The Mindful Raisin

I am blessed to be a member of a 12 step program.   Along with membership, comes a tool kit which contains a variety of useful implements I can pick up daily, preserving the quality of my life by maintaining my house (me).  It works best when I leave it sitting on my bedside table where I can easily see it.   Sometimes, I really don’t much feel like using my toolkit.  It can be time consuming and often interferes with what I really want to do.   So, I pick it up and move it out of sight, into the back of the closet.  There it sits, getting all cobwebby.  Before I know it, winter arrives, and I haven’t taken the time to change the furnace filters, or weather proof my windows. A shivering mess, I then remember the tool kit in the closet, and pull it back out to do the needed repairs.  It takes longer, and sometimes I have to call for outside help because I have neglected to protect “my house” from daily wear and tear.  Why don’t I just remember to leave the damn thing on the bedside table, use the tools each day and avoid the cost of rebuilding?  

I have to say, I am much better these days about using my tools. Recently, I have moved the kit from the bedside table to a belt,  buckled around my waist.  I know this foresight has come about in the last year or so with the many uncertainties that could easily plague my serenity.  I'm not saying I have arrived at a place of complete urban renewal, but for someone who has lost her job,  still grieving some lost dreams, and remains stuck in a place I have been trying to escape for the past five years, I am maintaining remarkably well!  And, I am going to give credit to my B & D (Beautifully Designed) tools hanging on my hips. 

Because of my propensity for extremes, I tend to think, if some tools are good, then more are better.    The tools I currently have at my disposal, found in the 12 step process, are more than enough for me to maintain and continue to grow.  But, I believe if I want to evolve, there are some things I could do to help that process.  Several years ago, the term, the Now, the Present Moment came into my awareness. I read the books, joined the study groups, and learned enough to be able to spout the lingo, but sure couldn’t apply the science!  This past, desolate, winter (both weather and of the soul) cooped up at home, I began to try meditation.  My persistent “monkey mind” never really could settle into a state of emptiness, allowing spirit to speak.  Mindfulness was a word that kept popping up for me.  In conversations, on television, in books and articles I was reading. One thing I now do know, when I intuitively sense a message, it behooves me to pay attention.  Something was tugging at me and whispering “sweet mindfulness” into my ear.  I headed to the bookstore and purchased a DVD collection called “Mindfulness for Beginners” by Jon Kabat Zinn.  The first DVD was an explanation of what mindfulness is.  My novice understanding is; it’s the ability to stay in the present moment and observe, non-judgementally. No taking the shovel out and digging up the past, nor, using the periscope to see what’s on the horizon.  Focusing on what is taking place right now, along with the feelings and sensations in that moment, objectively. Sort of like observing from the other side of the room. Yikes...Wouldn’t it be boring?  What would I do without the heart pounding drama of the past or the delusional fantasy of the future? Nonetheless, It felt different from meditation.  Rather than clearing my mind, I would be permitted to have a single moment or object of focus.  I just may be able to handle that.  

Dropping DVD number two in my boom box, I was ready to begin an exercise in mindfulness practice. The first one, instructed me to get a solitary raisin. Of course, I brought in the box. A little chime sounded.  “Sit comfortably in a chair and close your eyes. Dr. Kabat-Zinn, instructed with a voice that sounded like liquid silk. “Now, he said, take your raisin and raise it slowly to your nose.  What does it smell like?”  “Cardboard,” I thought. I had to be careful and sniff lightly.  I didn’t need the raisin embedded in my nostril.  “Now, he intoned, take the raisin and gently roll it between your fingers.  What does it feel like?  Is it, ridged, smooth, moist or dry?”  Hmmm...It feels like a shriveled morsel of food swept out from under the refrigerator!  “Next, the good Dr. said, take your raisin and put it up to your mouth and place it between your lips. Does the texture feel different than when it was between your fingers?”  Still feels like a “food bunny” from the kitchen floor to me. Seems the raisin and I made out for a long time before finally the instruction was given to actually move it into my mouth.  But, “Ahh..ahh..ahh.. don’t bite down,” he says.   You’re kidding me, right?  Now, I am told to roll it over my tongue, feel the texture, nibble gently, releasing a tiny bit of flavor onto my tongue.  Oh, my God!  My life has become reduced to raisin foreplay?  Still, he instructs... “No biting down, just examine the raisin, every crevice.”  Stomach juices are beginning to flow, cry out for fulfillment, and I can’t stand it anymore.  My teeth bite into my soggy raisin and quickly swallow it up!  Waiting to be chastised by Dr. Kabat Zinn,  I am relieved I brought the box in with me and quickly pop another raisin into my mouth before he somehow catches me. I complete my exercise with my new raisin. 

