50 for 50, day 17: Touch

This is the 17th of 50 posts celebrating my 50th birthday. You can see the rest here.

I wrote recently about my aching back. It still hurts. I'm doing all the right things and it is gradually getting better, but these things take time and it's making me cranky. Some loving friends were tired of both seeing me in pain and listening to whine, so we went and got massages, which reminded me of just how much I love and need touch.

Touch is such a vital part of what it is to be human. I'm not talking about sexual touch (though that is part of it) but touch in general. A hug. A friendly hand on your shoulder. Any reminder that it is okay to let another human being within reach.

After Kevin died I found myself experiencing what is called in the widowed community "skin hunger," that need for skin to skin contact. I didn't want to look for casual sex, so I instead booked myself regular massages. I was lucky to find some really good massage therapists, skilled in both the physical art of massage and able to hold the space for the emotional work that can happen when you are being touched.

I would often cry through those early massages. The therapists would hold their hands on my back or stroke my hair. Later they would work through the knots on my back from the stress of holding myself together. Eventually I was whole enough that the massage was about caring for my body as much as my spirit, but throughout it all what helped the most was being touched.

I love being touched. As I get older I cherish touch more and more. I remember the last time I touched my father before he died and the feel of Kevin's palm on my cheek. I love the feel of my new love's skin. I delight in holding hands with my friends. Sure, I don't really like being touched unexpectedly by strangers, but that's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about the kind of touch that builds bonds, that helps with the release of oxytocin, that reminds me that my animal nature understands the language of touch more than anything else.

Touch matters. I hope, as I age, that I continue to cherish touch, that I continue to delight in touching and being touched.

This is what 50 looks like. Willing to be vulnerable enough to touch.
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50 for 50 day 16: Midpoint

This is the 16th of 50 posts celebrating my 50th birthday. You can see the rest here.

No, I'm not confused, I don't think this is the midpoint in the 50 for 50 series. I'm instead referring to today's autumnal equinox, that pause between a world in light and a world in darkness. In our busy world full of artificial light it can be hard to notice, but it was here. I promise. Watch, the nights will soon feel very long. The yearning morning light won't find it's way to the full brightness of noon, and will instead tumble to the long fingers of evening shadow. I've written about this before in the context of storytelling. If you're interested you can go here.

I am bouncing back and forth between thinking of 50 as the midpoint of my life (because of the nicety of how our numerical system work, the half of one hundred feels like the middle) and the knowledge that I am actually in my later years. I have more behind me than in front, yet I don't really feel as if I've passed my own personal equinox.

I started this series by talking about how I don't feel like a grown up. I really don't. I feel middle-aged in my body but not in my spirit. How can I really be past the middle? I don't know.

I do know that the months immediately following the autumnal equinox are my favorites. I love autumn. The aromas, the colors, the feel in the air, all of it is when I feel most alive and most productive, so I am hoping that my own post-equinox time will have a parallel to it. One way or another, I will find out.

This is what 50 looks like. Achey, a little tired, but excited to see what comes.
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50 for 50 day 15: Stranger in a strange land

This is the 15th of 50 posts celebrating my 50th birthday. You can see the rest here.

I am writing this as I sit on a train heading from New York City to Boston. I woke yesterday in my own Minnesota home, flew 1500 miles and now am journeying another 200 or so. It is nothing short of miraculous. I am awed that this journey, once so very long, dangerous and fraught, is now commonplace enough that I am the only one staring out the window at the world passing my.

Right now the train is passing old industrial buildings with tall, precarious smokestacks; graffiti; homes that might be places of refuge or fear, just like any home. 

There are as many platitudes about travel as there are travelers so I won't bore you with them. Instead I will tell you that one of my favorite feelings is that of being a stranger in a strange land. It might be when I'm in an unfamiliar neighborhood, it might be when I'm been someplace far from home. The degree of feeling can vary tremendously, of course, but every single time it happens I am reminded of my smallness and my individual nature.

