On a Clear Night

by Marnie O. Mamminga

  “Check vehicle owner’s manual for the vehicle top tether anchor locations. They may be identified using one of the anchor’s symbols (Fig. b or Fig. c).”

  Pass the Tylenol.

  Downward Dogs

  Lithe and limber we are not.

  What we are is middle-aged. Our backs ache, our knees are sore, our energy wanes. We no longer spring out of our cars or up from chairs. We are stiff.

  Our answer to a simple “Hi, how are you?” turns into a dissertation that makes the listener think we are earning a PhD in aches and pains. We are starting to whine.

  This is not a good thing.

  And so, in an effort to stave off this aging process, we flock to the gym, the pool, our bikes, and other such options in a desperate attempt to stay young, healthy, and strong. In the process, a myriad of Baby Boomers are discovering and espousing the benefits of yoga.

  I decided to check it out.

  Although my best friend from seventh grade has been practicing yoga for over thirty years, I have never given it much thought. Perhaps I now know why she is such a constantly calm and positive person who is still lithe and limber. I should have paid more attention.

  In my belated quest for such attributes, I raced out and purchased a yoga book and headed off to class. I was in for a surprise. Having come from the Jane Fonda generation that needed to bounce and “feel the burn, baby!” I soon realized that yoga is an entirely different experience.

  At this age, I am foremost and exceedingly grateful that the workout attire has changed. Back in my wild jump-up-and-down aerobic days, we women typically wore the de rigueur fashion of the era: form-fitting leotards and tights that disclosed to the world all of the features that we were desperately trying to hide.

  Thankfully, today’s yoga attire is looser and longer—mostly stretchy pants and simple T-shirts. Best of all, those heavy, tight aerobic shoes are history. Bare feet are the norm. Already my toes are happy.

  For a person who hates exercise machines, I was thrilled with the prospect of using only a simple mat for equipment. Also, yoga does not involve the hard pumping music of yore, but rather mild and mellow instrumental tunes playing softly in the background and calling for relaxation.

  After all, who wants to work up a sweat? Not me, I can assure you. Yet, soon I was twisting where I’d never twisted before.

  One of the first aspects of practicing yoga is learning how to breathe. Since I’d been doing it for well over half a century, I thought I had breathing down. The correct way during yoga, however, is deep inhales and exhales through the nose and coordinated with each new stretch and movement. Instead of soothing my nervous system, however, breathing out or in at the right time was a struggle that just about made me hyperventilate.

  I reminded myself to calm down. After all, this is yoga. It’s been around for thousands of years, and its popularity is only growing. Clearly this is no passing fad like my Jane Fonda aerobics tapes. From Om Yoga: A Guide to Daily Practice by Cyndi Lee, I have learned that yoga “invites us to harmonize our body, breath, and mind as a way to experience wakefulness and compassion in our daily lives.” Sounds better than a treadmill any day.

  Lee goes on to say that “the path of hatha yoga involves physical exercises that enhance our cardiovascular system, strengthen our muscles, improve our digestive activity, and cleanse our entire body. . . . It also includes breathing exercises that soothe our nervous system and meditation that develops mental clarity.” What’s not to like?

  My next challenge, however, was keeping up with the series of poses and their descriptive names. Warrior, cat, corpse, and cobra sound downright scary, and if I hear the command for downward dog one more time, I might start barking.

  Full moon, five star, and child’s pose are more to my liking. One of the best things I have discovered about yoga is that it’s not about big muscles or perfect figures. As the instructor explained, it’s more about centering yourself in the moment and letting go of competition, not only with others but also with yourself.

  Ignoring that wisdom on my first day of class, I couldn’t help but sneak an upside-down look through the triangle of my legs to see who else was in the class. I was amazed at the variety. There were men and women of all shapes, sizes, and ages. The woman directly in front of me was white haired and older than me, but definitely stronger and more limber.

