One of the ever-present critiques my blood family bestow upon me, daily, is that, since living in California all those years, I've become a tortoise. (Maybe that's why I named my Subaru "Tortuga"...) An hour doesn't go by without being prodded, pried, pressed to "pick up the pace, K.K.!"
At first, it was funny. I attributed it to age--I'd been gone so long they still expected me to be eighteen years old. I'm 55--even if I don't exactly think of myself as 55--the physical body sure does. Wearing sneakers doesn't help my speed,either. Somehow, the family expected if I laced up the Nikes, things would improve.
Then, I attributed it to the temperature. From living at a mean of seventy-nine, to plunge, now, to a mean of around forty, well, it affects one's bones. Everything creaks when faced to leaving the cocoon of the sleeping bag and jumping on to a bare, wooden morning floor. I've taken to wearing a beanie, everywhere, and suddenly understand on a deeper level why so many balding men cling to their baseball caps. Cold does freeze me in place. I think twice about heading outside in a blizzard. I wear baggy clothes not for fashion and a certain style, but because long undies fit easily under loose layers.Mittens, scarves, down jackets--all the bane of my childhood, now my closest allies. (If I slip into a snowbank, though, it's all over...no getting back up...)
Finally, I chalked my speed critiques to the simple banter of a tough-as-nails-wild -and-wooly- clan; raised in the bosom of New England with both Catholic and Protestant work ethics; high pain thresholds; no-whiners-allowed philosophy; if you weren't moving, and moving quickly, accomplishing many tasks simultaneously; you weren't alive. I expected that some day, I'd wake up and like the worst horror flick of adolescence, find myself buried alive, scratching at the coffin lid, screaming to be let out!
Then, today, just purusing my Buddhist collection, I came across Thich Nhat Hanh's simplified code for living like a Zen monk, mindfully: "Smile. Breathe. Go slowly."
Yup.
Now I remember where it began to change for me.
Ahhhhhhhhhhh.
At first, it was funny. I attributed it to age--I'd been gone so long they still expected me to be eighteen years old. I'm 55--even if I don't exactly think of myself as 55--the physical body sure does. Wearing sneakers doesn't help my speed,either. Somehow, the family expected if I laced up the Nikes, things would improve.
Then, I attributed it to the temperature. From living at a mean of seventy-nine, to plunge, now, to a mean of around forty, well, it affects one's bones. Everything creaks when faced to leaving the cocoon of the sleeping bag and jumping on to a bare, wooden morning floor. I've taken to wearing a beanie, everywhere, and suddenly understand on a deeper level why so many balding men cling to their baseball caps. Cold does freeze me in place. I think twice about heading outside in a blizzard. I wear baggy clothes not for fashion and a certain style, but because long undies fit easily under loose layers.Mittens, scarves, down jackets--all the bane of my childhood, now my closest allies. (If I slip into a snowbank, though, it's all over...no getting back up...)
Finally, I chalked my speed critiques to the simple banter of a tough-as-nails-wild -and-wooly- clan; raised in the bosom of New England with both Catholic and Protestant work ethics; high pain thresholds; no-whiners-allowed philosophy; if you weren't moving, and moving quickly, accomplishing many tasks simultaneously; you weren't alive. I expected that some day, I'd wake up and like the worst horror flick of adolescence, find myself buried alive, scratching at the coffin lid, screaming to be let out!
Then, today, just purusing my Buddhist collection, I came across Thich Nhat Hanh's simplified code for living like a Zen monk, mindfully: "Smile. Breathe. Go slowly."
Yup.
Now I remember where it began to change for me.
Ahhhhhhhhhhh.
No comments:
Post a Comment