Right now the train is passing a pond and park. The green is that faded autumn green and the bridge leading into the park over the pond (or river) has low elegant arches and a draw in the middle for any passing watercraft. The gulls shimmer white against the water.

When I have found myself facing great trauma, I tend to travel. I go someplace far from home where I can remind myself of this: I am a tiny speck in the universe, effectively immeasurable, but no less unique and vital. It's been a great comfort, being reminded of my own minuteness and paradoxical necessity. After Kevin's death I went to Alaska so I could feel small and be reminded that his death meant he was now a part of everything, so big and broad and lovely.

Right now the train is passing through an urban forrest. Heavy vines cling to the telephone lines running alongside the tracks. The flickering light between the trees reveals rusted shopping carts and a shack that might be home or long abandoned.

We need those reminders, those steps beyond what's comfortable, to remember that we are neither the center of the universe nor unnecessary. When we are strangers in a strange land we have the opportunity to see the world as it is: Pulsing. Vibrating. Ever present, even when we want to hide. Enormous and chaotic and mysterious. Reachable but never something we can encompass. Yet still something that has room for each us and might even celebrate us on occasion.

Right now the train is passing a broad expanse of train tracks, lines that never touch converging in the distance, the illusion more powerful than my understanding of how it may really be. There are parking lots to the side, full of cars that, in this quick glimpse, all seem pristine. The stone walls of the train tunnel would smell like cool time and the momentary scent of metal hot from friction. 

This is what 50 looks like. A stranger in a strange land, observing, welcoming, here.
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50 for 50 day 14: Dear me

This is the 14th of 50 posts celebrating my 50th birthday. You can see the rest here.

Dear ten year old Laura,

I know, people as old as I am now seem so distant and beyond reach. I bet you doubt you will ever get this old. I am here to tell you that you will and that your life will be an adventure. Some days will be glorious. Others will be heart breaking. And most will be fairly ordinary, but they will all be yours.

You will make choices that shape your life into its very own course, just the way everyone does. Some of those choices will be harder than others. You will make mistakes. Throughout it all, though, you will remain your own self.

That's what I want to tell you: You are your own self and no one can take that away from you. Trust your instincts and your heart. Don't be afraid to say no, don't be afraid to take risks.

I hope you are proud of who you grew up to be. I know, this isn't what you expected. We haven't won a Pulitzer, or gone to the moon, or married and had kids. Who I am now is not who I thought I would be when I was you, but who I am now isn't bad at all. A little worn maybe, but not bad.

I hope if I were to meet you through some odd bend of time, that I would take the time to listen to you. I hope I would encourage you. I hope I would take my shoes off and go wading in the
creek with you.

Thank you, ten year old Laura, for being so brave and curious and wise. I love you.

Yours in every way,
Almost fifty year old Laura

This is what 50 looks like. Loving myself through the years.
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50 for 50 day 13: The world through my eyes

This is the 13th of 50 posts celebrating my 50th birthday. You can see the rest here.

Yesterday I told you that I lost a bunch of photos I had wanted to share with you. Here are some others. They will never be as luminous as the ones we can now never see, because what we have never shimmers like what we have lost, but they are still worth seeing.

The world through my eyes. Some of the things I've noticed in the last few months. All images (c) Laura Packer, licensed through Creative Commons.

Before the storm

Endless

Persistent (taken on the shores of Lake Superior)

Everyone comes to the fair (MN State Fair)

Backyard neighbor

I'm sure one more will fit
(With thanks to my hand model, Charley)

Cooper's Hawk in the backyard

The moon is always full

This is what 50 looks like. Still watching the world.
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50 for 50, day 12: Mistakes

I had the best post planned for today. I've done a few posts in the past where I share photos I've taken so you can see the world through my eyes. I like those because they break up the walls of text I tend towards and they help me see my own photography in a new light.

That was what I was going to do.