  I was impressed. I was also surprised to discover it’s a much tougher workout than I thought. Perhaps that is why I like the corpse pose the best. Coming at the end of the session, it lives up to its name by simply requiring us to lie flat on the floor as if we are dead while the instructor encourages us to let go of the angst and anxieties of the day, freeing our minds for peace and harmony.

  And the finest part is that at the end of the class, everyone rolls up smiling, visibly refreshed and renewed. Our muscles are stretched, our backs are more limber, and our spirits are calm. In my mind, it’s a much better workout than jumping up and down or using a machine. My only worry is that the corpse pose, music, and soothing words are so relaxing that I will be tempted to fall asleep.

  If that’s the case, wake me only if I snore.

  Cross-Country Skiing

  I love the idea of it. Swishing through the still, snowy woods. Gliding past frosted trees on a pair of cross-country skis like a skater in sync with “The Blue Danube” waltz.

  But that is not my reality. At least, not yet.

  As a novice in the sport of cross-country skiing, I wobble down each small slope and shuffle awkwardly back up like a marionette controlled by jerking strings. I huff and I puff and I fall down, usually in an embarrassing position.

  “Honey, this is not the time or place,” my husband jokes from the top of a hill.

  “Cut the wise cracks,” I laugh with gasping breath. “Just get back here and help me up. I’m stuck.”

  So much for effortlessly gliding through the woods. This is hard work.

  It’s twenty-five degrees, and I’m starting to sweat. I never sweat.

  We are new to this sport, and, at well past middle age, perhaps we are a little late to start. My husband’s athletic agility, it must be said, gives him a distinctive edge. He circles endlessly up and back on the trail, checking patiently on my progress while I lumber along.

  In fact, one woman skier at the trailhead sees him approach and apologizes for staring, saying she mistook him for her friend.

  “He must not be a very good skier then,” my husband says, referring humbly to his own efforts.

  “Actually, he is quite a strong skier,” she replies, swooshing past me down the hill that I am chugging up.

  Beaming, my husband recounts this conversation for me as I stagger to the top. I’d pelt his smug smile with a snowball if only I had any strength left.

  But hey, the latest scientific research verifies that healthy hearts make healthy brains, so I’m ready to give it a shot. Who says middle-agers can’t strut their stuff? Not that there’s a lot of stuff to strut, but we’re working on it.

  First of all, we got the skis. The result of a year-end sale, don’t you know. Snazzy red. I feel like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz Woods.

  Next, after noticing that we looked like a pair of lumberjacks off to chop down some trees, we bought new outfits. Away with the jeans, flannel shirts, and vests, and on with loose Lycra in slimming black.

  Gosh, we’re looking good. Now, if I could only ski.

  At least when we greet our fellow skiers, we will look the part. Thankfully, they are mostly a friendly group, these Nordic skaters, and not prone to snubbing beginners. Because I am often catching my breath after an arduous penguin-waddle to the top of a hill (where my husband stands awaiting me), we look like official trail greeters.

  “Good morning!” I pant to our fellow skiers as they sweep serenely by.

  “Beautiful day!” they shout back, easily swooping over hill and dale like colorful birds on a joyride through the forest.

  We watch them disappear,
their sleek muscles propelling them up and over the next rise. Dutifully, we take note of their strides, the swing of their arms, their pull and their push, hoping to learn by imitation.

  They come in all shapes and ages: little girls with bright smiles moving like giddy fairies, gray-haired elders gliding with grace, and powerful young men and women at the peak of their form.

  At this time of year, it is obvious that some of the skiers sharing the trail with us are training for the American Birkebeiner. Skiers from all over the world come to the Hayward/Cable area in Wisconsin to test their stamina in this grueling fifty-one-kilometer cross-country race each February. They face forest trails studded with slippery downhill slopes and punishing uphill climbs that require control, speed, and endurance. And with any luck, there’s a lot of good snow.

