The Oprah Syndrome

Hi, Boomers,

You have to have lived on another planet last week to have missed Oprah's closing show. Well, there were actually two last closing shows. Twenty-five years and thousands of guests and hundreds of hours of self-promotion with her charity work and book promotions, image issues, and cathartic moments. No matter her weight, Oprah has been every woman's muse.

Humans need gurus. We need models and counselors and guides to help us live our lives without drowning in quiet desperation. We are surrounded by people, places and things, and yet, we are still lonely and full of fears. After all, we're going to die some day for sure. No one can stop that, not even Oprah. We can't figure out why our lives remain stagnant and lacking in excitement. We expect more of ourselves; we are looking for another paradigm, a new way of looking at life and Oprah and her gurus have been the people who would help us find happiness and peace, and maybe take away all our thoughts of mortality. We will live on through Oprah.

Oprah makes us feel better about ourselves because, after all, who else but Oprah is going to bring us joy, give us have self-esteem, find love, be better parents and stay healthy and physically fit, and put off dying. We trust her and we love her and we worship her. She has assured us that she has made life much better for all of us.

We seem desperate and committed to have someone else help us cope with loneliness and provide us with everything that we cannot do for ourselves. Don't we have our own resources to make ourselves find joy and passion in life? Sure we do but we haven't realized that we are basically lazy. Desperate and lazy. Viewers sit on sofas and watch Oprah and her guests generate excitement and energy, make interesting decisions by taking actionable steps to achieve their own dreams. These guests are their own change agents. We like to watch them do cool things and go to spiritual places. We want to find out what inspires them. We want to be like them. But we are simply voyeurs and outsiders.

On Oprah's last show she gave us a directive to follow the actions of those thousands of guests who are examples of inspiration. These are for the most part people who lived life to the fullest and inspired others along the way. So, after 25 years, Oprah told us to get a move on and find our calling. Yes, that's right: our calling. She told us we can follow our dreams and be all that we can be and make our mark on the world just like everyone who came before on her show.

However, she forgot to tell us to get off the couch and stop watching television. That's because she owns a TV network called OWN and she has programs on OWN that she wants the couch potatoes to watch. They, too, will be as inspirational as her talk shows.

Unfortunately, Oprah gave her spirited address to those who simply watch on the sidelines and leave the action to others. Oprah never gave the couch potatoes a life line to do what we are called to do. Most will not do anything at all but watch the next version of her talk show. While Oprah was telling us what we should do, she was moving on to other projects and other journeys that were going to be bigger and better than what she had been doing for the last 25 years. She left it to others to help us get off the couch.

Anyone and everyone is entitled to retire or to be a change agent. It's not just the way of the powerful and rich. But Oprah thought it was time to pass on the crown on to the next guru. She did her part and played her guru role to the fullest. Along with giving away cars and trips, she sponsored schools and helped many people and recommended many good books. Maybe some of it was show biz and some of it was real but all of it was her calling. This might be her finest journey.

Namaste,

Joan

A Hard Day's Night

Hi, Boomers,

I've been absent from my blog. I apologize. It hasn't been because I don't love blogging. It's because I've been in the midst of thinking about and then changing my life's work.

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and ask myself, "Why am I making my life so complicated in my 60s? I could just as easily not have tackled a career change and cruised along teaching yoga, dancing tango, and visiting my family in Vegas."

Keep your routine, Joan. Keep life simple. I hate it when I complicate life.

It all sounded so simple when last December I decided to attended a keynote speaker's conference sponsored by the National Speaker's Association in Las Vegas. I was curious about what a speaking career entails. In November I had made a number of inquiry calls to the local NSA chapter and met a really wonderful woman who was a member on the local NSA chapter and she was encouraging and just plain fun.

"Why not speak?" she said. "You'd be great."

That's all I needed to hear to get my mojo going. I had no idea what I was going to speak about, however. I usually jump into turgid waters without much thought as to whether I could swim my way out to safety. I've done that a couple of times in my life.

I love jumping off a cliff without a net. Does that make me an adrenalin junkie? I do love change and challenge. Perhaps this is what spurred me on to investigate becoming a speaker.