I spent yesterday at the arboretum and it was one of those crystal clear autumn days. I took pictures of butterflies, of shadows on petals, of textures, all kinds of things. In the last few months I went to the Minnesota State Fair, saw some neat birds, had some other adventures, and all of it was captured in my camera. I was excited about sharing them with you.

I got home and transferred everything to my photo storage drive and started sorting through them, picking out the best ones. I put the memory card back in my camera and erased it, so I'd have plenty of room for the next round of photos.

You know what I was going to do.
And you know what I did.

I failed to transfer the images from yesterday, maybe 300 pictures, and I didn't notice. I erased the card. They are gone. I still have some of the others, but those fleeting colors and shadows? Lost. It rained last night. Even were I to go back to the arboretum, those blooms are likely gone.

I. Am. SO. Annoyed. It was a stupid mistake and made me stomp around like a three year old. I didn't sleep well because of it and have been gnawing on it ever since.

All things considered, I've made worse mistakes, but this rankles. They all do, don't they. Mistakes. And we all make them. Some are minor and easy to forget, others are catastrophic. On the grand scale of things, this isn't that big a deal though it is disappointing.

As I've grown older I've started trying to welcome mistakes or at least acknowledge them as part of the work of living. I make mistakes all the time, most less irksome than this one. I try to think of mistakes as evidence that I'm still trying new things, still learning. This one, of course, is evidence of carelessness because I thought I knew what I was doing and I've learned from it, but they aren't all like that. I'm not trying to say it feels good, making a mistake, nor am I suggesting that some aren't truly horrific but... we all do it. We may as well learn to live with it.

If we stop making mistakes we have ceased acting. Mistakes are inevitable. All we can do is try to learn from them, not beat ourselves up too much, apologize as necessary, and keep moving on so we can make more mistakes.

I'm trying to do all of that. I still wish I had those photos to share with you though.

This is what 50 looks like. Still screwing up. Still trying again. Fail again, fail better.

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50 for 50, day 11: A film I love

There are a few films, books, and other kinds of art that changed me the first time I saw them. You have those too, I'm sure. I revisit some from time to time, and I thought I might share a few of them with you, as I move through this blog series.

I was a freshman in college. That alone should tell you something about my state of mind; I was primed for transformation. It was a transformational time in many ways (among other things, that was when I met Brother Blue) and there were many people who helped. Ned was one of them. He was also a freshman and we met (I think) in an Anthropology 101 class. Or maybe the dining hall. Or somewhere else, it doesn't really matter. Anyway, Ned was one of those friends that you find in college, the ones with whom you stay up into the wee hours, talking philosophy and music and solving world problems with the assurance of a person just stepping into adulthood. If the world was run by people in their late teens to early twenties we might be in much better shape than we are now, because at that age I had much more certainty than I do now. I don't know.

Anyway, Ned and I were talking about something and this movie came up. He told me it was amazing and strange and Australian and I needed to see it, so we trundled down to the local video store, rented a VCR and the tape. Remember those?

I watched Bliss with rapt fascination and indeed, I did need to see it. It's become one of those movies I revisit every few years. I've shared it with a variety of people and the reaction is predictable: They either love it and are fascinated, finding themselves in it, or they are bored. I've learned to not be judgey about it, but really, how can the story of living in hell be boring? I went on to read the book, written by Peter Carey and well worth the time. I picked it up during my first solo overseas trip and I have crisp, clear memories of reading it in a tiny cafe while it poured outside, drinking strong tea, and being aware that I was in the same kind of transformational moment that the protagonist finds himself in.

It's not a terribly original storyline. Honestly, how many stories of transformation are, but that doesn't really matter. What matters is that we need those kinds of stories because they help us remember that we are not alone in our quest (conscious or not) for a more fully lived life.

American Beauty is basically a Bliss remake; both tell the story of someone living a life they don't know is killing them. They have a revelatory experience and are different from there on out, which turns out to be terribly disruptive. Transformation is like that. It may not be particularly original but it speaks to me. Bliss is more effective for me than the American version, maybe because it's more magical, maybe because the protagonist is just a little less skeevy, maybe because I saw it at the right time. It doesn't real matter. What does matter is that it works for me.

