We carry our personal histories, our inherited traits, and we’re bombarded by conflicting messages from the time we’re little girls. So how do we make sense of it? Do we, ever?

I find I have questions, as I’m finding my way to my own answers. But I would like to ask you about your experience as well, directly.

Do you believe that a woman’s warmth and beauty truly translates on the flat screen or glossy page – at any age?

What about a mature woman? Must we go beyond the visual to impart the aura of womanliness through actual presence – our scent, our gestures, the nuanced tone of voice, the touch of a hand?

I am intrigued by the concept of what we communicate and how we do so, through our female bodies and our body language.

If you are a woman who is potentially interested in sharing your thoughts in a related project on female body image, would you consider getting in touch? You may use the contact email on my About page. And I promise to reply.

Yes, I have something specific in mind, and yes, I am particularly interested in hearing from women in their 40s, 50s, and 60s, but I would be happy to hear from others as well,  both younger and older.

Get Naked!

As for the discussion of getting naked which took place yesterday – do remember that we distort what we see – for better or worse. And I have yet to meet a woman who doesn’t distort for the worse, at least during some period in her life.

All the more reason that the photographer’s keen eye may offer insights we wouldn’t otherwise see. Yet I am of the belief that even a picture is only a piece of the puzzle, and it may not always be worth a thousand words.

So did you peek at yourself in front of the mirror today? Any revelations?

Arts, Parts, and Smarts

In the meantime, I am curious if you have favorite features, and if so, what they are and how they’ve changed with the years, as you have changed. And yes, feel free to include your fine imagination or sense of humor!

Perhaps you always considered your hands to be graceful, and they’re aging beautifully. Or your elegant neck, your luscious hair, your curvaceous ankles, your perky breasts, your rounded hips, your luxurious ass, your throaty voice, or your impeccably arching eyebrows!

• Do you find that when you are photographed, you tilt your head a certain way or favor a view you think is more flattering?

• Have you ever had an artistic portrait done – a drawing or painting – rather than a photograph? Was it in the nude or partially nude? How did it feel? What did you think?

• Did you find that experience of sitting and the final result which may have been highly interpretive, to be very different from a candid or posed photograph?

• Have you had an artistic portrait shot, photographically – for yourself or someone you love? How did that feel, and what did you think?

As for that great feature that you still delight in, that allows you to feel feminine, to feel powerful, to feel graceful – or all of the above – what might it be? (I admit – I have cute feet! And I love the way I move.)

I hope to hear from many of you, and look forward to delicious discoveries in the process.


© D. A. Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

When’s the last time you got naked and felt good about it?

It occurs to me how infrequently we get naked once we’re no longer kids. Sure, if you’re a nudist, you get naked on a regular basis. Naturally, we get naked when we bathe.

But what about bed time, sliding under the sheets with the one we love? Do we leave the lights on and linger? Do we get naked without shame or fear of scrutiny? Without our own judgment?

Most likely if you’re a woman – regardless of how you look – you get naked with trepidation – with your partner, and possibly with yourself. Anyone care to offer a differing experience?

I’d love to be wrong.

When’s the last time you didn’t admonish yourself for some perceived flaw? For not looking the way you did before the holidays, before two kids, before the age of 30? When’s the last time you looked, just to get comfortable – and maybe to say – not so bad?

Fear of Fat

Not long ago I discussed the FAT personality – prompted by several articles I read and the controversy over model Katya Zharkova’s nude shots, at the theoretically “plus size” which is the average in America – a 12 or 14. And apparently even the reference to average size is more complex than it sounds. According to About.com, there is little standardization when it comes to fashion size and fit, as well as numerous assumptions including ethnicity and female body shape.

So why is it that we’re so worried about a little healthy flesh? And I said healthy flesh; I’m not talking about our well documented issues of obesity in this country, and the obviously damaging impacts to individual and societal well-being.

Incidentally, the image shown above comes from a 2009 article in Glamour Magazine, which featured beautiful nude photographs of plus-size supermodels, in all their voluptuous glory. I encourage you to glance at those pictures as well.

Women with Curves, Women with Bellies

I recall a few years back checking out The Belly Project. If you haven’t seen it, and if you’re a woman, you might want to spend some time browsing its pages and its photographs. It includes women of all ages, both pre- and post-pregnancies, not to mention following surgeries. And it provides a view of real bellies – in all their diversity of shapes, sizes, and surface textures.