I thought it would be a good idea to use my book, Sixty, Sex, & Tango, Confessions of a Beatnik Boomer, as a point of departure for a speech. In the narrative of my book, a personal memoir, I discuss many topics about living a full and joyful life in my 60s. I refer to the complexity dealing with adult children, the emotional roller coaster of being a grandmother, the disappointments of dating and trying to find some semblance of a relationship with a man, the sadness of taking care of an elderly parent, returning to therapy, the joy of following your passions, the fact is that retirement is not an option, and much more. Even though I didn't have a clue about writing a speech, I certainly had some information I could use from my book.

The NSA keynote speaker's conference was a revelation. Although I wasn't certain I wanted to complicate my life with public speaking, I was wowed by the quality of speakers and the first rate information presented by top speakers. This was a brave new world, and as usual, I was coming in to this new world with a very late start.

I've always been a late comer and a late bloomer. I'm not sure why that is but it's happened a few times in my life and this last Johnny come lately even surprised me. I don't even know when the interest in speaking hit me. I wish I could remember because it might make a good story. It just kind of materialized.

After the conference, I was supposed to start writing a speech. It took me two months to figure out what to write. By then I has secured a speech coach. I saw him in Vegas; in fact, he lived in Vegas so it was convenient for me to see him when I visited my family. It took him awhile to accept me as a client because these top notch guys don't just take anyone one. Being a speech coach or a coach to anyone is a real pain in the neck. It's probably not worth the money they charge a client for all the pushing and cheerleading they have to do to motivate a potential speaker. Somehow I convinced my coach that I was worthy. I gave him my book and then we strategized a topic. Then we changed the topic and then I wrote a draft for my one hour speech, and then I threw it out after I met with my coach.

I started to watch videos of speakers. I was trying to get the sense of how to deliver a message to an audience, to make a promise to them that what I will propose are actionable steps to change their lives. I just finished the second draft and sent it in to my speech coach.

This speech writing has been all consuming. I feel like a junkie. I feel like I'm on speed. It's like when I used to write screenplays. I'd stay up all night and write when I got an idea and I wouldn't stop. I'm manic.

Why did I complicate my life? I complicated my life because something inside of me is compelled to speak to audiences about living happy, wild and free when the job is over, or a career burns out, or when depression sets in, when the body is too fat and lacks exercise, when relationships are over, when there is no more joy in life.

Maybe I feel that I can motivate people by sharing my experiences with the benefits of yoga and living my passions and telling stories about people who have changed their lives because they have let go of resistance and judgement.

Maybe it's just a dream, but it's my dream and I'm jazzed and motivated by the thought of doing it some day. This might just be my Act 3.

Namaste

Joan

Easter Parade

Hi, Boomers,

I don't quite know how to respond to Easter. I was raised a Catholic so I celebrated Easter every year until I married a Jew, had two sons and since then celebrated Passover. It seems ironic that I went from the New Testament to the Old Testament in a few short years. The fact is that I was raised a Catholic (my father's side), but my mother was Jewish but not raised Jewish. She used to say when finally revealing her parentage that my grandmother was Jewish, but she didn't really recognize that she was Jewish because she knew nothing about the religion. My mother told me when I was 19 years old that Grandma Rose was Jewish. When I asked her why she decided to tell me that very important fact about her life when I was 19, she told me that since I was dating a Jewish boy, I should know.

If you get that logic, you're a lot smarter than I am.

Except to say that I was well aware that San Francisco and environs carried heavy anti-semetic prejudice. My mother told me that job applications during most of the early 20th century asked what religion the applicant claimed. If you put Jewish, then you most certainly wouldn't get the job. My mother put down that she was Protestant. My mother had no idea what that meant. It just sounded neutral.

Religion is complicated. I went to a Seder on Monday night and had the most fabulous time I have ever had celebrating Passover. Who knew it could be so much fun! We all read from the Haggadah the story of the Jews flight out of Egypt and there was clapping and cheering and the ritual passing of bitter herbs and hard-boiled eggs and kosher sherry, and we even took some intermissions for dancing before we settled down around 10:30 to eat the most delicious food I have ever tasted, which was laid out beautifully on the dining room table. Middle Eastern Jews - the Persians and the Iraqis sure know how to bond as families and feel the intimate joy of oneness.

