Losing Our Minds

Hi, Boomers,

I want to share something with you. Something very important. It's concerns our brains. The brain is a very complex organ, composed of approximately 100 billion neurons and each one of those neurons communicates with up to 10.000 other neurons. It's a loaded minefield in our heads.

We have been, and rightly so, very concerned about losing our minds, or more specifically succumbing to memory loss before our time. After all, some of us have seen our parents or grandparents suffer from dementia or early onset of Alzheimer's disease. In my case, I have seen how my ex-husband has had to handle his wife, Diane, who has suffered from Alzheimer's for well over a decade. The disease probably began in her mid-50s. Her mother died from this terrible disease. Diane probably didn't have a chance between her DNA and the lack of a cure.

Presuming at mid-life that we will not have Alzheimer's and may just be part of the hundreds of thousands of elderly people who begin to lose short term memory, like my mother, and then finally lose so much that she cannot remember to eat, there is great interest in how can we manage this process just a little bit better than our parent's generation. There is definitely power in knowing and understanding just a little more about how we learn and retain information.

I have been reading about the brain. It fascinates me because I am preparing to go out as a speaker and talk about the boomer generation. The speaking process is very different form the writing process. When I wrote Sixty, Sex, & Tango, Confessions of a Beatnik Boomer, the memories were active in my head and they were important enough to me to be clearly remembered for decades. The key in writing my memoir was that I had a very strong emotional attachment to the subject.

But if I'm trying to motivate someone as a speaker, trying to get people to change behavior or try new behavior, I need to know how the brain receives and retains and then acts or on the messages. People learn when they apply the concepts given to them with consistently.

Part of the learning equation is how interested we are in the subject. But the way we learn best is when we are given a few related points and build on these points for effect. The denser the points, the more the points are illustrated, the more we will retain. The least effective way we retain information is by just plain memorizing.

Another way we retain information is by picking up on active verbs, which animate ideas. When speakers get us to think about doing what they're talking about, we are learning. But the key is whether what we are learning is meaningful in terms of feelings, which are generate by emotions. That involves the limbic area of the brain - the pain/pressure center. It's the area that turns words into memory. We also learn better through context than content. This means we respond better to what we know through experience. When I hear Buenos Aires, I have an immediate, tactile sense about the city. If one speaks to me about Buenos Aires, I am immediately at attention.

My reading about the brain indicated that the brain is lazy and has to be stimulated or coached into consciousness. However, if the brain understands that what someone is telling them is really good for the person - the "what's in it for me" idea is a powerful listening device.

All that said, now is the moment to ask: How can we stop some of that memory loss? How can we keep our minds from aging? The standard answer is do crossword puzzles. I balk at that because I'm terrible doing them so I feel left out of that loop. I can't dredge up a word to go with a cue unless it's about movies or the theater.

But there are actually three theories that help the brain's retention. The effects of meditation on the brain has been studied at the UCLA brain mapping center. All results point to a connection between meditation and more brain activity. A yoga practice adds longevity to our mind and body since the practice connects the mind and body through the breath. And any kind of exercise, even just walking is a key to longevity. In fact, exercise is number one on the anti-aging list of things to do to stay young.

But I heard something else today pertaining to the brain, which sparked my interest. There is something called adaptive competency - this is the ability of the brain to bounce back from stress. In other words, adaptive competency allows us to move off our anxious state or stress related experience and into a present state where that stress passes through us. My mother had that in spades. I remember when a stressful or unpleasant experience occurred, my mother would say, "Just get over it, dear. Leave it behind you." She never in all the time she was alive "chewed" on the negative. She slept well every night she lived on this earth. This characteristic of the brain is called cognitive reserve.

The way the brain adapts, it's cognitive reserve, or does not adapt - very little cognitive reserve - determines our ability to release stress and, therefore, live longer. A practice of meditation and yoga helps to build up our cognitive reserves.

It might be interesting to examine daily how long we hold on to our stress. Then take a yoga class for the next six months and see how your cognitive reserves have built up.

