pushing too hard every night and day

I am definitely a child of the 1970's.
This song, "Pushing Too Hard", is from 1966 and it immediately sprung to mind for this blog post.
Now, just let me say this before you get a wrong impression.
No one has been pushing me.
Okay?
No one has been trying to get me to do anything this month of travels.
I have no one to blame but myself.
Before coming to Kissimmee on Sunday, my left shoulder was aching, my left hand would tingle if I put too much pressure on my arm, and my right hip and thigh ached badly.
But you know what?
After three days and four nights of not driving anywhere, those aches are all gone.
Vanished.
POOF!
Just like magic.
I gotta face it: I'm not as young as I used to be.
Shite.
Driving from Savannah to Hiram to Dora, Alabama, and back to Hiram that first week of June may not have been the best idea. It had seemed like a logical course of action at the time. I was even taking some breaks along the way, but the time factor was constantly pushing me. I had obligations to other people, so I pressed on.
Driving from Hiram's rolling hills to the Blue Ridge mountains of North Carolina was another difficult drive. I was leading the BFF's daughter, so I was continually checking behind me to make sure she was still in view, taking care at traffic lights so she didn't get left at a red, taking care when shifting lanes so she would have room to squeeze in behind me. Also, the resort management company for Fairway Forest closed at 5 PM, so that time factor was pushing me. We only stopped once.
Then I had three solid days of driving on two-lane mountain roads. I wanted the girl-child to be able to enjoy the views while I operated my ton of death machine. Neither of us had been us there, specifically, though I had been to Franklin and Cherokee when I was in high school and about her age. Better that she be allowed to soak in the ambiance. But those twisting, curving roads pushed my nerves more than I wanted to admit. I was glad to be done with them.
I came home for just about two days before settling into the Saturn once more. Southward, this time, but southward from Bluffton, SC, not Savannah. I had chosen time with my stepmom over an early start. Good choice. Then I drove straight through, not making a single stop. Bad choice. Pushing too hard, trying to chase daylight.
I had noticed the aches before leaving Hiram for the mountains. They settled in for the long haul while up in North Carolina. They were constantly digging at me on the drive to Florida.
And they're gone.
Vanished.
POOF!

The moral of the story?
My body is not as young as my mind is.
More consideration of that fact must be given.
If it takes a little longer to get somewhere, guess what?
The fun begins with the journey,
not after the destination is reached.

With that firmly in mind, I have planned a nice long stop at McKee Botanical Gardens on my southward drive tomorrow.
That should be a nice journey, and a good walk, too.
And if you see me, be sure to tell me to look for the trees in the forest.
You know: s l o w d o w n.
(smile)

i don't feel any older yet

Later this evening, I'll be joining Barbara and some of her friends at Sweet Potatoes, a cheerful place for celebrations or rainy winter days.
She's a "retired", but still practicing, math teacher with a great sense of humor.
Here's the conversation by text we just had.
She had just sent out the time for the dinner.

me: Can do! C U there! Happy birthday!

her: Thanks. I don't feel any older yet.

me: Nah, the reaction is slower as you get older. It may take a day or so. :-)

her: Thank you for that scientific explanation although in a day or so I expect I'll have to do the math to recall how old I am. Who knew it would be so hard to remember!!!


Indeed. Half the time I'm not quite sure of my physical age. It's just a number, right? A marking since my birth of the Earth's revolutions around the sun in our Milky Way?
Just one more number...

there will come a day, youth will pass away, what'll they say about me?

Last Cab Ride

I arrived at the address and honked the horn.
After waiting a few minutes I honked again.
Since this was going to be my last ride of my shift I thought about just driving away, but instead I put the car in park and walked up to the door and knocked.

'Just a minute', answered a frail, elderly voice.

I could hear something being dragged across the floor. After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 90's stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940's movie.
By her side was a small nylon suitcase.

The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets. There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.

'Would you carry my bag out to the car?' she asked softly.

I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman. She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb.
She kept thanking me for my kindness.

'It's nothing,' I told her. 'I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother to be treated.'

'Oh, you're such a good boy,' she said.

When we got in the cab, she gave me an address and then asked, 'Could you drive through downtown?'

'It's not the shortest way,' I answered quickly.

'Oh, I don't mind,' she said. 'I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice.'

I looked in the rear-view mirror.
Her eyes were glistening.

'I don't have any family left,' she continued in a soft voice.'The doctor says I don't have very long.'

I quietly reached over and shut off the meter.

'What route would you like me to take?' I asked.

For the next two hours, we drove through the city.
She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator.
We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds.
She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl.
Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.

As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, 'I'm tired. Let's go now.'

We drove in silence to the address she had given me.
It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico.
Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been expecting her.
I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door.
The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.

'How much do I owe you?' She asked, reaching into her purse.

'Nothing,' I said.

'You have to make a living,' she answered.

'There are other passengers,' I responded.

Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug.
She held onto me tightly.

'You gave an old woman a little moment of joy,' she said.
'Thank you.'

I squeezed her hand, and then walked into the dim morning light.

Behind me, a door shut.
It was the sound of the closing of a life.

I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift.
I drove aimlessly, lost in thought.
For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk.
What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?

On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in my life.