My Easters were dull affairs without celebration or bonding. My Irish relatives had no sense of cuisine. Outside of the celebration of the Mass on Easter Sunday, very little ritual lingered after 10 o'clock in the morning. The drive from San Rafael to San Francisco in the mid-afternoon was tedious. No one spoke except to wonder if the ham would be salty. I hated ham so I knew I would't eat. Brussel sprouts were overcooked as was everything else that was supposed to be green on the table. The Irish weren't big on fresh green salad; the closest they came to salad was potato salad swimmings in mayonnaise with too many pieces of, what else, green pickles. My cousins and my brother and I played with each other with little interest, and most of the time I sat in the living room waiting to go home, slowly sipping a coca cola that was forbidden to me at home.

In terms of religion, each holiday represents different philosophic concepts. One of the uncles at the Seder took me aside and told me that what really mattered about Passover was the central theme of freedom. The Jews finally got out of Egypt and were able to be free as they went on their journey to the promised land. Easter represents redemption. It was reported that Jesus, crucified two days earlier (Good Friday) and buried in a cave, rose from the dead and was proclaimed the true Messiah by a group of his followers. Some of his disciples said that he made a few visits before he ascended into heaven. Mankind was redeemed; our sins were forgiven. We are not concerned with freedom - freedom of thought, in particular.

But then there was some European pagan ritual that got mixed up with the redemption of Christ and we got Easter egg hunts and chocolate bunny rabbits and an annual NYC Easter Parade . Now if you can find the logic in introducing a pagan ritual into a spiritual context - and mix that with ham - and it simply baffles me and often vexes my sense of spiritual decorum.

I have a tendency to think that religion is based on mythology - like the Greek and Roman mythological stories we may be familiar with. The books in the new testament written by Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John were all written 50 years to 150 years after Jesus lived on the earth. Facts can be altered to suit someone else's truth. It's a little unclear who actually wrote the old testament - probably lots of contributors and lots of good stories ranging from forbidden fruit to an array of punishments that even frightens adults. Did I mention sex, the subservient role of women in marriage and worshipping idols? Neither old or new testament give much credence to individual thinking or philosophic exploration.

It probably doesn't matter much because when it comes to a spiritual belief system developed out of organized religion there is little apparent logic. Belief in a higher power or religious institutions is emotional. I suspect that the need to believe in something other than ourselves is based on our fear of dying and the need to be spiritually and morally supported by "the other" throughout life. It's challenging to live without some powerful ally. God, Jesus, Allah are on my side. Some think that belief in a higher power is based on the concept of surrender and acceptance. Others think that a belief in a higher power is a crutch; i.e, our human belief system developed from our own sense of virtue is not strong enough to get through life and pass on into death. No matter the reason for belief in a universal power or organized religion every person has to get through life and death in his/her own way.

Powerful forces can also exist within our own psyches or souls. Stepping back a bit from ourselves, detaching with that 10% reserve to observe our actions (kindness and forgiveness is good) is also a fine way to access our moral compass. Finding the power in the energy of our universal is another way of surrendering to and accepting our lives and our eventual death. For after all, we are only passing through this life on the way to death. We can choose to make it joyous or fraught with struggle. We can choose to live by virtue and a strong moral spine or we can simply collect a bunch of bad karma.

The longer I live the more I realize that there is an Easter parade going on all the time in our hearts and minds. It always comes down to having an attitude of gratitude. This is my religion.

Namaste

Joan

I've Got The World On A String

Hi, Boomers,

Do you remember when Sinatra played Madison Square Garden in 1974? He was singing in the middle of a boxing ring. Howard Cosell introduced Frank. The place was packed, alive and exciting. The great man's voice was golden. He was in his prime and he never hit a false note. Those were the days. At least, those were some happy times. Frank never failed to stir my emotions.

When I moved to Las Vegas in summer of 1964, I landed in a frontier desert town covered with a hodgepodge of sage and cactus. It was not only sparse but land had no visual appeal except for about three long blocks on the Las Vegas strip where the fancy hotels were built: the Sahara Hotel, the Frontier, the Dunes, the Sands, the Desert Inn, the Stardust, the Flamingo. The El Rancho Vegas was gone by the time I got to Vegas, but I remembered it years before when my parents took me to see Sophie Tucker perform. I got her autograph that night. I was a big deal to a kid of 10.

In those days, the downtown area was small. Binion's Horseshoe Casino, the Golden Nugget, and the Four Queens were the biggest places, but there were five or six smaller casinos - where the locals and Greyhound bus traffic frequented at all hours of the day and night. It was a seedy section of town in the mid-60's. There were several downtown banks, a court house, some office buildings, Penny's, Sear's and one very small art house movie theater. That was a place where I used to hide out when the sterile environment became overwhelming for me.