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

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

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

I Get High With A Little Help From My Friends

Hi, Boomers,

Ah, yes. The bliss of a yoga retreat. There is nothing quite like the beauty of going somewhere special and joyfully doing nothing but yoga, chanting mantras, encountering holotropic breathing (an LSD high without the LDS), vegan cuisine, swimming and hiking and sleeping in the cold night air and trying to find the bathroom at in the dead of a dark night. And never getting there in time.

I hadn't been on a yoga retreat in about a year and a half. The last time was in Costa Rica and I was the only one in attendance. My daughter in law's brother was a yoga teacher at this particular retreat near Jaco on the west coast of Costa Rica, and he said he'd meet me there. But had decided to leave a month before I came and forgot to tell me. So I arrived and became a part of an Argentine family who ran retreats as well as lived an idyllic existence on the premises. I simply became an extended part of the family structure for a week. I didn't want to leave my new family when the week was over, but I had to go on tour with my adorable eco tour guide who ended up getting dengue fever and leaving me to fend for myself. I should have taken up their offer to adopt me and have me teach daily yoga to the locals.

This weekend's retreat was in the Ojai Valley. It was held at a place called Casa Baranca. There is a very large beautiful lodge on the grounds with a winery alongside. Tea houses are scattered around on the premises. The most beautiful yoga room I have ever scene is the centerpiece of the retreat. Next to that is a beautiful swimming pool with a jacuzzi. Hiking trails are everywhere.

I intended to not to talk very much. People who know me are laughing out loud now. But I had an intention to keep to myself. However, when I met he various yogis and yoginis and saw the huge smile on my yoga teacher's face, I knew this was going to be a great ride. Everyone was joyful. There was electricity in the air; energy was bouncing off everyone. It was so not a solitude moment for me and I surrendered to the collective energy.

I had no expectations about the retreat. I never do. I try to stay in the moment of my practice, listen to happy breathing in the room, the ever loud rock and roll selections by Steve, wait for the pithy comments, and relax into the flow of moment. The practice is always like a dance for me and the chanting is forever an inspiration. I get high with a little help from my friends. The holotropic breathing sends me into the world of the unconscious where the fears and dark memories reside, and by the end of the hour, they are all released into the universe.

We gather in the kitchen for meals and they are always lively and witty and full of fun. On this particular trip, there were some very intelligent people with exceptional talents - both men and women. One man, in particular, was a very funny Hollywood screenwriter who was never without an hysterical quip or riff on our grueling yoga practice or Steve's insensitivity to our physical pain. "It's all good," Steve repeats as his mantra. "I just don't feel your pain," he adds.

The physical beauty of the land, the way the early morning fog curls around the mountains, the way the sun rises to meet the sky, the perfect intensity of the afternoon sun, which made our bodies warm and supple, the blissful temperature of the pool, the sounds of birds and animals everywhere, the lovable resident cat, the cheerfulness of our vegan cooks, the outdoor eating patio that was surrounded by luscious ice plants and giant oak trees - all made my weekend glorious.

Even driving home on Sunday after a rigorous yoga practice and an exquisite vegan lunch produced no negative energy as I stalled in traffic on my way back to Los Angeles. My life was getting back into balance. I was on the road to recovery, maybe even to transformation.

Then, there is real life. There is my ever present sty above my right eye which won't go away. I made a pit stop at UCLA emergency care to see what was up with it because it looked like it was growing daily. Not much was up with it. It was still hard as a rock and cloning twins. Cleaning and shopping and unpacking and getting ready for Monday's work and the arrival of my step-daughter, cheerful as ever bringing me food and wine and joy were all part of my extraordinary day.

So it was a pretty great weekend, I'd say. I am grateful for my bliss, my joy of yoga, my new friends. I'm grateful my book is on Kindle and it looks smashing on my book page and all ladies who are reading it are laughing and really like the story. So, yeah, I into the gratitude mode as I shuffle the energy of the universe around myself and those whom I love dearly.

