I'm tired of regrets. Are there roads I wish I'd taken and choices I wish I hadn't made? Absolutely. But I've stopped wringing my hands over those. I can't undo the past, so I'm trying to live in the present.
What strikes me most about this time of life is how easy it is to turn your back on life-giving energy. Without even knowing it we can divest ourselves of a vital future where we can continue to grow and create.
I've entered a virtual incubator of my own making, while I ponder and work and remember what it means to listen to my heart, my soul. And I wait to realize that I'm on the other side, transformed into the new thing.
I know a person who's having a midlife crisis. It isn't a secret; that's part of the crisis. His issue comes down to an excess of sex that he talks about excessively. His best friends don't mind that he's scoring more than LeBron James in a heated playoff -- they just wish he'd stop flaunting it.
I was 12 years old, and there was no way one could "get out of" the eighth grade at the Francis W. Parker School of Chicago without memorizing and reciting the poem. Samuel Taylor Coleridge's "Kubla Khan: or, A Vision in a Dream: A Fragment," to be precise.
You would think that, as an Iyengar-style yoga teacher of three (mere) years' standing, I might at least notice if a one-legged yogini (female yoga student) "walked" into my classroom. Reader, I did not notice.
My mother gave birth to me at 30 but not really that many years separated us. And yet, between the objects that defined her, and those that characterize me? Well, there seems to be an intergalactic-sized caesura.
I now write about our American wars without ever having visited a war zone. There, in the '50s and early '60s, I advanced with the marines and the Russians, bombed Tokyo but also experienced (however briefly) Hiroshima after it was atomized.