And there was a kind of university off the strip - I say kind of because there were only 3 buildings and a library. It was called Nevada Southern University when it was first built. I hadn't finished college yet when I arrived newly married so finishing college actually became an option. But not until I worked all that summer at the Sahara Hotel as the secretary to the catering director. He never found out that I didn't take dictation and never had a course in short hand. I got the job from a friend of my ex-husband's who knew the president of the Sahara. I think he was a mob guy.

The frontier aspect of Vegas made it easy pickings for mob control, and in the late 50's ad throughout the 60's, Vegas was run by the mob. It was a fairly strange existence because every body had friends in the mob. The Jews and the Italians split control over the hotels and casinos. And somewhere in the mix there were the teamsters. The mob and the teamsters had a cozy arrangement. Everybody greased everybody's hand.

What runs in my mind every time I see clips of Sinatra and the rat pack was that I was there, in Vegas at the Sands Hotel and I bore witness to their mythology. Frank, Dean, Sammy, Joey Bishop and once in awhile Peter Lawford. They were the rage in the mid-60's - the height of their popularity. The whole experience of living in Vegas during that time was one of excitement mixed with bewilderment. During that first summer I worked at the Sahara, I met the most popular comedians and singers of the day. During that first summer, my ex-husband studied for the bar (as in law) and I wondered how I ended up in a city where entertainment and gambling were the major recreations. It set the tone and style for many years to come.

In those early years I had a tenuous hold on my world. It was difficult to rectify leaving Berkeley in the 60's for Vegas in the 60's. No two universes were ever so far apart. I felt like I was wandering in the desert looking for the promised land, which by the way I had just left for a marriage and an uncertain life. I was never quite sure how I got there. I actually don't remember make such a life-changing decision.

But Frank always made it better. I'd listen to his music, see him when he was in town, and somehow those tunes would put me in a better place - a place with some kind of hope. And it actually worked out in some kind of rational way because I went back to school, got lots of degrees, had years of teaching experience from high school to college - several years after I got my first degree, the university changed its name to the University of Nevada, Las Vegas - and I co-founded and was the artistic director of Nevada's first legitimate year round theater. To top that off, the mob was my best fund raising arm. The donor plaque in the theater lobby had a list of who's who in the Las Vegas mob.

I ended up by having the world on a string and it lasted for 18 years. Some people think I did time during those years, but I don't look at that way. I remember a girl of 19 who was present at the Sahara Hotel when the Beatles landed on the roof top in a helicopter, bore witness to Elvis's comeback at the Hilton, saw Bette Midler's first live show at Caesar's Palace, and was insulted by Don Rickles. I remember having the best lineup of friends, the most loyal theater customers, the best education (after Berkeley, that is) and saw most of the greatest 60's foreign films ever made in that little art house around the corner from the Golden Nugget.

In the city of dreams and illusions, I grew up, became an adult and fulfilled most of my dreams. I became and educator, a seasoned actress and a theater entrepreneur. What more could I have asked for. And while I lived in Las Vegas that desert town with no visual appeal morphed into a bigger, brighter, thriving city with plenty of neon lights and glitz and glam.

We all made the best of it once upon a time in Las Vegas, and now the irony is that my sons and their families live and work in Vegas and they are making the best of it. Strong survival instincts are alive and well in our family's DNA.

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

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

I'm Dancing As Fast As I Can

Hi, Boomers,

It's been a surreal week. I haven't been able to blog because my mind of all over the place. I started my full yoga schedule this week at UCLA, adding my classes at the Wooden Center - 2 classes back to back totaling close to three hours more yoga teaching twice a week. Since these classes are held at the end of an already long day, I limp home, try to eat, review emails and go to bed to read and fall asleep instantly.

Monday I had my book signing at the Village Bookstore in the Palisades. I rehearsed my reading all weekend and then on Monday morning, I decided I wanted to read something else from my book. I was sitting in my car rehearsing between classes and never did figure out how I was going to pull it off. And who was going to attend and what the response would be. I sat in my car before going into the bookstore reviewing my reading and finally closed the book and gave it up to the universe.