And today, another blissful encounter with my yoga classes. I walked into my 5:30 class, my last of the day, and wondered what the noise was about as I stood outside to listen. I finally entered and there was my book, Sixty, Sex, & Tango opened to the chapter entitled, "Men and Other Sociopaths I have Met" being passed around and everyone was laughing. I got ribbed to death and then we settle down for a energetic flow class. Another joyful day.

Namaste,

Joan

Live with Joy; Live longer

Hi, Boomers,

I haven't really been slacking off since my last blog. It's only been a week but it feels like an eternity. I spent the 4th of July weekend reading my book, Sixty, Sex, & Tango, Confessions of a Beatnik Boomer, one last time and making final corrections. I thought I would get bogged down in the OMG factor of "did I really write that?" But I was relatively free from flogging myself after my two year saga with an idea I had once upon a time at a milonga (a tango salon) when one of my friends said to me, "I think you should write a book about sex and dating in your 60's." It seems like a lifetime ago.

Speaking of lifetimes, it's Saturday night and I'm in Vegas, but I'm not near the Las Vegas Strip. I'm visiting my family - my two sons and those ever-growing four grandsons who have more energy than a cluster of atoms. Then again I'm on the boomer side of life so it might seem I exaggerate.

I found myself giggling with my oldest grandson, Jordan Mac, tonight as I read him some stories. It's one of my favorite rituals in life and I cherish the moments I have have with this young, bright and talented 5 year old. After shooting a round of hoops in the backyard in the 105 evening heat and taking a bath, we went to his room to pick out a few books to read. We had one of those inexplicable moments that two people have when the world stops, our funny bone takes over, and we succumb to non-stop, uncontrolled laughter.

I opened the page to a Curious George book about donuts and we both looked at George the monkey in bed and began to giggle, which lead to laughter, which lead howling. We didn't quite know what struck us as funny, except that George was reclining in bed with his long pencil smile drawn across his face and his huge funky head nestling into a pillow. It seemed to us ridiculous and terribly funny.

It's such a delicious moment to laugh at nothing in particular, to find silliness in the absurd, but it is much more delightful to do so with my five year old grandson. It's always the best Saturday night date with any one of my progeny.

Minutes before I was to read to Jordan, I was wandering through the latest Newsweek magazine on "The Science of Healthy Living." I was reading about the aging brain and scientists understanding of normal cognitive aging; i.e., it's more than memory exercises and crossword puzzles. I'm always so happy to hear that part about not having to do crossword puzzles to keep my brain from atrophying. It seems that as we age, we keep in tact the knowledge we learned decades ago (think our times tables); however, as we age, it is more difficult to learn new things and solve novel problems. We may even improve our vocabulary even into our 60's. Good news, boomers. I would like to add that watching a great amount of television and reading fashion and pop culture magazines won't help you get smarter or increase your mental and physical reaction time.

What does help us support mental acuity as we age that's also good for our heart, lungs, immune system and muscles? Three vigorous 40-minute walks a week can do the trick because aerobic exercise increases the volume of white matter, which connects neurons, in areas responsible for such executive functions as planning.

I'm going to throw in yoga as part of this anti-aging routine - yoga for the strengthening of the mind and the body and our respiratory system because it increases the amount of breath taken into the body on a consistent basis. Good for the heart, lungs, immune system and muscles. In a sense, it is resistance training - moving through our mental and physical resistance as well as keeping our bone density numbers high. It's a happy hunting ground for neurons. Because yoga yokes or unites mind and body through breath, we are able to practice staying present and increase our level of awareness. Hence, we are using our mind in the present and not succumbing to the numbing past or delusional future.

Walking and yoga produce and sustain joy and happiness because it releases endorphins, increases adrenalin, serotonin and dopamine. Live with joy; live longer.

So back to Jordan and our laughing jag. In those silly moments of laughter at something as simple as our shared perception, my grandson and I increased my lifespan - maybe not by much - but sustaining the mantra of living with joy and following my bliss is the best way I know of to living longer.

Why would one want to live longer? Well that's a blog for another time.

