STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND

Last night I watched the 2010 Super bowl. Or, at least, the commercials and half time show. The legendary Who performed at half time. I was pretty excited to see them, feeling proud of their representation of my generation and its significant contribution to music, among other things. The light show was great and the band did a medley of their most famous songs to fill in the 17-minute performance. Roger Daltry and Pete Townsend looked, well... old. I didn’t have a problem with that. While their voices were not in the top form of their youth, they sounded okay and the music was great. So, I was disappointed to see negative comments, some by people from my own generation and not only about their performance, but the way they looked and about why they would be booked to do the Super Bowl instead of a more current performer. Wow! WTF?

My mother used to say that everything was for the young. I only half listened at the time because…well just because. That’s what you do when the world is YOUR oyster. But I remember now and I think I'm starting to understand what she was feeling. These days, I’m feeling that way myself. I’ll be 54 in about 6 weeks. That’s still pretty young by today's standards, but it doesn’t feel that way sometimes.

Lately, I feel that age is the significant factor in just about everything I do, from how I dress to what I eat, think and associate myself with. I’m kind of a late bloomer and just got my master’s degree 3 years ago; I’m progressive, tech savvy and young thinking, yet I’m overlooked for jobs because of my age.  How can one expect someone over the age of 50 to be sharp and competent when there is so much youthful talent out there?

Such is the world we live in and the ethos we nurture here in these United States. We do not value the wisdom that comes with age. Covert maneuvers by our mainstream culture push that which is older to the side, treating it as outdated and ineffective – standing in the way of the future – totally replaceable by that which is more high-tech and trend savvy and...young.

There are still cultures in this world that value older people. It’s sad that we’re not one of them. I’m sorry mom. I didn’t get it when you were here. I do now.

Stranger in a strange land…

This land is your land,

this land is my land…

Not really.

This was my land when I was young.

Now I’ve rounded the corner,

past middle age.

I’m a stranger

feeling as though I don’t belong;

an intruder, encroaching on a landscape

where I no longer have a solid footing.

I’m almost 54.

I used to be someone

or, at least thought I was.

Perhaps it was just an illusion.

But I had a voice,

I had a song.

Folks listened,

and they watched to see what I would do next….

all of us marveling at the possibilities ahead of me.

Then, looking into the eyes of older folks, now long gone

as they relived memories of their heyday,

and remembered the intensity of their own youth,

I pushed impatiently past,

lost in the brilliant optimism of my own possibilities.

I remember my mom’s impassive eyes

In her 7th decade,

gazing back at her past

with wonder, perhaps regret

quietly regarding the unspoken words

that she heard all too clearly;

“move over, its my world now.”

And now I,

in what seemed like the middle of my ascent,

slipped softly past the point of no return

Without even knowing that it happened.

It is I that am expected to move out of the way.

But, I’m not ready…

I’m still relevant…

Significant…

I am.

I feel the same as I did when I was 20.

I don’t look the same but I’m still that girl;

still have plans and hopes and dreams.

But that face in the mirror looking back at me…

aging traitorously…

that’s not me!

But, that is me…

A stranger in a strange land

Kathy Cristoforo (C)

THE ZEN OF WINTER

ZEN - enlightenment that is attained through meditation, self-contemplation, and intuition.

I’m still on winter – hmmm, I guess you might call this a tangent? When I got up today it had snowed. Not very much - we haven’t had as much this year as we’re used to in southeastern Michigan. It was probably an inch and a half or so. But it did the trick, transforming the gray landscape into a wonderland. The sun was shining and everything was covered and sparkling. My drive to work was slippery but delightful. Again, I marveled over the quiet beauty that is the season of winter, my new muse.

Dignified, regal, elegant in its simplicity, winter is the soul of reflection. It is the contemplative season, ceasing outward activity for tranquil introspection, keeping sweet secrets that will surface in the spring in a vibrant rush of new life.

Winter is the guru of cyclical nature, leading us to slow down, reflect and savor the warmth of hearth and home and family and friends, and to forge a mental path for the days to come when time will be stolen by other outdoor activities. Relish the solitude, the chance for brief intervals of hibernation; to recharge and become enlightened.

The Zen of winter.

WINTER REVISITED

I’ve been contemplating winter for awhile now and I’ve concluded that its bad reputation is the result of misunderstanding and perspective. I’m a Michigan girl and as such, can be expected to either love or hate the season. And by love, I mean as in winter sports, skiing, ice skating,snow-shoeing, snowman building, hot chocolate, red cheeks, and the like. And by hate, I mean bitching constantly for at least 4 to 6 months about the upcoming cold weather, being cold, the cold weather and the snow, wearing winter coats, the long miserable season of cold weather, ice and snow, and finally the slow departure of the winter season of cold weather, ice and snow, being cold, winter coats….

I love all of the seasons and in Michigan, they are very distinctly different seasons – no blurred lines, each one with a charm all its own. I suppose I, like many of us, used to be a combination of the love winter/hate winter crowd. I used to number the seasons. Autumn was my favorite – then spring, summer and finally winter. I realized this year that I can’t do that anymore. I see their innate beauty and diversity and how each one imparts something to the others.

Winter is a feast of the senses. It’s vibrant in its stark solitude. It’s restful and designed for respite from the business of the planting, tending and harvesting seasons. It is beautifully elegant in its glittering white cloak and soulfully quiet in demeanor. These days I see winter with different eyes and I love it. It’s a time of rest, reflection and hibernation, staying in bed late reading on weekend mornings. I think winter may be my new muse - I’ve even written a poem about it, posted in the past few weeks.

Here is my list of winter delights, both past and present:

 Hot tea, cheerful warm fires and sparkling snow
 Cozy blankets, warm mittens, soft sweaters and colorful scarves
 Rosy cheeks and catching snowflakes on your tongue
 Christmas lights and goodwill to others
 Steaming bowls of homemade soup and warm bread
 Clouds of warm breath in the frigid air
 Casseroles shared with family and friends
 Birds on the wire keeping warm
 Snow angels
 Hot cider, steaming chestnuts and snowmen with carrot noses and coal eyes.
 Snowballs and sleds
 Frozen lakes dotted with ice shanties
 Warm steamy clouds rising from the city sewers
 Sparkling stars in a cold, clear silent night sky
 Being warm in the cold
 More time to rest
 Reading in bed
 Time to reflect
 Time to plan
 Time to be grateful
 Hibiscus or Paper Whites in a cup to bring thoughts of spring

Winter is lovely.