Over thirty people showed up and those wonderful men and women were full of love and support. It was a completely fun evening. Some bought books, some had books already and everyone was chattering away. I saw old friends - really old friends from my past. There are important people to me and I felt completely blessed. And my new friends and supporters were also milling around and meeting and greeting everyone. Two of my new friends were so very helpful to me: David videoed me for You Tube and Marina, my adorable, brilliant new friend put the clips up on my Facebook page. And my oldest friend from college showed up and I hadn't seen him in decades. We were the essence of Berkeley in the 60's. That was the biggest treat of all. We went for drinks afterward and talked non stop. It was a profound moment when we remembered our being together with the law school gang and my ex husband the day Kennedy was shot.

I know I've said it before but I never had any expectations about writing SIXTY, SEX, & TANGO. I was just expressing an honest tale about getting older, living well in my sixties, forging new relationships, having new experiences, and seeing what comes up.

I have never been much of a career planner. Things kind of just happened to me. I am never afraid to go where I have not been. I'm not resistant to many things in life, including falling in love, even if those I have fallen in love with aren't great mates for me. I don't have a lot of fears or anxieties, except maybe about not having money to live. But that has kind of worked out for me, too, although I never made much - just enough.

I'm also feeling better about being single lately. I used to fret and worry about finding that man who would embrace me. Yet, I'm just find I'm just embracing myself and dancing as fast as I can.

I'm off to Portland to dance tango tomorrow. It's one of my very favorite places to go to dance tango. I meet up with old friends and meet new ones. I hear tango music for 2 days straight and never tire of the joy I find in being part of a very unique community of men and women who are passionate about what is also my true passion.

Life's been crazy but it's been a good week. I have gratitude for all my blessings.

Namaste

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

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

Notes From the Hindu Underground

Hi, Boomers,

I'm home and the emersion back to reality has not taken place yet. Hey, the day is almost over and maybe I won't be jarred back into the daily news. A weariness is beginning to creep into my bones and my mind is fuzzier than at noon when I wandered through Ralph's trying to come up with a week's worth of food. Not Whole Foods? Okay, so I had a bunch of Ralph's coupons that needed to be used up.

While my body is shopping and organizing bills and juggling next week's marketing activity and classes, my mind is still back in Bali. I'm still flush with the warmth and generosity of spirit and daily offerings of gratitude that encompasses this most unique Hindu society. Despite the hundreds of motorbikes and taxis flooding the streets at all hours, the rhythm of Bali resides in the beats of one's heart. Care, kindness, and gratitude is the mantra chain. Karma determines your way into life and your way out of life.

One of the most unique experiences I had was attending a cremation ceremony. The funeral was held in a small village about 10 miles outside of Ubud - the city where I stayed - and it began in the home of the deceased. We were served water and cake before the ceremony began. There were relatives and villagers milling around or sitting. Music was playing; children were happily wandering around; the ladies were gossiping and the men were organizing and erecting the very tall edifice where the deceased body was to be placed.

When it was time to gather on the center road in the village, we all moved into the street and watched the finishing preparations. On the very top of the funeral edifice, a beautiful young woman, dressed in Balinese ceremonial clothes, sat perfectly still. She was a member of the deceased family. Below her was a life-size black cow made out of wood; upon that cow road an important person from the village. He looked like a cowboy in a western movie. He was happily showing off to the villagers how much fun he was having atop that cow.

In this particular funeral ceremony, only one man was going to be cremated. The deceased was considered to have some wealth in the village and so he was allowed to have his own separate cremation. Sometimes many people are cremated at the same time if they do not have the means for an individual funeral. This was an unusual event.

My friends and I hung out with two adorable Italian men who spoke English very well and so we all walked together down the pothole filled street, wind blowing dust around our bodies as the oppressive heat made our throats dry. I thought we should be sad at this moment, but no one around us was sad. Everyone was joyfully talking and laughing and it all seemed so, well, perplexingly not like a funeral.

We walked into a large field and the villagers stood back as those who prepared for the cremation did their work.. The black cow was situation on its own platform and was separated from the edifice where the body was held. Actually, the body was wrapped much like a mummy in ancient Egypt and placed in what looked like a casket. Then men lifted the casket and carried it to the cow where it slowly slide into the body into a carved out cavity inside the cow. Evidently, the cow had movable parts and functioned somewhat like a crematorium. In the ensuing half hour, piles of wood and straw were placed around the cow. Still, the crowd talked and continued to carry on as if they were standing around at a market place.