Namaste

Joan

I Just Want to be Loved

Hi, Boomers,

What I adore about blogging is that I can have an idea about what to blog about and I can do it any time of the day or night. I'm up way too early this morning after two late nights of dancing tango, but I can't sleep in this morning because I got an idea in my head about a blog theme. The mind, indeed, is a wonder!

I got an email yesterday from a very, very good friend. If you read my post, "Down and Dirty," he is the one who was summarily dismissed from a woman who thought his penis wan'ts what she was quite looking for to satisfy her desires. I beg to differ with her. My friend is/was more than a friend with benefits; my friend is/was a beautiful human being: conscious, sentient, loyal, passionate, supportive. But, lately, he's just looking for love in all the wrong places.

My friend is finding it difficult to adjust to the woman's rejection. He just can't get his "sea legs" back after this setback. I wrote one of my extra long emails back to him about being careful of believing other people's projections. Those projections are negative and self-serving on the part of the the person lashing out. I told him that if he believed that person's projection, he will never hold on to his true sense of being. Instead, he will fill up with toxicity - the toxicity of the person who rejects him, or leaves him, or uses him, or lies to him, or deceives him. This is the second time in a year that my friend has attracted the wrong kind of woman - a woman who doesn't represent the best in him.

Why do we keep repeating the same old negative behavior - in this case, attracting others who are not going to enhance our lives. Because we just want to be loved and we are not conscious about the kind of love we truly want or deserve. In my email back to my friend, I wanted him to see what kind of laudable human being he is, to respect himself more than he does when a woman offers herself to him, to be able to discern when a woman wants to use him and abuse him for a brief moment in his life, and to take stock of what he is truly looking for in a companion. I'm not saying don't explore the possibilities of finding a companion, but it is necessary to keep in perspective the difference between sex/romantic love and spiritual love that is more lasting. We are boomers now; we are rounding out the edges of youth; we are looking at the big picture of who we really want to spend time with. Fleeting sexual encounters whether they last a week or months should be looked at with a jaundiced eye in our 60's.

My friend was a co-enabler for many years in his marriage. Co-dependents just want to be loved. They want to be seen as a lover and supporter of those they love so they can, in turn, be loved back. Their need to be loved is as great as the addict. It doesn't matter to co-enablers that the love that is returned to them is a dependent kind of love, a love that has ties and strings to it, and that fosters the addiction (any kind of addiction or compulsion). My friend has gone through years and years of therapy and men's groups to understand his deeper needs. But right now, he is pretty angry with himself that he fell, yet again, into a situation that has been a variation on a negative theme: I just want to be loved.

When things go wrong in a relationship that involves one falling in love and the other not falling in love, anger sets in. I know my friend is very angry at himself and very angry at the woman. Anger is a symptom of something deeper inside of him. He knows this intuitively and is back to working very hard again to try to understand his compulsion to love.

One way I think to being this healing process is to understand forgiveness: forgiveness of self and forgiveness of the other. Forgiveness is the beginng of opening the heart again to acceptance and surrender of self. In yoga, our practice is heart opening. We focus on the heart chakra, which takes us to a deeper place in our soul, our psyche. Not forgiving self or others creates negativity, toxicity, and more anger until we are rendered unconscious. When we reside in darkness of the mind, we only see shadows of ourselves. They are illusions. We are in Plato's cave. In the allegory of the cave, or the unconscious, we are stuck in a place where light only rarely gets in and where the darkness comes over us and oftentimes consumers us.

My friend is loved, deeply loved but he is just not seeing it at the moment. He is loved by his mother, brother, adult children, his women and men friends, and he is loved by me in the universal sense of love - that he is a sentient being whose place in the universe is important to many of us who know him. There are many kinds of love and an open heart brings a variety to that love. Love isn't just one emotion. Love is a complication of many emotions and feelings, and if we just look around we'll find it in front of us, around us while we are dancing tango, paying music, making fine furniture, shooting brilliant photos, practicing yoga, meditating, playing with the grandchildren, cooking, writing and a host of other experiences. Love is everywhere in our lives. But if we live in the shadow world, we will never know its existence.