Some things take a lot of practice.  I'm  a creature of instant gratification.  I don’t want to be, and I am working on it, but it's a long road ahead. These days, Dr. Kabat-Zinn and I snuggle a few times a week, in the comfort of my den, and I am getting better!  Many things are subtly changing. My perceptions are different.  I feel as if I've missed out on the slow deliciousness in my life.  When at the park with my littlest grand-daughter, I notice so many delightful details now.  I observe how her little body shivers with anticipation when I get ready to push her on the swing, her giggle of delight when I chase after her, the way she squares her shoulders boldly, showing off her bravery as she climbs up to the top of the big slide now.  Enjoying dinner last week with a good friend, I really notice how easy our conversation is and the incredibly comfortable feeling in her presence. I see how animated she becomes and her eyes soften when she talks about her recent visit with her little grandson. Observing how we mutually dig into the chips and salsa with the gusto of deprived sailors, at sea for too long, makes me chuckle.  This practice of mindfulness is changing how I view my personal realm and helping slow me down and take notice of the beautiful minutia of my life. The ordinary seems to vibrate with meaning and connection most days.   It's enabling me to achieve what Dr. Kabat Zinn asks of us when we start this journey: Begin seeing the world you actually have, not the one you think you are missing - Jon Kabat Zinn  

I think I will. 

How can anyone be expected to govern a country that has 246 kinds of cheese? - Charles de Gaulle

How can I be expected to govern my healthy eating habits when France alone, has 246 kinds of cheese! So much cheese... So, little time. My name is Becky and I am a cheese-aholic. My journey into the land of gluttonous, coagulated milk excess, began at about age five. My father was a military officer stationed in Germany. Most of my recollections of Europe, in those young years, are from the images captured in photographs, now displayed in my childhood photo albums. But, I do have some very vivid memories departing Germany at age 8, making a stop-over in Amsterdam, Holland. Memories include an annual tulip festival (similar to our Tournament of Roses Parade), and a Minature City, an amazing “to scale” duplicate of everything Holland. Visiting the cramped attic space where Anne Frank and her family hid out as she wrote her internationally acclaimed diary, provided me with a good dose of gratitude, even at my tender age. But, the biggest wonder in my young mind was that the Dutch ate cheese for breakfast! We stayed in an equivalent of a B & B and I anxiously anticipated the breakfast buffet served every morning. Tiny, flaky, home made pastries, fresh cold cut like meats, and best of all cheeses, lots of cheeses. Hard, soft, mild, textured, yellow, white, and pungent. No CoCo Puffs, Pop-Tarts, or Long Johns... just cheeses to suit every palate. I clearly knew, I could easily acclimate to this country, language barrier be damned. There was a magical connection. I fit in. I felt powerful. I felt satiated. And, so my habit began.

I thought I had my addiction “under control” through the years but later recognized it was largely due to financial constraints being a single parent on a strict budget. My favorites were definitely the soft creamy cheeses, Camembert, Brie, mild and delicious, followed by the pungent Bleu’s, Stilton, and even the stinkiest of the stinkies, Limburger (on rye with a big slab of sweet onion)... yum! Looking back, I see my gradual descent and “crossing the line”. Even when I couldn’t afford the imported cheeses, my purchases of the generic orange domestic stuff increased. It was no longer about the taste, it was all about getting my fix! Many evenings, in severe withdrawl, I found myself reverting to the brown bag, “Wild Irish Rose” of cheese; pasteurized, processed, CHEESE FOOD!