  These competitors (of all ages) are a marvel of form and fitness, skiing with an ease and finesse that belie the exertion that will be required of them on race day. Lumbering along at my snail’s pace, I can hardly fathom it.

  Despite the rigors of the sport, many on the trail take time to greet each other, and their cheerful salutations ring through the woods like the echoes of a happy song.

  Then there is silence. And that is the part I like best.

  Weary muscles give me a chance to stop, look, and listen. Deer hooves dot the trail as if they too have enjoyed its early morning grooming; a bird’s nest capped with a snowy hat perches on a tree branch, waiting for spring’s thaw; woodland creatures poke their heads out of cozy homes in forest roots; a crow caws; and snowflakes fall all about me like angel dust.

  Peace prospers.

  But as Robert Frost so eloquently stated,

  The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,

  But I have promises to keep,

  And miles to go before I sleep,

  And miles to go before I sleep.

  He wasn’t kidding. It will be nightfall if I keep on at this pace. (In fact, some of these trails are lit at dusk, offering an intriguing invitation on a starry night.)

  I push on, however, knowing the rewards of a warm fire, a good book, and yes, perhaps some “energy-renewing” chocolate await me.

  Despite the achy muscles and my slow-as-a-porcupine style, I’m possessed to hit the trails again. For each outing brings a little more distance, a smoother glide, and fewer falls.

  Who knows? Perhaps with a few lessons, I too might be swooshing through the forest like an owl on a moonlit night. I love the idea of it. And like any good dream, that’s enough to make me want to try again.

  Bum Knee

  It’s a bummer having a bum knee. I don’t like it one bit. For some foolish reason, I thought I could glide down frosty cross-country ski trails and prance across their icy parking lots with the ease of a gazelle.

  I forgot how old I was.

  But I was quickly reminded of that fact after two hard falls on the ski trails and a third fall on the parking lot of the Happy Hooker Bait and Tackle Shop. It didn’t help matters that all three falls occurred on the same day.

  I had gone to the Happy Hooker (a Northwoods convenience store) to get a sweatshirt and hat bearing the store’s moniker as a gag gift for my husband’s sixtieth birthday.

  I was so pleased with myself for purchasing this silly surprise that I all but skipped across the ice to my car. Bad mistake.

  As the good book of Proverbs says, “Pride goeth before a fall,” and down I went, right on my knee. I think that’s the fall that did it. But amazingly, I didn’t seem to be any worse for the wear.

  It wasn’t until about a month later when I returned to that snowy Northwoods area that I tempted fate again. (I should have headed south like everyone else.)

  As if someone had pushed the replay button, I slipped while cross-country skiing and again on our icy driveway. Although I was successful in not falling, my efforts to remain upright were the straws that broke the camel’s back. Or in this case, knee.

  Standing in our driveway after my last slip, I suddenly found I couldn’t walk. Worse than the excruciating pain was the realization that my leg wouldn’t do what it had always done. I was stunned.

  Attempting to overcome the pain and panic, I focused on the sky. Standing on one leg, I looked up at the pearly clouds zipping across a brilliant blue backdrop. The tips of tall emerald pines swayed in the breeze. In that moment, I was profoundly reminded of the fragility of all aspects of life, including the marvelous gift of walking.

  Eventually calmed by the sky’s beauty, I somehow managed to hop across our slippery, snowy driveway on one foot and drag myself up the stairs.

  To make a long story short, a visit to the emergency room determined that I had a severe knee sprain. I left with instructions to ice my knee, stay off it, take pain meds, and visit an orthopedic doctor when I returned home.

  And so here I sit several months later awaiting scheduled knee surgery.

  Gratefully, I have rarely been ill in my life, but I have been the caregiver in numerous situations for loved ones, so this is a complete role reversal for me. I am learning many things.

  I am not used to asking for help or being waited on, and I’m finding there is something quite humbling in having to do so. I feel guilty not being able to do things for myself and having to depend on others (though my husband says I’m getting quite good at pointing my cane at him with directions). Please has become the operative word.