Namaste

Joan

Leading With The Heart

Hi, Boomers,

I had to make a rather big decision last week. It involved matters of the heart.

As a yoga instructor, the overriding emphasis in a practice is the opening of the heart. Yoga is a heart-centered practice. The symbolic nature of the heart is its generosity of spirit, it's aspect of forgiveness, its ability to understand and create compassion and empathy for the human spirit and its aspect of gratitude and universal love. That is not to say that our heart centered practice concerns romantic love, although one can't have romantic love without an open heart. An open heart implies a more spiritual aspect of love.

If my heart is open and I am conscious of leading my life with heart centered intention and I am mindful (present) about listening to my heart charka, (i.e., the energy in my heart), then I hope that all my decisions that involve the heart are truthful.

I think about the heart every day when I teach yoga. I think about it so much that when some experience in my life actually takes me to my heart, I am often so surprised that I am rendered unconscious.

I was going to visit a new friend, a tango friend, and over the last couple of months a man who has become someone I got to know in a more intimate sense through emails and phone conversations. I had met this man in Los Angeles several days before he was returning to his home city. In the course of our conversations, we both thought it would be fun to meet up in his city, dance tango and explore the beautiful city where he resides. He would be coming to Los Angeles to spend four months during the winter with his family as he does every year and so we would get a head start on knowing each other by spending time together on a couple of occasions before he arrives in southern California.

It all sounded perfectly logical until several weeks ago. I realized that email and phone conversations were the most imperfect way to understand and acknowledge another human being, especially someone of the opposite sex. It began to feel like an artificial situation whereby we both have to always be on our best behavior. I was so busy being accommodating that I was losing track of feelings and emotions. What exactly were my feelings and my emotions in regard to him? I didn't have time to breathe and reflect upon our male/female situation for any length of time. The emails kept coming; the information kept arriving; the time frames of voice conversation was shrinking. Mix messages multiplied. Confusions set in.

In the past, the younger Joan would have said, "screw it, " I'm going anyway. What the hell! It's only a week. But a week in my life at sixty-six is a precious week. Besides, walking into a "maybe" situation is fraught with the possibility of conflict and struggle. We didn't actually know each other for long enough to make a decision about spending a week with each other. But because we were excited about a new friendship, we wanted to spend more time exploring our relationship. So we jumped the gun and pulled the trigger and made reservations.

Were those decisions made from the heart or from the adrenalin of meeting someone new and with potential possibilities? Hormones make us do the darndest things. And most of the time the things we do when we are excited are manifestations of our unconscious nature. We are going into the lizard mind, the limbic system where pain and pleasure receptors reside. Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! I want, I need, I desire.

I don't think my situation with the potential male partner was a conscious response to my open heart. But I think my canceling the trip to spend a week with him revealed a conscious intention of listening to my heart. My heart said stop, wait, patience, listen to your breath.

One of my yoga students asked me why I wasn't taking the week off as I had indicated I would to my students - preparing them for a substitute and letting them know I would be away as a point of courtesy. I told her that I was not sure it was the right thing to do because my heart didn't lead me to this man at this time. The yogini smiled at me as we both took in the silence.

"I want to be just like you when I get to your age," she said.

"Why?," I asked her.

"Because you are not afraid of life. You are not afraid to say it was a mistake. And you are now moving on from that decision."

I told her I was able to do that because my heart was open and clear and full of energy in this moment. It's all about taking my yoga practice off the mat and applying what I have learned from my practice to my life. I released the struggle; I released the negativity. And I brought myself back to balance.

Namaste

Joan

My Secret Life

Hi, Boomers,

I decided on the way home from the Denver tango festival that I was leading a secret life. This was not a double life, mind you, but a really secret life that almost no one in my family was privy to on an intimate, personal level. And those who know about my secret life as a tango dancer only know me as a tango dancer. I mean, for the most part, when tango dancers get together at the festivals, there isn't a lot of time to discuss our personal lives, albeit briefly. We know little bits and pieces about others but it takes years and persistence to discover that what makes us tango dancers tick outside of a milonga.