Truly, I knew I was in serious trouble years ago but continued to deny. My daughter and I, joined the Catholic Church together and decided to make a sacrificial Lenten committment that year and give up something dear to our hearts. Her love, at that time, was shopping. She gave up shopping. Mine, of course, was cheese. A few days before Easter, she came to me and begged me to buy a dress she had seen on sale. She would then pay me back, post Lent. I looked at her, disaaprovingly and said, “Honey, that’s dishonest. You can’t bargain like that with God.” Fast forward to the next day. I am in the kitchen, mircrowave dinging, pulling out a small plate. My precious girl says to me, “Mom, what are you doing? What do you have there?” Innocently, my response, “Cheese.” Puzzled, she says, “I thought you gave up cheese for Lent?” Easily rationalizing, I flippantly replied, “ Oh, well, I gave up cold cheese. This is melted cheese.” Hmmmmm..... can’t bargain like that with God.

Still, I carried on my affair with my fabulous, fatty lover. About five years ago, enjoying a jalepeno poppers lunch, I received a phone call from my doctor. My cholesterol was at a staggering 302/202. He wanted me to immediately pick up a prescription for Lipitor, with the suggestion I watch the fat in my diet as well. Instead, I stepped up my exercise routine to twice a day, seven days a week! Surely, my cholesterol would improve between the drugs and the lunatic in tennis shoes. I hoped. Sadly, there was no way I could acknowleged the role cheese played in those dangerous markers of clogged arteries. I was quickly approaching a life on the streets, hanging out near the local deli, selling myself for a few slices of swiss.

In the final weeks of my decline, I swore off cheese only to circle around into my favorite “Cheese Haus” in Plain City, Ohio. I had promised myself, my daughter, and friends, I wasn’t going to stop. Not this time. Worst of all, when I brought what remained home, after gorging myself, while driving, I hid it. I hid it in the back of the refrigerator behind the Greek yogurt and egg beaters. When my daughter stopped and detected a green fleck between my teeth (remenants of the pepper cheese she had almost caught me snarfing down) I lied. I told her it was a piece of spinach! Shame was becoming a regular state of mind. I was giving seedy new meaning to the term "cheese head".

The other night when appetizing with friends after a fun night at the theatre, I could see it all so clearly. Of all the selections on the menu, I picked mozzarella sticks. I was powerless over my cheese and my life had become unmanageable. Turning my will and life over to the care of Lipitor, exercise and feeble attempts at controlling my own consumption had failed. I was justifying, bargaining, experiencing health issues, hiding, lying and I knew my cholesterol was unmanageable. So, I have admitted, come to believe, and made a decision to turn it over to something larger. With a small caveat. Please, Higher Power... before my next life, when I get my rest break in heaven, may I eat cheese to my heart’s content? The real deal, beautifully aged, made from the milk of every animal known to man. No more velvetta, american slices, or fat free rubber substitute. Nonetheless, in the meantime, if any of you detect the pungent odor of a great Bleu on my breath, for God’s sake, drag me to a meeting!

Just goes to show ya---- it’s always somethin’- Roseanna Dana (SNL)

Keep knocking, and the Joy inside will eventually open a window and look out to see who's there.- Rumi

Everytime I look at this picture of my beautiful little niece post para-sail ride, rising up from the waters of the French Riveria, I think, joy... pure joy. Now, she could care less that she is on a beach in Nice, France. That is not what has etched the look of bliss on her face. She’s joyful because she took a risk, overcame a fear and is savoring the by-product of it. Courage, faith, and accomplishment. Pre-parasail adventure, as she was being strapped into the harness, her little hands were shaking and I am sure her mind was whirling with “what if’s”. This picture is a great reminder for me. If I want to experience that kind of joy, I have to be willing to welcome change, keep an open mind, and put “myself out there”.

