My Diminishing Vanity Takes a Hike

Image courtesy of the fabulous Graphics Fairy

Yep, there she goes, right out the door, not even looking back. Her Haughtiness, turns her heel and says "piss off Jenny"
Why this sudden break up with my old friend? Well, actually it's not sudden, we've been drifting apart for quite some time now. She stood by with her arms crossed shaking her head when I stopped wearing eyeliner everyday. Then when I got the dogs I started leaving the house in all sorts of unacceptable clothing, flannel sleep pants, sweats, a nightgown tucked into my jeans.
"Pssh, so trailer trash!" she would mutter as she sat down crossing her long lean legs refusing to accompany me on the walk that would involve, at some point, bending over to pick up a large pile of poop with an old bread bag.
The last tantrum occurred when I decided to stop wearing a bra.
"Oh come on now, you are in your 50's! You've got one of them pointing one way, one the other and they're not as perky as we used to be you know!" She in that snarkey adolescent tone of voice.
I think for a moment, and decide that I really don't care because, much to Vanity's dismay, I no longer wear shirts that cling to my torso like a glove. And as far as attempting to create some sort of cleavage with the bras that are designed to do so as some kind of favor for us 'smaller breasted women', I'm sick of the way they dig into my ribs. Besides once they take a wrong turn into the washing machine they get all knocked out of whack and generally don't hold things in place like they're supposed to anyway. That rogue left boob just pops right out of the whole 'push up' operation that is a sad attempt to create a mysterious and alluring valley between it and it's sister.
So Vanity was already pissed off at me and I've been ignoring her little fits. The big break came at the eye doctor. I had been indulging my dear friend a bit by not wearing glasses until both of us realized that squinting and not recognizing people from 20 feet away was also quite unbecoming. I did such a good job of ignoring my glasses that they went away. I have no idea where they went which sucks because at my last eye appointment Vanity was on task.. I also had a job, and money. I was able to pay the extra 200 bucks for the no line bifocals.Vanity was happy with that.
"No one has to know we have bifocals" she whispered giddily all the way home as I teetered about trying to adjust my eyes to the invisible boundary between super zoom and simple clarity.
Now 3 years and 15 all out fights with Vanity later I have settled on bifocals WITH LINES! Even I am somewhat horrified by this recent development. So today as I head out to pick up my new glasses bringing Sensibility along with me (she probably wears bi-focals...and comfortable shoes) I'll be peering over my shoulder for my old friend. If imaginary friends could come up with real cash I might indulge her, until then I guess Sensibility and I will be chumming around for a while.
© 2010-2012 Nanakoosa’s Place, authored by Jennifer Hazard

Memoir Musings

I've been putzing around with the process of writing my memoirs for several years now, with varying degrees of dedication and intent. There is no doubt that I have plenty of stories inside me. I have lived a life that, as I have mentioned frequently, is a patchwork of often paradoxical scenes and chapters. I have allowed myself to be open to experiences that offer characters and situations that make for some pretty colorful storytelling. There are times I have struggled against barriers of my own making and other times in which the challenges have been the products of systems over which I had little control. If there is a school of hard knocks, I have at least a few credits under my belt. I have also, at times, been blessed with uncanny good luck, for lack of a better phrase. My Luck may have saved my life in some situations and in others merely landed me in the right time and place to be able to avail myself of opportunities that fulfilled my dreams.
As anyone who has toyed with the idea, or followed through with it, you know there are many considerations to writing a memoir. Initially there is the question of intent, what is the purpose of the memoir? For some a memoir can be a personal process of developing a record to be added to an ongoing family history, a way of leaving a legacy to one's family.
Another personal motivation may arise from the need to make sense of one's experiences and patterns of interaction. Much like journaling telling one's story can be incredibly therapeutic. In my experiences both as  counselor and counseled, I have seen memoir or life writing used with great success as a means to make make peace with one's personal history. By pouring through our lives and putting our experiences to words we create a concrete visual timeline of people, events and emotion that can shed a fresh perspective on our personal view of our place in the world. For many of us upon entering the therapeutic process our lives tend to look like a jigsaw puzzle spread before us. There are recognizable bits and pieces that capture the eye and spark recognition. As we engage in the process of fitting the pieces together patterns begin to develop. What was once a scattered pile of random shapes and colors slowly becomes a panoramic view of who we are as a Whole being within our surrounding environment.
Corners first, then edges, then we move onto matching up recognizable colors and patters. At some point we become frustrated and abandon the project where it sits, some of the pieces become displaced, but when we return, we remember where those pieces fit and as we reconstruct clearer patterns begin to emerge. Eventually we see the events of our live and the characters within it in a way that was previously hidden or inaccessible. The process is a personal healing journey and there may be no reason ever for anyone else to read the finished product.
For many writers, especially those who are of a humanitarian sort, a memoir can be used as a tool or guidebook for others on their own journey to healing and self discovery. I suspect that quite often these kinds of memoirs develop out of one's own personal therapeutic process especially if we are telling the story of a personal struggle with a life changing event.  How often have you heard a survivor of a terrible ordeal state that "perhaps something good can come from my experience?' Distributing and sharing our stories is a way to reach a large audience to offer support encouragement and information, allowing the audience to remain anonymous at times when it may be impossible for them to reach out and ask for help. I've spoken with several individuals whose first step to recovery was found within the pages of a memoir.  By reading another person's account of events and accompanying emotional responses, the reader may discover, sometimes for the first time, that they are not alone, weird or crazy. This validation became the key that would unlock the cell of shame and isolation.
So many wonderful reasons to share a memoir, right? It's no wonder that for a time it had gained popularity as one of the bestselling literary genres. There are, however, complications involved with writing one's memoir especially if it falls into the latter categories of personal struggle and life challenges. A memoir that is written as part of a family history may tend to be more of an autobiographical timeline of ones life events. A memoir, on the other hand is a more personal subjective portrayal of a specific stage or theme in one's life. For us non-conformist, rebellious, renegade souls a  memoir is likely to contain some gritty material. For Survivors "gritty" barely scratches the surface.
Thinking back to the worst of the worst times of my life resurrects a scramble of hazy snapshots, all of them distorted in some way by my own perception both in the present and as it was at the time. On a light note I recently described to a friend my own mental image of myself while drunk. Tall, powerful, slick, witty and invincible; picture a white Pam Greer. Hell, my self image was so distorted, forget the white part!
Now years later in retrospect and with the help of observing young drunk women acting much as I did, I realize my mental picture has been photo shopped. The same happens when I talk to any woman desperately attempting to defend an abusive boyfriend or husband, I wonder for a moment how she can believe the words that are coming out of her mouth, then I remember and I know that she probably doesn't but so desperately wants to.
Some say the memoir is passe, it's falling out of popularity. These are the people who are concerned with what sells, what gets attention. Obviously I have never been concerned with what 'sells', I'm more concerned with what touches the human heart, what makes a person feel less alone and with what gifts we as women can share to strengthen one another. Does this make me hero or a saint of some sort? Ha Ha, wait for the memoir. You be the judge.
Peace,
Jenny Nanakoosa