For almost sixteen years, I have slipped out in the dark of night to dance tango at various venues in Los Angeles. In the early years, I danced four or five times a week. I practiced at least twice a week. I went to Buenos Aires for thirteen years every March and hung out at the milongas (place where tango was danced) nightly. Most of the time I danced in the afternoons, also. Sometimes, I attended the annual tango festival put on by the most famous local maestros in the world. And sometimes I just took classes or a week seminar. Sometimes I just walked the boulevards looking for the perfect tango shoes. It felt like no one in my family would know me in this life; and indeed, they still don't know me in this life. They never will. And it's not important.

On one trip, my youngest son, Aaron, was living and working in Santiago, Chile. He came to Buenos Aires to visit me and hung out with a best friend, but he still didn't go to the milongas with me. Then I visited him in Santiago and he finally took me to a milonga on the outskirts of town. It was dark and seedy and the club was kind of mysterious. Aaron was slightly awed when the teacher asked me to dance and I felt special. I was still new to the art of following the man in tango, but I think I held my own.

I have had hundreds of little experiences that have shaped the woman I am today. A large part of the joy in my 60th decade has been informed by tango, the tango community, its music, and its beautiful aesthetic. When certain tango or vals or milongas are played in a milonga, my body and mind energize and it feels like I am in the fifth dimension. How lucky I am to have found such passion.

And it's all mine. Of course, I share the dance with men, some I know very well and some I don't know at all, but when it comes to describing how I feel about dancing tango to my family, I am silent, secretive. It's my life. It's my secret life.

Namaste

Joan

Down and Dirty

Hi, Boomers,

I had a busy week and no time to blog. It made me cranky because from time to time I have things to blog about and can't find the time to do so.

However, I find myself in Denver, CO, at this moment at a tango festival with some free time, lying in bed with my sore right foot propped up on a pillow. I come to Denver twice a year (Memorial Day and Labor Day) to dance tango like a maniac and to visit with old friends who are dear to me. One of the most interesting aspects of these festivals (I go to Portland , Oregon, also twice a year) is the opportunity to talk to my favorite people and get down an dirty with what's on our minds. It is curious to me, however, that all my friends are male in the tango community, except for my one long-time female friend who sells her tango clothes collection. In Los Angeles, I have three close female friends and one very best male friend and I feel lucky to have them for support and love. As I get older, I am more particular about who my friends are in my life.

Inevitably, conversations run to male/female relationships. It doesn't matter if the man is 63 or 46, emotional adolescent outpourings, yearnings, longings, hopes, lost and found loves pour out of us like a faucet without a turn off value. This seems to be the human condition: the search for fulling relationships. My friend, Philip, can attest to this because his psychology practice is all about finding happiness in mid-life relationships. Sometimes I think it's rotten luck that people have to endlessly search and sometimes flounder to find love. It's hit and miss. It's sad and happy. It's right and it's wrong. We can't get there from here. Where is the love? as the song lyrics ask.

I heard an outrageous story from my 63 year old friend who fell for a woman in the baby boomer category. From the moment he met her a year ago, he knew he shouldn't get involved with her. The bells and whistles were out there for the viewing and the signs indicated that this was not going to be the nurturing, supportive relationship he was seeking. But he fell for her anyway and it was a hard fall because he put in a huge amount of time and effort. And all the while, something in the back of his mind knew intuitively the chase was wrong. In this case, the object of my friend's affection wasn't well-educated; she had been divorced a long time, had no children, was not responsive to his professional or artistic pursuits. In short, she was a woman who was into trying out men but not necessarily wanting to commit to long and loving relationship. So what did this woman want from my friend?

This woman was after was the perfect penis! No kidding! It turns out after four months of dating, she told my friend that his penis shape wasn't quite right for her. She was looking for something a little different, something a little thinner, something a little shorter, something that would give her an orgasm because it seemed that she had had only two orgasms in her life and she was on the search to find that perfect penis again. She told him she wasn't in to my friend in a sexual way. On the next penis!