My life story consists of decades of abandonment, in many forms... parental, emotional unavailability, infidelity, and death. Scary stuff for me to allow someone to touch my heart and let them enter. But, thanks be to the blessed gift of a 12- step program many years ago, I have learned to take the chance and invite some folks in. Unfortunately, I am still learning discernment in WHO I allow to share my generous spirit and joy.

It is excruciating to have your heart broken into a million pieces by a man you have loved and trusted, only to have him tell you he doesn’t love you or want to be married to you any longer, after 28 years. Watching the melt-down of a dear friend, upon hearing that news most recently, left me few words of comfort in reassuring her that she would survive, and likely come out the other side of that dark tunnel, stronger, more assured and able to trust again. First, I cannot even begin to identify with the long-term commitment part. My track record in intimate relationships is pitiful at best. I am the “good for seven years gal”. My most enduring relationships (really) have been seven years... tops. In kabbalah, they have a term for your Achilles heel of sorts, parts of your life that you return to in future lifetimes to correct or change direction. It’s called your Tikune. I sense, as embedded as my cluelessness with the opposite sex is, this lifetime isn’t my first go around at correcting! I am hopeful this time, God packed an instruction manual in my soul in the hopes I would actually pick it up and read it someday. You know, a black and yellow study guide, Healthy Relationships for Dummies. I don’t know if I could tolerate another lifetime of repetition with my conflicting behaviors of neediness, false Independence, emotional unavailability, or excessive tolerance for the unacceptable. Or, the most damaging of all, settling for sloppy seconds. Basically, this is what I told my dear friend in the potential loss of her marriage. I said, “I can be there for you, love you, show you how to take care of you, but I am not equipped to pass out any advice on healing a relationship. Talk to someone who has been married for 25 years if you are trying to figure it out.” Clueless here...

What I can identify with are her feelings of devastation. I do know the icy shock of having your trust betrayed. That, I can share with her. I also know what it feels like in every one of my life challenges, to move beyond control, accept powerlessness, and surrender. The serenity that comes with not having to be in charge, is a welcome breeze sweeping through your soul. I know what it feels like to wake up one morning months after a loss and actually see the sun streaming in the window. I know the beauty and relief in finally viewing one who has hurt you so badly, as a wounded soul rather than an evil person, and being able then, to truly forgive. I can share all that with her too. Although, it’s sad watching my friend hurt, I know that sometimes those who bring us the most joy, will ultimately cause us the most suffering. So, what’s the trade-off? A life shut down from others, lacking intimacy, engagement, and love? I think not.. Not for me. Not anymore.

One of my favorite movies of all times is City of Angels. I discovered it after my husband’s death and watched it over and over again while wallowing in my grief and self-pity. The message it contained has stuck with me. Nicholas Cage plays the part of a guardian angel who happens to fall in love with a beautiful doctor (Meg Ryan). He wants desperately to be with her, as a human. He is told that God will grant this request, but he must recognize he will then possess the fallibility and the range of emotion that plague humans. He agrees to this and is happy beyond imagining, sharing with Meg Ryan the pleasures of being mortal. One morning, while riding her bicycle, she is hit by a truck and killed. The intensity of his grief and pain is unbearable and he is now experiencing the deepest anguish imaginable, questioning his decision to become a part of the human race. The final scene in the movie, Nicholas Cage is lying on the beach, a dismantled man. You see him surrounded by many guardian angels, the sunlight beginning to filter into the deep, dark places of his despair. He slowly rises and runs, full clothed, into the sea. As he splashes in the waves, he raises his face towards the sun, and a smile begins to tug at his cheeks. Feeling awe and delight, once again, savoring the memories and the moment, he raises his arms to the sky and laughs joyfully. He has evolved through the human experience. We cannot and will not ever fully experience joy without walking through some fear and putting ourselves out there, making a change, connecting with others, falling in love, trusting and welcoming whatever life holds for us. Joy precedes pain and pain precedes joy. Seems we can’t have one without the other. Great joy, involves great risk and being brave enough to open up the window again, and see what is there.