  It is also hard to be patient. Walking has always been my favorite exercise. Especially now that it is spring, with the yellow forsythia in bloom, birdsong in the air, and buds bursting forth on bushes and trees like tiny butterflies with peridot wings on a branch, it is exasperating being unable to charge out into the sunshine for a brisk walk. Take away my other favorite activities, biking and dancing, and you have one frustrated gal.

  Yet, I am also learning there is a peacefulness to being still. Unable to drive, I can’t attend committee meetings, go to the grocery store, run errands, or attend to other family responsibilities. The rhythm of the day has shifted to a slower pace.

  Propping my leg up outside so I could breathe some fresh air, I have witnessed the awakening of spring that I otherwise would have missed: the croaking call of a sandhill crane soaring high overhead, the dizzying dance of honey bees hovering over a patch of blue scilla, the sound of peeper frogs peeping, the flash of red from a scarlet tanager on his way north, and two newly hatched iridescent green-and-gold dragonflies chasing each other in a zigzagging flight.

  Being stuck in a chair, I initially thought I’d go crazy needing this or that, but I soon discovered there’s really very little I need. I have clothes in the closet, food in the cupboard, plenty of books and projects to keep me content, and the gift of time to reflect on simple everyday joys.

  I am also learning to respect more acutely the courage and perseverance of those with mobility disabilities due to illness, accidents, old age, or the ravages of war. Their resilience and fortitude serve as everyday heroic reminders for us all.

  But most of all, I am learning to appreciate small acts of kindness from family and friends. A phone call, a card, a ride to lunch, a visit with flowers—these things not only lift my spirits but allow me to experience the simple goodness of human nature.

  Mother Theresa was right when she encouraged others to perform small acts with great love. As the recipient of these heartfelt gifts, I know what a difference they make.

  Luckily, my knee injury is not too serious and, after surgery, I hope to regain my strong gait. When I do, I’ll look forward to passing on those small acts of kindness to others.

  And I’ll do so, one very grateful step at a time.

  Grateful Hearts

  Put your hand in mine and let us help one another to see things better.

  —CLAUDE MONET

  Christmas Rose

  “He’s drunk,” my brother whispered as we watched my father stagger up the snowy path to our back door. We peeked through the window as he fumbled with the few small packa
ges in his hands while trying to find the doorknob. With a push the door flew open and he lurched in, bringing the snow and wind of the Christmas Eve night with him.

  “Merry Christmas, Daddy!” shouted the five of us children in cheerful chorus.

  He looked up with somewhat startled eyes that struggled to focus on each of us.

  “Bah, humbug,” he replied, part in jest, part in truth.

  We all laughed nervously.

  We didn’t need this moment to know it wasn’t going to be a good Christmas. That was already obvious. With my father out of work and five kids to feed and clothe, there were no presents under the tree, and we’d already checked the usual hiding places.

  Christmas Eve looked bleak. But it hadn’t always been that way.

  We’d had plenty of Christmases with presents flowing out from under the tree and brimming around the hearth. There were Lionel trains for my two brothers and beautiful Marshall Field’s dolls for us three girls. Once there was a toboggan and another year a canoe. Who would have guessed that bountiful Christmases would not have continued?

  Certainly not my father. He had been raised to believe his father’s company would one day be his. But a string of circumstances that included his father’s untimely death and his own absenteeism while serving overseas in World War II resulted in a change in controlling powers. As is often the case with children of family-owned businesses and outside partners, there was conflict.

  Unfortunately, at age forty-five with five kids and a mortgage, my father found out the hard way that the controlling powers no longer wanted him around. They fired him. And it came as quite a blow, as the son of the original owner. It would take seven years of financial reversal, a series of short-lived jobs, and the onslaught of alcoholism before he finally made it back on his feet.

  But on this Christmas Eve, we children understood none of this. We only knew we wanted presents and a sober father, and neither seemed in sight.