The family approached the funeral pyre to pay their last respects. The wood and straw were beginning to burn. When the cow was sufficiently burning, I walked up to the sacred cow which housed the burning body and paid my last respects. I knew from my yoga and study of Buddhism that this was a moment of transition for the deceased. His soul was moving on into the spiritual world and he would, of course, come back into another form. If he had lived life with good karma, he would return a happy man. If not, his life would be full of struggle.

I asked our driver, Wayan, why there were no tears. Why there was no sadness. Why were the villagers were totally relaxed and peaceful. The sense of balance in the crowd was pervasive. There were no high or lows; the energy of the villagers was uniquely tranquil for just having seen their beloved relative die.

Wayan told us about the Hindu philosophy of death and dying; it is much like the Tibetan philosophy of living and dying. For Hindus and Buddhists, death is a transition after life. That transition has meaning because the energy of the soul does not evaporate. The soul lives, it resonates in the universe at the moment of death. Death is a happy time in these unique cultures. It is a time to assess karma and give gratitude for life on earth. For those who are close relatives of the deceased, a wife or a daughter or son, then there may be tears shed but not in public. No one mourns or long.

I am still feeling the vibe of peace and non-violence at the core of the Balinese society. I sensed no anger; I sensed no impatience; I sensed no judgment. There is little crime and not much drug use. There seems to be a lack of coveting of things or fighting over the spoils of events or situation. The island of Bali and its people are embracing and loving and the the richness and textures of this most magnificent and lush environment and its spiritual people will have a long lasting influence on my soul.

I didn't do any yoga while I was away. My friends asked me if I missed the practice. But I told them that my practice was more meditative and not so physical because we were hiking most of the days and the physical exertion was vigorous. So my thoughts turned inward many times a day as I let my mind wander and absorb the purity of the air and the stillness in my environment. Can you imagine meditating in a rice field? It's heaven. And Bali is surely as close to paradise on earth as it gets.

Namaste

Joan

Penelope Sweet

Hi, Boomers,

I never even gave being a grandmother a thought until one day five and a half years ago, I became a grandmother to Jordan Mac. And then two years later, Luc Daniel was born. Okay, two grandsons. That's great, really great. But the moniker "grandmother" was still kind of a foreign concept. After all, I was still living la vida loca, and my mostly monthly visits to my family in Las Vegas were keeping me connected but not especially engrossed.

Oh, but I had another son and he and my daughter-in-law were about to have Greyson Ambrose. And now, this little ball of energy a little over two years ago and making a deeper impression on my psyche. Okay, three grandsons. Doable.

I continued on with my yoga/tango life and buried myself in writing my book, Sixty, Sex, & Tango, Confessions of a Beatnik Boomer, continued my visits, divided my time between homes in Las Vegas, and never gave the grandma game another thought. Until...

Here comes Jude Love entering the world in January of this year. Happy new year, Jude Love and welcome to a growing family. Jude is the most chill of the grandchildren. He smiles all the time and loves the action in the house. He's straight out of central casting. Big, beautiful and bold.

I'm trying to keep this grandma scenario straight. I love them all equally. I love their energy and unconditional love and it's kind of fun being a quasi parent again - that is, when my sons aren't around to parent me parenting my grandsons.

"Mom, we talked about this...leave him alone." But it's about the filthy dirty Linus blanket dragging along the floor filled with dog hairs and ground in food and the thumb ever-present hanging from Luc's mouth so he can't speak let alone answer a question. Okay, I'll shut up.

This week I have another grandchild. A girl - my first girl - Penelope Sweet. She was 34 weeks at birth, 5 pounds 6 ounces of the most beautiful tinniness I have ever seen. Not bad for a premie - a fighting, feisty Leo premie who let's everyone know in the NicU that she is hungry and wants her dropper of milk.

I lovingly watched my sweet pea sleep in her plastic bubble attached to so many lines and monitors that I lost count. I can still feel the emotional connection to her lightness, to her divine being.

A girl. A real live girl. I had boys; my brother had boys. We missed the experience of having a girl. Suddenly, and without provocation, we have righted the confluences of the universe in our family.

I wonder at the miracle of birth, of a mother's love and her unconditional, immediate devotion to her offspring. I saw my daughter-in -law lovingly connect to Penelope with such finality that I was moved to tears. There are still miracles in the world to experience. I wouldn't have missed this grandma thing for anything.