On the road to our purpose, their are many blockades, detours and dead-ends. They remind us; it's not about the destination, it's the journey- Me

While dusting the fireplace mantel today in my bedroom, I picked up a porcelain figurine given to me in the first year of my painful journey navigating widowhood. At the time, I was working for the administrative offices of a school district. I had obtained this job after a 17 year career with a locally owned company that had been acquired by a large corporation, based in another state. As often happens with business acquistions, the old regime is put out to pasture to make way for the younger, less jaded and expensive labor. This period of my life, I optimistically, (through gritted teeth) called my year of change. This was the year, my daughter graduated from college AND got married, my husband was diagnosed with Stage III colon cancer, and I was downsized from a job I was accomplished at and compensated for. On the psychiatric scale measuring the impact of certain life stressors, I had hit on the top four. Although the School district job itself provided little intellectual stimulation or challenge, when held in comparison to my previous headache producer, it provided me with a comfortable little nest to snuggle into and begin the healing process. Additionally, the health coverage that came along with the new employment, took care of some really expensive medical bills incurred in my husband’s final days. I recognized that blessing later, and was grateful.

After his death, and the overload of the previous year, my brain wasn’t operating at full capacity, and emotional intelligence was about at the level of a two year old toddler. Collegues were understanding, empathetic, responsive and generous; traits that weren’t present with my previous corporate blood-suckers. Once, again, much later, I saw that God really placed me exactly where I needed to be. As instructed by grief counselors, good friends and a stack of recovery literature, I stayed put, no major changes for at least a year they said. I knew at some point this job wouldn’t provide me with enough to fill the void left by the loss of not only my husband, but all of those things that came with being a busy, social butterfly, married to a like minded adventurer. A year into my grief, I felt like I was walking in quick sand, and if I didn’t do something, make a change, try something new, I would be buried alive by pain and mediocrity. The real fear was that I just might find myself quite comfortable there. Sometimes, when we are in situations that agonizingly twist us into limp dish rags, we don't have enough energy to do much more than get complacent with the misery. I knew I needed to stick my baby toe into the overwhelming project of rebuilding a life for myself.

I made several significant decisions. One, to leave the comfort of my current job. Second, to go back to school, and third, to work part time in a venue that would challenge my grief process on a daily basis, but also, perhaps, aid in my healing. An intuitive and kind friend from the school district, bought the figurine for me as a farewell gift. This “Precious Moment” statue was a wide-eyed little explorer, carpet bag at her feet, lettered with the sentiment, “On My Way.” Hoovering above her head, many signs pointed in random directions; This Way...That Way.... Over Pass.... Under Pass. Sitting on the edge of my bed, holding her in my hand and studying her today, my mind spun back to when I first got her, ten years ago. All I saw then, was the message, “On My Way.” And, it was true, I was. Venturing forward into the unknown, yet with a clear vision and projected outcome. It was not until today, really looking at this treasured gift, that I recognized these past ten years have not been what I planned when I received her.

My life today does not come close to resembling what I saw back when I was “on my way”. It has been a bumpy road of fits and starts and do-overs. It’s been trial and error, emotionally, spiritually, professionally, and romantically. I thought I saw the sign post pointing this way, and when I arrived, a new crossroad, and the best I could do was pray and hope that I was headed in the right direction. Often, I got lost. Sometimes just long enough to resynch my internal GPS and take the overpass. Other times, wandering deep into parts of me, yet unknown for rather long stretches. And, sometimes, arriving at places of the purest, sweetest serenity, adventure and love. Essentially, when I look at the life I have today, with it’s many changes, losses, sweet surprises and pleasures, I am glad all I knew those years ago, was that I was on my way. I don’t need the arrows and signs to point me in a straight line. Wonderful adventures often await when we get lost. For, it’s been in losing my way, that I am finding my way, and learning to savor it, moment by moment.