© 2010-2012 Nanakoosa’s Place, authored by Jennifer Hazard

Flowing with the Seasons

Here in Wisconsin spring is a fickle maiden. One day she tempts us with the promise of summer, teasing us with warm whispers and the scent of new blossoms, an alluring perfume. The nest day she is cold, snippy, she spits rain in your face contemptuously; the date you made yesterday is off, no picnic for you, stay at home and find your own source of warmth and comfort.
Is it no wonder then that those of us who are sensitive to nature and her moods find ourselves grappling with our own rollercoaster of emotions.
I have always been subject to the whim of the seasons.  The winter blues or cabin fever can plunge me into the depths of an existential crisis. Summer brings a sense of freedom and joy, but by August I begin to feel like the party girl who has had a bit too much to drink, I just want to go home and sleep.
Spring typically brings a renewed energy, a sense of hope, and inspiration.

Therefore I feel a slap of disappointment when little miss Spring decides to withdraw her affection and warmth, such a tease! But like most sassy girls when she's good she's good, and today she was kind and flirty. I was lured by her charms to my little garden plot to pluck some weeds, I reveled in the nostalgic aroma of her Lilac blooms and my dogs trotted along happily as we walked to the co-op to buy some early greens.
 Life can't always be like a perfect spring day just as we can't always be happy, hopeful or inspired. We have our rainy days, our own fickle moods and throughout life we have our seasons. Nature is authentic, gritty, beautiful, terrible and yet she moves with grace through her changes. She makes no apologies for the sudden thunderstorm, but she brings renewal and growth in it's wake. Every mood serves it's purpose, to cleanse, to nourish and sometimes to destroy in order for healing and renewal to take root. Like Nature we can flow with the changes and seasons of our life fully alive in the expression of of the moment and  aware of our purpose.

© 2010-2012 Nanakoosa’s Place, authored by Jennifer Hazard

Mending My Mindfulness

 I clearly remember times when as a child, my thoughts uncluttered, I could sit for hours marveling at the
intricate workings of nature. I would watch a caterpillar nibbling away at a leaf bite by tiny bite. I could stare at moss so closely I could imagine that it was a miniature forest within a forest, perhaps home to it's own tiny world invisible to the human eye. Especially in nature I would immerse my senses with every element of my surroundings and I experienced complete peace and harmony in those moments. I didn't know it as such at the time, but I was practicing mindfulness.
I feel as though I frequently talk about living mindfully or practicing mindfulness, but in my own adult reality it is something that I struggled with for years. I learned about the concept of mindfulness, in stages throughout my life as a recurring theme that has evolved throughout the years. I was initially introduced to the concept  from my mother who is a practicing Buddhist. In later years it cropped up in books and articles I was reading about spirituality or self help. In therapy I was taught mindfulness practice as a method to quiet the racing thoughts and cravings that hijacked my mind and even my body driving me to moments of panic and fear. In my weekly yoga class, I learned from my wonderful instructor that mindfulness is key to getting the most out of one's practice. Finally in my training as a counselor I was mentored and trained to assist my clients to use mindfulness in their healing process.
Yet even with all this wonderful advice and information,  I often felt I had to really push myself, to remind myself to be mindful. It wasn't something that came naturally to me as it had when I was very young.
Now after years of "practice", a funny thing has happened. Suddenly, it's coming back to me. In fact in the past week or so I have spent little time writing and very much time listening, observing and sensing the world around me. I've also been mindful enough of my own state being to know that for whatever reason, this is what my whole Self needs at this time. It's like craving a certain food, if you suddenly have an unquenchable taste for greens your body probably needs calcium.
Thinking back over the past couple of months I realize I have had a sort of spiritual craving, a sensory craving to take in all that is in my environment, to observe, to listen, to feel. There is something I need, there is an unnamed desire.