Namaste

Joan

Retreating and Transformation

Hi, Boomers,

Sometimes you just have to say: Enough! I'm full. I can't take it anymore. There is no more energy left. I'm spent. Basta!

Sometimes destiny plays a role in my life. Sometimes the "others" get in the way of my life. And sometimes I'm just plain tired.

It was a week of practicing the Tao. Daily losing. I had to pick my self up emotionally, spiritually and physically. It began on Saturday night at the milonga - the place where I dance tango. I lost someone I thought was a friend. I don't know why. Men retreat when they are emotionally tied up; women plow forward to explain and explore. I couldn't even begin to penetrate my male friend's feelings and angst. I had to let it go. I'm not sure I have just yet. Daily losing.

My book arrived via UPS at and my door: Sixty, Sex, & Tango Confessions of a Beatnik Boomer. I had read the manuscript for months, edited it, stared at the cover endlessly, and when I got the books - hard and soft cover - I didn't know what to do and I didn't know what to feel. It was familiar and yet foreign. Who wrote this? What's it about? What kind of value does it have, if any? Was it a dream? Did someone else write it? A swirl of emotions and feelings engulfed me. I wanted my mother at that moment. Mom, I did it. I wrote it. Are you proud of me? "I knew you could do it, honey. You can do anything you set your mind to." I missed my mother intensely for days. Where was my dad? Smiling and laughing at his daughter whom he adored. Daily losing.

Endless decisions about marketing the book. Google ad decisions. Book signing decisions. Meta tags. What is everyone talking about? No one was speaking English. I was out of my element I had no learning curve left. You have to have a public relations arm. Why? I'm selling the book on Amazon and Barnes so why do I have to hire a someone? Press releases. I can't decide on which cities. Frustration mounting. Daily losing.

Over a month ago, I had thought it time to go on a yoga retreat with one of my yoga teachers at my home studio - the place where I started teaching yoga. I had gone on several retreats over the years but I hadn't been on one for years. I committed to going on the retreat without knowing exactly why. It turned out it was a good decision.

I leave tomorrow for 3 days to Ojai in order to leave myself behind. My brain is in over-drive and I am challenged daily because I want my old self back. Too many tapes playing in my head. More stress than I can handle. I want to find emptiness and peace, and maybe, a little transformation along the way.

My state of being needs a wake-up call. I realize that some things need to change in this moment.

So what is my intention on this retreat?

Stress is uncomfortable and disturbing. The way I work through stress is in my yoga practice. I've neglected my practice. I have left no room in my life to practice except rarely. I'm teaching way too much. I need to return to the spiritual nature of my being, to the teachings and practices of yoga and meditation, to chanting, to exploring paths to enlightenment all the while remaining unsure and insecure about my path, and I need to reside in the center of my path with acceptance and surrender.

I have been blessed with so many gifts in my life: my incredible sons, my four vibrant grandsons, and my soon to be born granddaughter, my beloved Penelope. I was nurtured by loving parents and supported unconditionally by an amazing brother. I have been blessed with some talent to teach and inspire in theater and in yoga and I want to be daily aware of these gift and not get lost in situations and frustrations. I'm going to take my gifts with me to my retreat and absorbed the light.

Namaste

Joan

It's Gone Live: Sixty, Sex, & Tango, Confessions of a Beatnik Boomer

Hi, Boomers,

When I started out to write Sixty, Sex, & Tango, Confessions of a Beatnik Boomer two years ago June, I began to write my memoir by accident. I really wanted to do stand up comedy. Odd that everyone in Hollywood wants to direct, but I want to do standup comedy. I never wanted to direct.

Two years ago, I was sitting in my Saturday night milonga, the place where I dance tango most Saturday nights, talking to a movie director who also dances tango. I've know her for years and we got to talking like girls do, finding out more about each other, and I told her that I really wanted to do a stand up routine about my experiences with men and sex because sex is so very different in my 60's.

"Oh, no, Joan," she said with mischief in her eyes. "That's a book. You can do stand up anytime. Write a book on it."

"Yeah, great idea, a book," I mused. "But I really want to do stand up."