Unable are the loved to die. For love is immortality. ~Emily Dickinson

Eleven years ago I lost the man I thought I was destined to be with for the rest of my life. As it turned out, I was wrong. But, I was the woman he was destined to be with for the remainder of his life. I took very good care of him in both our marriage and throughout his sickness. It is difficult for me to acknowledge accomplishments, but in the case of my husband, Mark, when he left his earthly body, there were no unspoken words, guilt or regrets on my part. What remained was an intense sense of gratitude for experiencing that kind of love. I can’t honestly say the same thing for any of my other losses. A clear conscience of being the best I could be for him and with him. Yes, after his death there were certainly years of the kind of grief that twists your heart so tightly you fear you won’t be able to breathe (and, often hope you don’t), but those feelings arose from missing one so desperately, for all the right reasons. His love and belief in me were gifts I’d never had before, and therefore, didn’t have a clue as to the power that kind of love brings along with it. Our walk together taught me so much more than I can ever communicate in this post. After his death, cards and letters of comfort poured in and spoke of the palpability of our “soul-mate” connection, how our talents, humor and personalities complimented one another. Since his death, through years of reflection and experiences, I have come to know the term “soul-mate in a different light than “the one and only” destined to forever love.... That other half that melds into us to create the best “us” we can be. I don’t think that is a true definition of soulmate. But, that is really good fodder for future posts and not what I am thinking about today.

These recent thoughts of my husband are triggered by the pending death of my father-in-law. Over these last days, silently witnessing him struggle to simply breathe or move, my mind spins back to this younger version of him, eleven years ago, fighting for his life as well. The same face, more spotted with time, hair slicked back, painted with grey now, lanky frame practically too long for the hospital bed, evokes many emotions I thought were buried as deeply as my beloved. The difference, this time, is I can envision my husband, his spirit standing on the opposite side of the bed, stroking his dad’s hair in unison with his living brothers and sisters, comforting his father silently, but right along with them. Sending reassuring vibrations to them; letting them know, when Dad leaves his earthly body, he will embrace him tightly, gently take his hand, and walk with him towards the light. My precious middle grand-daughter, Sydney, said to her daddy last night as he was preparing them for grandpa’s eventual journey to heaven, “Daddy, Mark and he will be laughing together.” I can truly hear that. The boisterous, HA laugh of my husband as Tom says to him, “Hey, son... did you hear the one about the.....” What I am most struck by now, is the enormity of the love in the ICU unit of the hospital as a dedicated daughter, wipes her father’s sweaty forehead with a cool cloth. Observing in awe as my big, gruff teddy-bear like brother in law, so tenderly touches his dad. But, most of all, the unspeakable beauty of a wife of almost 60 years, sitting in her wheelchair, by his bedside, not fully recovered from her own recent surgery, stroking his hand as she gently tucks his rosary into its palm. Although he has been unable to converse much, I saw this gentle giant of a man, wink at his beloved sweetheart. My father-in-law has lived a very long fruitful life filled with happy times as well as unspeakable tragedies; yet always shared with friends and family, rejoicing, comforting, protecting. His loss as the Patriarch of this large Irish Catholic clan, is profound, but his love and our love for him remains forever an undeniable imprint on all of our hearts.

Just as I completed this blog, I received a call from my brother-in-law, John. Tom Mahoney has passed onto his new life of joy, reuniting with many of his family and friends. Somehow, I know he will always be a presence at those weddings, ordinations, christenings, graduations, and St. Patrick’s day celebrations. This man of colossal integrity, loved his family so. And, closely following that, he loved a great party!