The preview, like most, doesn't do the film justice, but here it is anyway. If you want to watch the movie in whole, you can find it in three parts on youtube. The first is here.

I'd love to know what movies hit you in exactly the right way at exactly the right time and why. Maybe I'll watch a few of them.

This is what 50 looks like. Continuing to be transformed.

50 for 50, day 10: Rest

This is the tenth of 50 posts celebrating my 50th birthday. You can see the rest here.

Today's post will be brief. Of the many things I am learning as I age, the need for rest is one of the most important. It used to be that I could short myself of rest for extended periods of time and think I was still okay. Not so now. Not so then, either, but I was better at fooling myself.

Today I am resting. I read a book this morning (Gods Behaving Badly, if you're interested. It was a fun, quick read), had several cups of tea and a leisurely breakfast. I'm about to go run errands. All of these constitute a kind of rest I used to undervalue. Rest isn't just sleeping. It can be an active state.

I hope you have a wonderful day, with a good balance of activity and rest.

This is what 50 looks like. Smart enough to know when to shut up and rest.
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50 for 50, day nine: Love is the easiest thing in the world

This is the ninth of 50 posts celebrating my 50th birthday. You can see the rest here.

I was talking with a friend recently and ended the conversation by telling her, "I love you." She hesitated for a minute, then replied that she loved me, too. We hung up. It was a mildly awkward moment but one that I soon forgot, until I got an email from her, telling me how my declaration made her feel. A little bit uncomfortable, was this some kind of come on? Then warm and comforted. Loved. And of course she loved me, too. She wondered why friends didn't say that kind of thing to each other more often.

I do. I tell my friends, family, and even many acquaintances that I love them. I wasn't always like this, it was a conscious choice and one I don't regret at all.

I grew up in a family where saying "I love you" was weighted and infrequent. (Mom, I'm sorry that this paragraph will be hard to read. I love you.) It was sometimes a weapon, with implications of I love you, how can you do this to me. Sometimes it was an expression of power. Occasionally it was offered as a bit of comfort and, every once in a while, as a declaration of affection, but that was rare. It was never said without the expectation of being returned and gratefully so. It was often said in a ponderous tone. It was never simple.

As I grew older and developed other relationships, I went through a phase in my teens where I needed to tell people I loved them, but it wasn't easy. It felt terribly vulnerable and was always uncomfortable. Sometimes it was badly misunderstood, which led to even more discomfort. My first few romantic relationships drove my understanding of love, so I had some trouble differentiating between "loving someone" and "being in love" with them. Now I understand those as very different things.

It was once I was involved with Kevin that I began to understand love as something essential and easy. He regularly told his kids that he loved them and heard it in return. By seeing the way he loved I began to be better at loving, both in a romantic context and beyond it. I began to tell my parents that I loved them. For quite some time I remember their surprise and then the worried response. Was this somehow transactional? Was something wrong? Did I have terrible news? As they got used to my casual declaration of love, they began to relax. Soon it was a more regular part of our dialogue, ending easy conversations with "I love you."

I found myself starting to do the same with my friends. Do I not love them? Should it not be an acknowledged and comfortable part of our relationship? And it grew from there.

I don't want to suggest that I am one of those people who tells everyone that I love them, thus cheapening the idea of love. I'm not. Instead I have become one of those people who has discovered just how easy it is to love. I start from the assumption of offering respect and love, then see what happens from there. Love is the only thing I know of that grows the more you give it away. The more I love and the more broadly, the easier it is to do. I can love my friend, my partner, my parents, my neighbor, my colleague and more, with still more love inside of me. It's not a sappy, flower-scented, blind-to-flaws kind of things. It is a love that encompasses and celebrates our very human-ness. Our flawed nature. Our ability to try again and try a little better next time.

It is the easiest thing in the world.