My mouth is still open in wonderment about this story because (a) I know his penis (he is a former lover and a man who is a lost to me in love due to our inability to sustain a long distance relationship), and (b) a man of 63 who is still active sexually is a real find. In boomer speak, hang on to the sexually active and sexually interested.

This situation hits me in the face with everything that is wrong about looking for love in all the wrong places. Of course, I did it, too. Not with a penis, mind you, but with wanting a loving commitment from a man that was never going to happen even if I spent four years trying to make him my partner in life.

We're in our 60's, for God sake, and our intention is to find a relationship that not only possess an intimate component (and hey, girls, a penis is a penis is a penis and if it works it's an even better penis), but the couple has a spiritual connection that inherently contains caring, support, fun, way loads of fun. I don't want to drag around a sad-sack for the rest of my life. I need energy to match mine and we both have to be going in the same direction. At the age of 60 or more, we should know the nuances of what makes a good relationship. On the other hand, this relationship business can be a mystery of huge porportions.

You wouldn't think at a tango festival that you could learn so much about men. But I've learned a lot about the state of the male mind as it relates to females. My 46 year old friend and I were discussing how to spot a "crazy" woman quickly and then how he astutely avoids these kinds of women. My friend is so very intelligent and sane and knows exactly what he wants in a female. He is very conscious about certain psycho signs in a female as she approaches him to dance or to talk. He's got his male relationship check-list in his head and he quickly makes an assessment about the woman who is coming on to him. It probably takes him about thirty minutes to gather information from her to see if she is a prospective date. This guy saves an awful lot of time in his life. He doesn't get too attached at the beginning. And for sure, he isn't thinking with his dick.

More from Denver later. I'm going to dance this afternoon.

Namaste

Joan

The Tango Festival

Hi Boomers,

I don't usually go on and on about Argentine tango not because I'm not passionate about dancing tango but because I'm often private about how I feel about the dance. It's something I have done for about 15 years and my relationship to tango and its long history is emotional, complicated and passionate.

Fro those of you who don't know, Argentine tango is a social dance and not a competition. American tango is part of the ballroom scene and its unending competition and is not so similar to the tango danced in the tango salons around the world.

Tango dancing has taken me to some of the coolest places on earth. Mecca, of course, is Buenos Aires - the most authentic place to dance tango. I've been thirteen times. Is that sick or addictive or just plain fanciful? I don't know but the city kept calling me back for all those year - and it's charm and authenticity still does - but I'm running out of years to see other parts of the world and so I'm taking a break for awhile and trying out Costa Rica, Southern Spain, Morocco, Bali this year and maybe Africa next year. I'll bet back to Buenos Aires, but for now, I can dance really wonderful tango in many cities in America. I used to go to Amsterdam to dance in the Christmas/NewYear's festival, and I have been to Berlin and Paris to dance, but Europe is, well....Europe is in deep trouble. And besides, airline flights are unpredictable. Someone once asked me to rate the best tango cities outside of Buenos Aires: Berlin and Amsterdam are tops - in fact, all cities in Holland and most of Germany are outstanding. And then there is the new kid on the block: Istanbul.

Which brings me back to Los Angeles and our tango festival that is just finishing up today, Sunday, May 9. Many years ago, there was a festival that ran for two years in Redondo Beach, but this tango festival was in my own backyard of Santa Monica. To undertake a tango festival takes incredible planning and organization and tenacity, usually ending in exhaustion and utter happiness. And I just wanted to recognize and applaud the organizers in my tango community for their incredible efforts.

The joy of a tango festival is to reacquaint with old friends, make new friends and dance with familiar partners. The tango atmosphere generate a generosity of spirit and an esprit de corp that distinguish tango dancers with an unusual set of dance skills and a genuine love for the history of the dance and its deep appreciation of its music. And this morning, I feel the pain of my swollen feet, view with horror the dark circles under my eyes from the late nights, and wonder if I have the energy to attend tonight's last milonga (or dance), knowing that I will probably drag myself back to Santa Monica high school and see who is left from the 200 or so attendees.