How can you be a sage if you're pretty? You can't get your wizard papers without wrinkles. ~Bill Veeck

Having three grand-daughter’s is one of the greater joys in my life. When I am with them, I enjoy the blessing of viewing the world through a set of eyes not yet jaded by protocol, societal dictates, or dishonesty. They haven’t yet learned how not to tell the truth. The oldest is nine and is right on the cusp of recognizing that she fits better into her little third grade circle, at the parochial school she attends, if she tells people what she thinks they want to hear. So, it begins, and, it breaks my heart. In her younger years, wide eyed, and without malice, she called ‘em as she saw them. I could always count on her for a good dose of humility. And, her innocence has helped me to see and accept myself on several levels. Superficially, My body’s aging process is one of those areas where surrender has been a struggle, yet, a necessary part of my desire to “grow old gracefully.” I don’t really enjoy seeing the changes occurring with my body, skin, face and hair, let alone the squinting to read the fine print, or the aches and pains in my joints upon rising in the morning. Just when I think I get to a relatively happy place with what 56 year old me now looks like, my little angel, with her sweet young voice and wide-eyed expression, will question me about some physical change I would much rather ignore. The latest was when reviewing old photographs of both her mother and I, back in “the day”. After innocuously zinging her mom with some comments about her 80’s attire, which I was totally reveling in, it appeared payback time had finally arrived. My daughter’s mockeries of my 60’s attire, in years gone by, was now being redeemed. Or, so I thought. Then, my little babe in life’s woods brought me to my knees. Puzzling over a picture of a blond bombshell, Farrah Fawcett hairstyle, and bright red thong bikini, she questioned me. “Mimi (the girls nickname for stylin old granny me), who is this?” I said, “Why, that’s me.” The look of disbelief and horror that crossed her flawless little face was followed up by, “Wow, you sure were a babe back then! You wouldn’t be if you wore that today.” Zing....... Several years, earlier on a hot summer day, freshly showered and braless I came downstairs to join my baby girls who were sitting on the couch watching a Disney movie. Spreading my arms out to encircle them in a group hug, Alex (the nine year old honest one) kept glancing over at my chest. Finally, asking her what was wrong, she questioned, “Mimi, why didn’t you put your breasts on today?” What could I say? I did? Got the breasts on, they have just slipped under my arm pits? I have to confess every now and again, I do wonder what I would look like with large, taut boobs, but I fear it wouldn’t match the Rubenesque roundness of my little pillow like tummy. And, besides, I am constantly promoting woman of all ages, supporting one another and learning to love ourselves, just as we are. What kind of example would that be? I also fear, knowing me, I would expect it to dramatically change something in my life, and once the novelty of cleavage wore off, and I discovered it didn’t make me happier or more popular, I would regret it. Kind of like a tattoo. Can you imagine archaeologists thousands of years into the future, digging up these remains of women, skeletal, except for two non-biodegradable plastic orbs attached to the chest wall? What kind of society would do this to the female species and what purpose did they serve? Drug trade smuggling? Stashing the family fortune? But, it isn’t just my boobs that are changing. My youngest grand-daughter, Cameron, who is now three, was cuddling with me about a year ago. She grabbed my face and held it between her tiny hands. Staring into my eyes, she took a little finger and traced the deep furrow that runs vertically on my forehead. She asked me, “Mimi, you got a boo-boo?” Later, I got to thinking about her comment and yes, indeed, I did have a boo-boo. It was the kind of boo-boo that never goes away completely. That worry line etched into my face, was a result of agonizing over a four year, destined to fail, relationship. I earned it and every time I look in the mirror, I remember. The badge of excessive tolerance was scarred into my forehead. It is a visible reminder of that chapter of my life. Other chapters... the wide slashes on the side of my mouth reflect years of huge smiles at being with friends, hysterical laughter after seizing opportunities for daring and frolic, and the ever present grin that comes with always knowing you are loved. I love my mouth slashes! Along the sides of my chameleon colored eyes, fanning out and framing them, are tiny little embellishments that enhance the light emanating from them. I can look at the skin on my chest and arms, and those freckled spots from the delicious sun tickling my flesh, evoke memories of beaches and travels to Bermuda, The Bahamas, Capri, and the French Riviera. That is what I see when I dare to really look closely. That is how I choose to look at this rapidly changing body of mine. I want to be the wizard calling upon the magic that exists in the ordinary and I want you to see it reflected in my image. Hopefully, at the end of my days, I will have earned those wizard papers on which will be written a history of a life well lived. However, a Bobbi Brown makeover would not be refused!