Frankly, I found it fascinating. And educational. And a relief. Naturally, I compared my own belly to those in the images, factoring in my personal stories of weight gain and loss, age, height, and pregnancies. And that particular comparison process was healing.

This site, Mozaik Curves, presents photography and drawings of real life women who are generally on the larger side. More than bellies, and, as you might imagine from the site’s name, these are women with curves and they’re unafraid to show them off.

It may be your thing; it may not. These women may resemble you, your sister, your mother, your wife, your best friend – and you may not be comfortable actually seeing them in partial undress. But if you’re willing, then glance – and consider. These are real women, getting naked. 

Youth is Wasted on the Young

Yes, the models I’ve referenced to this point are all young. Certainly those models in the Glamour spread, as well as Katya Zharkova, and those on the site I mentioned. They may be rounder than society currently deems ideal, but if their skin is taut and toned and smooth, they are still far different from those of us who have experienced dramatic weight loss (and gain, and loss, and gain?) or the aftereffects of multiple pregnancies, or surgeries that were necessary for medical reasons.

So where are the images of real-world mature women? I’m not talking “adult” sites, but other sources, so as we age we may look and realize we are undergoing normal and natural changes – not some aberration to be covered up, or exchanged for surgical scars.

Where is our ability to address the issues around fat and its perception, fat and its many psychological roles, fat as emotional hiding place, fat and the judgments we bring to the very word, fat and the damning image we carry in our heads?

Tasteful Nudes, Women Over 40, Women Over 50

What if we had images of midlife women in the nude? Not sexual images, but tasteful nudes – and women with “real” bodies at 45 or 50 or 60 or 70?

What if we had access to images of older women – oh, even an updated Calendar Girls – so we might make peace with our bodies more easily? So we might feel accepted, feel loved, feel worthy – and worthy of feeling sexual?

Then, would aging seem as frightening? Would we feel inferior to those women who trade the permanent scarring of nips and tucks for flesh that is rippled from pregnancies and subsequent weight gain and loss?

Hell, it’s hard enough to find women over 50 in magazines – and with clothes on! Doesn’t this have an insidious effect, rendering us increasingly invisible – or at least, trying to do so?

Nudity Without Shame

Hello, Body Project, are you out there – in process, or waiting to be conceived?

Would that we could encourage such a thing, and enjoy seeing the diversity of naked women in entirety; women of many ages and sizes – so we might all experience greater comfort – and normalcy – in the body as it is.

And I wouldn’t be against including men, except that men seem so much more able to accept their bodies than women. They don’t run around asking each other (or their partners) if they look fat. They don’t discount their viability in the relationship market as a function of weight or BMI. They don’t mentally calculate every calorie (or Weight Watcher’s point) as they contemplate the meal placed in front of them. They don’t suffer the Body Politic, going to bed hungry by choice, making love hungry and distracted, performing sexually while sucking in their stomachs all the while hoping they’re being viewed at an attractive angle.

They don’t cook for a family in an environment of plenty – while living a constancy of preoccupation that involves denial and self-deprecation.

Seeking Tasteful Nudes

By the way, I looked for two days off and on, trying to find images – tasteful images – of female nudes over the age of 50. You know – “regular” women, and preferably without air brushing or Photoshopping.

No go.

And if I had, I would’ve included photos here.

Listen, I’m all for women who take care of themselves – eating well and staying as fit as possible. But, when I speak of photographs to help us see ourselves clearly (and kindly), I don’t mean carefully composed pictures of models or actresses who still look spectacular at 50. (You may recall that Farah Fawcett decided to disrobe for Playboy at 50; I imagine she was stunning.)

I mean something else. Something more real. Something beautiful in that reality. Something other than what I found: MILFs on adult sites (generally not over 40), “mature” women on adult sites (again, not over 40), and sexually explicit shots of overweight women (young). While there are some gorgeous sites with tasteful nudes, yes, once again, they’re all young.

Like I said, nothing like the Belly Project, but with women at midlife and older – tastefully and honestly presented.

Over 50? Still feisty? Still sexual? Wanting to feel “normal” in your womanly curves? Desirous of feeling acceptable and accepted, and without society pressing you to undergo surgical procedures to “compete” – that you can neither afford nor want? Where do we find our role models? Our confidence?

Fat Head? Wise Head? Blind to Beauty?