Sure, love requires some vulnerability, but I can choose how I respond to that. I can close myself up and dole out love like a miser, or I can offer more knowing that I am more likely to receive it when I give it away.

I'm not saying that you need to do this. I'm telling you that I have found, as I near 50, that I would rather love than not. Sure, there are some whom I would be hard pressed to love. But if I allow myself to feel compassion I can, at least, start down that path. And I'd rather not hate or fear anyone if I can avoid it.

Here are some things I have learned as I practice loving the world:

• Love does not beget, obligate, or require love in return. It is not transactional.
• Love without attachment helps me be more compassionate, patient, and set better boundaries.
• Love is the responsibility of the lover. I own my own feelings and responses. Just because I love someone that doesn't mean we have a relationship or anything beyond my willingness to celebrate their being.
• There are big differences between love and in love.
• I am much more likely to expect and receive kindness, compassion, and help if I assume that starting from love is the answer. I get what I receive most of the time.
• I can love the chipmunks in my back yard knowing all they care about is the peanuts I provide. Why can't I offer that same kind of gift to the world? Sure, it may backfire (and certainly has), but I'd rather start with the open hand and the snack.
• Happily ever after is a great deal of work and is an extension of love. I love my neighbor but don't expect anything back from him. I love my friend and want a lengthy friendship (a kind of happily ever after) so we work at it. I love my lover and want happily ever after there, too, so we must love each other with great forgiveness and resilience. 

How does love work for you? When did you last say "I love you" and what was it like? I'd love to know.

Oh. I love you.
Thanks for reading this.

This is what 50 looks like. Loving the world fiercely.
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50 for 50 day 8: Barking against the dark

This is the eighth of 50 posts celebrating my 50th birthday. You can see the rest here.

I don't remember the first time I stood up for someone else. It might have been when I was eleven or twelve and in summer camp, though I expect it was earlier. Two of the girls in my bunk were refugees from Vietnam and had been sent to the camp by a charitable organization. They were teased by some of the other campers for looking different, for not speaking English, for whatever the reason of the day might have been. The girls had arrived at camp excited and happy; now they flinched and were silent. Their joy had been stolen.

I spoke up. I yelled at the mean kids and eventually publicly confronted the camp manager so he couldn't pretend it wasn't happening. The bullies backed off, the girls began to smile again, and I had two loyal companions who tried to teach me Vietnamese while the rest of my bunk ignored me. I didn't think of it as a big deal, it was just the right thing to do. I still don't think of it as a big deal, it was just the right thing to do, though now I can see that this may not have been usual behavior for an eleven year old.

I have always believed in barking against the dark. When we are silent in the face of evil we become complicit. (Your definition of evil and mine may differ, and that's part of why I support freedom of speech, but that's another post.) I don't practice this perfectly, consistently, or particularly effectively most of the time, but I try.

Have you ever been in a situation where you've seen something upsetting and thought someone should do something about that! I am someone. You are, too. We have voices and can choose how to use them. It may sometimes put us at risk but, personally, there are times when I'd rather be at risk and know I did something than have to live with the knowledge that I shrank back. Much of the time all barking requires is a willingness to not close your eyes and pretend you don't see. It requires not being that camp manager.

I bark in all kinds of ways. Some are direct and confrontational; others are the subtle acknowledgements that yes, there are terrible things, and yes, there are things worth fighting for. Sometimes a bark is momentary break from the friction. It might be a moment of compassion, choosing to listen instead of argue, donating to a cause I believe in, or as simple as pointing out that something makes me uncomfortable. And sometimes I am too tired to bark, so I give myself permission to rest today and bark more tomorrow. I fail all the time. Then I try again when I can.

As I approach 50 I find myself more willing to bark and more willing to not bark, because I know there will be new opportunities tomorrow. I certainly cannot save the world alone, but the world will never move towards justice if we all choose to be silent instead.

How do you bark against the dark? How do you give yourself permission to rest? When did you first speak up? I'd love to know.

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