We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments. But great moments often catch us unaware - beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.

PEOPLE MAY NOT REMEMBER EXACTLY WHAT YOU DID, OR WHAT YOU SAID ~BUT~ THEY WILL ALWAYS REMEMBER HOW YOU MADE THEM FEEL.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Coincidence that this cab driver was the one who came for the old lady?
I'd like to think not.
This was a small miracle, adding a touch of grace to both lives.
Last night, for the first time in months, I went to a Philo Cafe meeting.
[Sidebar: I had attempted to go, on a rainy night, back in February. As I had told Hai, "Drats. I cannot find The Foundery. There is def a joke that could be made, but it's true. Drats."]
The topic, posed by a new entrant to the group, a new entrant who also happened to be in training for Episcopalian priesthood, was "A Post-Christian Society". This week's meeting, on a rainy night as luck would have it, was also at The Foundery, a place I now well-knew how to find (thanks, bfe!). The Foundery happens to be a coffee shop opened by someone at my church.
Coincidences abound!
Or, does it just seem that they do because I am attuned to look for them?
Perhaps.
The conversation took various turns. Comparisons of populations of people in Walmart and in churches on a Sunday morning led to similarity of beliefs and features of those at a particular church (which brought to my mind the rule about solubility: "like dissolves like"). That line of reasoning led to demographics and marketing studies, as conducted for national churches, as well as the growth of splinter churches to serve specific niche populations.
Finally, we philosophers turned to the teachings of Christ for guidance. Were we, as a society at large, trying to treat each other kinder, to minister to each other's needs, to do what we could where we could? Was the world a better place because of the example set by Christ and taught by his disciples?
I hope so.
I believe it is.
I try.

The cab driver certainly followed that path.
He had a choice in the matter and he chose the decision which benefitted a total stranger.
In the end, his choice also benefitted him.

I do hope that when I am an old lady, I will find someone like that.
Meanwhile, I try to step out of my head and into other's shoes.

like grains of sand

Today was a blustery day at the beach... but Barbara and I went walking there anyway.
It was the first blue-sky day that we had been both free... and I had leftover popcorn for the seagulls.

I had taken some photos of my hair this morning.
This is an important step in my moving on process.
I've been trying to become more accepting
of my current age, to better embrace the me as I am, by substituting my present appearance into my mental image of me.
You see, I tend to carry around an image that is long overdue for an update. But I'm working on changing that, as I mentioned earlier this month.
Comparing the gray steaking of my hair to the racing stripes on the beach today is a fabulous way to celebrate the me of now. Coincidence? Of the best kind! The coean and I, both with gray highlights to whip around in the breeze - I can think of no perspective more pleasing!

50 is the new 40?

I don't know how anyone else's brain works, but I have some knowledge of the nature of my own. My brain likes to solve puzzles: crossword, jigsaw, sudoku. It always has and I've used that feature to my advantage time and time again, especially when I was in school. When I needed to write a paper, I would simply task my brain with developing the total topic and then wait for it to let me know the time was come to write. My friends and teachers didn't seem to understand that draft-writing and outlining were simply not useful tools for me in composition and really slowed me down.

The topic at dinner last night concerned age and appearances and included the assertion that "50 is the new '40' and 40 is the new '30'." Next thing I know, I've voiced a cohesive, multi-point argument. Unbeknowst to me and unbidden by me, this very topic was a puzzle my brain had taken on some time back and out of my mouth came the theories for the veracity of that assertion. Amazing.

First and foremost, I stated, we have MUCH better nutrition these days and, for many of us, that better nutrition began when we were in the womb. Better nutrition allows our bodies to better maintain every cell, every muscle, every organ, including the skin. With better cellular maintenance internally, and better skin care externally, we look younger longer. And for a nation so consumed by the appearance of the package, that translates to older folks looking a decade younger in the eyes of the beholder and the camera.

Second, we don't work as hard physically as our forebears did. We have developed tools to make our work easier and faster. No more do we have generations of skilled craftsman building a single mansion, or church, or monstrous public display such as a pyramid. With the tools now at our disposal, those edifices can be erected in a matter of months or years, not decades. Less strain on our bodies means less wear and tear on our physical appearance, allowing us to not show our age at the once-normal pace.

Third, we have more free time on our hands. Not only do the tools we have developed make our work easier, those same tools make our work faster, allowing us to work fewer hours. More free time should translate into better rested bodies, though that is not necessarily so. Still, more leisure time again means less wear and tear on our bodies, as many of us use that leisure time to exercise and tone the vessels that hold our souls. The benefit again is reflected in a longer stance with a younger appearance.

It's taken me longer to write this than for me to have uttered these thoughts last night at dinner. Amazing. I tell my students all the time that the subconscious brain is faster than any computer, that it is the source of our "gut feelings", of our instinct about a situation or a person. The brain is the keeper of every sensory bit of data collected by our bodies, as well as the library holding every word we've ever read. And yet, we depend too often on input from others to govern our own actions and beliefs. Not that it's a bad thing to look to others for advice and to take heed of their knowledge and experience. No, but we need to have more faith in our own database and continue to add to that store of knowledge, including one-on-one with other people. We need to accept responsibility for our own actions and decisions.

Me, too.