I know I'm probably the oldest tango dancer in any festival I attend. And I keep it a very closed secret, although once in awhile to my very close friends I tell them about how joyful I am about my grandsons and how thrilled I am to be awaiting the birth of my first granddaughter. They've got to guess my age, but if my guy friends know - or if they ask what the title of my book is (Sixty, Sex & Tango) they surely know - but they are happy to share a little piece of my life and then we dance another tanda.

I'm anticipating going to Denver for Memorial Day, which is my favorite tango festival in the US. It will be fun to see who shows up, exciting to anticipate dancing with more old friends, and terrific to spend time with one of my closest friends from Santa Fe who designs and sells tango clothes. If she brings her pugs, it will be a special treat.

Dancing tango has brought me more joy in life than I could ever hoped for, more comfort and passions than I could have ever dreamed of, and more excitement and travel than I could have ever dreamed of.

Thanks for letting me share my experience.

Namaste

Joan

To Protect and Defend

Hi, Boomers,

I'm back editing my book for the last time. I had two weeks off from engaging with the material that I've worked on for almost two years. The publisher sent my book back after an editor fixed the grammar and syntax. But now I am line editing the book after all the technical stuff has been corrected.

Writing is a lonely occupation. There is so much quiet in my apartment and in my mind that it is almost frightening. I feel like I'm in a cell when I write. Not a jail cell but a monk's cell. Isolation is good and bad. Right about now, my tush hurts, but I had to blog for a few minutes just to get the book structure out of my mind.

But I am really kind of disturbed today. I'm disturbed about the Catholic Church. I'm disturbed about the pedophile scandal, about priests and brothers molesting young people, either very young boys or adolescents. I've known for years about priests and women; especially in Latin America where there many priests who serve in remote regions take wives and raise a family. It's only natural. But the idea of covering up abuse, of sticking to the old playbook about celibacy makes me angry and very sad. The other day I read an article about priests in the Ukraine who are allowed to marry and raise a family. No child abuse in that part of the world. The Greek Orthodox priests marry; the Episcopalians marry and the Lutherans and other Protestant congregations.

In 1960, my parents hosting the wedding reception of my brother and his wife at our home. I was standing near my father as I always did and listened to a conversation between my father and my godfather and another man. This is all very vivid to me. They were talking about how ridiculous it was for priest not to be married. Now, these were Irish Catholic men and the Irish kind of make up their own rules about religion but it was a very progressive conversation. I felt the same way and I was only sixteen years old.

So this sexual abuse has been going on for decades, maybe even centuries and it began to surface i the 1950's. It is a horrific circumstance and I feel dead inside my soul. I listened to "This American Life" this morning about a former priest (a brother) who was recruited by the church to cover up abuse cases. After four years of lying to parishioners, the young priest of thirty-three left the church and ended up working for a law firm that represented men who have been abused by priests. He knew the inside of cannon law better than anyone in the firm because he had to implement the church law over and over again. He still went to church, however, until after about the one thousandth case of abuse crossed his desk. He reasoned that the Catholic Church was immovable, absolutely resistant to change, and he could no longer attend mass with his family. His daughter no longer goes to Catholic school.

This is what is on my mind today because I was raised a Catholic and believed like others in the institution until I grew into adulthood and realized that the church's mission was to intimidate and to frighten and to do anything, even lie and cover up, to avoid facing the horrendous truth that there are pedophiles among the priestly flock and the seminaries are rampant with men who use the institution to hide their addiction from society. I'm ashamed.

And I'm 60 and do not think I will every get over this betrayal. I know the other side of this argument is not to condemn the entire church for the sins of some, but the other side to this argument is that the Catholic Church is there to protect its flock and they passed the buck, didn't do it and they should be jailed or at least fired. Shame on them.

As I say in my book, SIXTY. SEX & TANGO, there is no curriculum, syllabus, cheat sheet or playbook to live in our sixties. We are pretty much surprised by life's circumstances and we try to roll with the punches. Did anything ever turn out the way we expected it to? And what did we really expect from our lives? I'll take my corner of happiness and relish it, have gratitutde for my joy, and try to get a good night's sleep.

Namaste

Joan