I have come to a point in life where I am now living alone, my youngest child now almost 19 is on his own. I am unemployed along with all of the paradoxical freedom and restriction that accompanies that status. I am not involved in a relationship of the romantic sort. The Occupy movement which I had devoted a considerable amount of time and energy to is undergoing a quiet transformation. I have recently hit the point that I can safely say I am fully recovered from my Interferon/Ribavirin treatment and physically and mentally as good as I'm gonna get. I have had the feeling of being at a crossroads wondering where I go from here. I feel like I'm on the threshold of...something. I'm just not sure what. Yet.
I think this 'craving' the need to listen, to observe, to absorb the world around me is a message from my higher self. It's telling me that if I am to make choices about what comes next, starting a project, connecting with people in my community or maybe even something I haven't imagined yet that I need to pay attention to what life has to offer. I also know from past experience that a door that is open to opportunity needs some monitoring. In case you haven't guessed by now I have been known to be somewhat impulsive in my decision making at certain times in  my life; sometimes with disastrous results. And even when not walking blindly into disaster I have sometimes missed out on the beauty and joy of the simple things life has to offer, all because I was so busy chasing that crazy train that ran in circles around my mind.
To follow up on my last post, one of the joys of getting older is being able to slow down, to get off that train and suddenly mindfulness climbs into your lap like a well loved feline.
 I also recently talked about procrastination, but I don't think that's the case, yet. I will trust my heart and mind to work together and to let me know when to take the next step...and then I will most likely procrastinate just a little bit. If I'm lucky now that I've put that out there in the Universe, someone will let me know. You will, won't you?
© 2010-2012 Nanakoosa’s Place, authored by Jennifer Hazard

The Gifts of Getting "Older"

A funny thing happens when I hear individuals being referred to as "older". My ears always perk up and I immediately scan the conversation for clues as to the age of the person in question. If the conversation involves people in my age group, most likely older means elderly. I happen to be in contact with younger adults on a fairly regular basis however and often "older" refers to, well somewhere around my age.
Funny I don't feel older. Or do I?
There is a part of me that will always be young at heart, as the saying goes. In my heart, or my soul, I feel, well, youthful. I am generally optimistic, idealistic and free spirited. I prefer jeans (not "mom jeans"), t-shirts and sneakers; I don't try dressing like a teenager but I do. I don't try to look like a teenager and maybe that's the difference between looking ok in jeans and looking desperate.
Physically I sometimes forget I'm "older" but that happens less often, each time I injure myself doing something that reminds me I'm not 20 anymore, like trying to climb a fence to avoid walking all the way around a parking lot. Or roller skating.
If I strain my back it takes weeks, not days, for it to heal.
There are other things that remind me, since I do seem to forget, that I am "older"
Getting out of bed in the morning hobbling to the bathroom on feet that are stiff and achy (why? I haven't done anything with them for at least 8 hours!) and those feet can barely carry me quickly enough because my bladder capacity is not what it once was in my younger beer guzzling days.
Not having a period. It's been over two years now and I hardly remember what it was like, really. I can wear my "good" undies any day of the month (unless of course my bladder fails)
Not knowing what music is popular.
Walking through neighborhoods where every store has changed ownership at least several times and I can remember most of the previous businesses and how they were superior to what is now in place.
Walking though neighborhoods that used to be houses and now are condos.
My notions of classic cars and classic music are different than the dominant culture. Most of the cars I have owned would now be collector's status.
I call people "honey" and "sweetie" and not because I'm coming on to them.
I understand the concept of patience, and am able to put it into practice.
My only thoughts about Mr Right are the hopes that my daughter will meet him.
I am at last truly happy with who I am and really do not care if other people are not. And that, my dears, is the greatest gift of growing "older"
I know my readers have other "gifts of age" to share, I welcome anyone to add to the list, call it a virtual stitch n' bitch.
Peace,
Jenny Nanakoosa

Image courtesy of Photobucket, http://media.photobucket.com/image/older%20women%20funny/shymartinez1/_%20FUNNY%20QUOTES%20AND%20SAYINGS%20_/FUNNY.jpg?o=1
© 2010-2012 Nanakoosa’s Place, authored by Jennifer Hazard