I got to thinking about what my director friend said in earnest after we talked. I thought maybe that writing about the men I've met, fallen in love with, and funny and sometimes strange my sexual escapades in my 60th decade could be a crashing bore for some people. Besides, there was more to my life than sex; say, for example, there was dancing tango and yoga and my family. And then there was a whole lot of the unexpected about life in my 60's that left me flabbergasted and perplexed. It seemed to me it was an odd decade for me. I kept being surprised by what life had to offer. So was that a book? And did I have enough material to write a book?

That June, I was glancing through the UCLA Extension magazine and looking for writing course when I ran across an improv/stand up comedy class. But before I took the class, I knew I to prepare some material from which to work off of in the class. It was a free form writing and performing class given by two exceptionally talented people who were fabulous teachers and stand up performers. So I needed a platform; hence, a book. I titled it: So You're 60, Get Over It: Confessions of a Beatnik Boomer. I used this material for my stand up material in class. Just trying out the material was totally scary and completely exciting. For example, I wanted to see if riffing about female masturbation was funny. It was.

I continued writing after the class was over. I finished my first draft by the spring of the following year. I had no idea what was good and not good, but I wrote from my story telling instincts. More to the point, I had no idea what I was going to do with the book besides get instant gratification from writing. I had few distractions in my life: teaching yoga, drug counseling and family in Las Vegas, but I truly cherished my alone time in my apartment. It got pretty romantic for awhile, writing nights with a glass of wine by my side, thinking of all the great writers who came before me, lugging my new MacBook around with me from airport to airport, from tango festival to tango festival to my son's home, back to my apartment. I felt like the "Bubble Boy" who was encased in glass and couldn't get out. It was invigorating.

I began to search for agents. Finally, after so many "I enjoyed the book," but who are you anyway, " an agent materialized. She believed in the project even though I had no "platform." You see in the book world, you have to be somewhat of a celebrity, even a minor celebrity, before an agent will take a writer seriously. My agent and her cohort changed the name of the book before they sent it to publishers. Hence, Sixty, Sex, & Tango, Confessions of a Beatnik Boomer. I loved the new title; and then I waited for six months. No takers.

Fine. My journey writing a book was still a labor of love and I was still happy and thought I had given the idea a good try. After all, I really wrote the book for me - for the pleasure of having my own catharsis. And it worked. For a time.

I sat on it for two months. And then I read an article about how popular self-publishing had become. Was I really going to let the book languish in my hall closet with all my other rejected screenplays? Not so fast. I began to research some self-publishing companies. I queried an author who had self-published with iUniverse. I checked on other self-publishing sites and read lots of reviews.

And then I made the call to iUniverse on a whim. The rest is, as they say, history. I made a decision at the end of December to self-publish because the salesman said that the price was going to change January 1st and I'd be paying more if I wanted to proceed. Nothing like a price increase to spearhead a decision.

I never looked back. iUniverse sent copious evaluations which were absolutely right on and and re-wrote furiously for the next four months. I loved it. I am a re-writer by nature. I love the thrill of re-writing because it has the feel of a detective trying to solve a case. I was back in heaven. I found my contacts at the publishing house to be professional and highly skilled at what they do. I also discovered that most of these people who worked at iUniverse were contract people who had once worked for the best publishing companies in the country. The book publishing business was falling on hard times and layoffs were endemic. Out of work editors found jobs in self-publishing because business was booming in that economy. Even well-known authors were self-publishing or internet publishing on their websites. And then there was the emergence of e-books. I was in the thick of a new publishing paradigm.

Yesterday, my book went live; that means that I'm on Amazon, Barnes&Noble, and many more book sites plus iUniverse, of course, and I realized that I had arrived at this point in my writing saga rather unconsciously, without much of a plan when I began the book and without much thought except that what I was doing was way too much fun.

I always tell my students that life is more about the journey than arriving at the destination. Sometimes the destination is not as good as the journey But sometimes in life the journey and the destination are equally joyful or maybe they become one in the same. That's probably called the perfect moment of non-resistence.

At this moment, I feel elated by both my journey, unconscious or not, and by the arrival at this destination of having my book published. As in my yoga practice, I start with one intention, then move to another intention, all the while not expecting anything except creating space for the next intention. And as I create movement, I loose any and all mental resistance. And then things just happen.

While waiting for my book to be published, I tackled something I never thought I could do. I built my website on iWeb. And now I'm learning about google advertising and meta-tags. There is a whole new world out there of more journeys and more joy.

Oh, yeah, my website is: http://www.joanfrancesmoran.com

Namaste

Joan