste

Joan