If you’re naturally thin, fine!

But what about the rest of us? What about all the hours (days, months, years) we accumulate, convinced we’re “fat” and therefore unworthy, wasting precious life on wishing we were someone else? On trying to remake ourselves to look like someone else?

What about the years spent trying to reshape our bodies to resemble Kate Moss, and pointlessly so?

Is she beautiful? Sure! Is she too thin? Some would say she used to be (there’s a bit more of her now), and others would say she’s perfect – as she is, or as she was. I wonder, would she say she was ever perfect? 

What about all the hours (days, months, years) we live in our heads rather than our bodies because it seems less painful to do so? What about the blindness to our own beauty – just as we are?

Healthy Body, Count Your Blessings

If we have the good fortune to be healthy, why can’t we celebrate that – and use our wiser heads, our common sense, and ignore the media madness that tells us youthful skin and bones are better than soft and welcoming flesh, better than naturally aging bodies that still serve us daily, better than whatever self-image we may carry in our heads that is never quite up to snuff?

I think we could learn from our little ones who charge through the house – gleefully – in their birthday suits. Somewhere along the way, before puberty, we teach them shame – directly or indirectly. They begin to compare their bodies in judgmental fashion; we compare our bodies – and let loose with little remarks about being fat, or wishing we had a straighter nose or longer legs or bouncier booty or something other than what we have, what we look like, the body that houses us – that is us.

We’re All People, People!

I don’t recall when or where it was, but several years ago I saw a photograph of a massive crowd of “regular people” standing, in the nude. Older, younger, heavier, thinner.

It was, well, eye-opening.

So many arms, legs, hips, bellies, boobs, genitals. All imperfect, and lovely in the landscape of relaxed and widely diverse human form. And after a few minutes – they all seemed somehow equalized, and natural. Why are we so afraid? So determined to compare and then put ourselves down? What is the problem with nudity, with our bodies as they are – as long as we’re healthy?

• What if we all got more at ease with getting naked? With ourselves, and then with our significant others?

• What if we spent five minutes a day in front of a mirror, telling ourselves we’re just fine as we are? Especially the women?

• Would looking at ourselves daily – as well as looking at others – help return some measure of reasonableness, confidence, and self-esteem?

As for that five minutes?

This morning I did exactly that. I looked in the mirror and I said to myself: Not so bad.

Click on Glamour 2009 image to access the original and subsequent article and photos.

Kate Moss, Photo Credit Peter Lindbergh; click on image to access original as it appears on Telleestmatele.com.


© D. A. Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Some say the French are nonchalant about their parenting. Or, at the very least, they don’t sweat it in the same way as we – the Anglo-Saxon types – seem to do.

In fact, to hear Debra Ollivier tell the tale, mothers in France have a very different approach to their children.

In reading her spot-on Huffington Post article highlighting differences between French parents and their American counterparts, may I offer you this line plucked from her copy, which pretty much sums it up?

Where childhood trumps adulthood in the States, the opposite is largely true in France.

Is this nothing more than another stereotype or generalization about the French?

Does it raise your hackles, or might you be willing to explore Ms. Ollivier’s observations and elaborations?

French Women, French Men, French Parents 

When it comes to my stance on aspects of the French lifestyle, I make no bones about being a cultural hybrid, in part due to years (decades) over the course of which I’ve studied, lived, and worked in France, albeit off and on. I also married into a European family (not French), with a similar approach to the matters at hand.

And yes, I maintain ongoing friendships with French men and women on both sides of the Atlantic. 

Ms. Ollivier cites author of “Bringing up Bébé,” French expatriate Pamela Druckerman, and throughout the Huffington Post article I find myself nodding in agreement. In addition to the point that the needs of the child don’t displace parental needs, let’s consider the following:

• Maman et Papa have a right to privacy and a life of their own. (Boundaries, boundaries, boundaries.)

• French women do not suffer American angst over every mothering decision. (They don’t ooze maternal guilt.)

• There is no “brilliant” parent, no “perfect” parent, and the How-To-Parent-Better Industry is not flourishing as it has in Land of the Free, and Home of the Brave.

Another way to interpret that last conclusion? French women are not beating themselves black and bleu over everything to do with fussy François or petulant Paulette. They’re living their lives, while raising their families. In contrast, most American mothers (myself included) slip into the habit of “what wouldn’t we do for our kids.”

But French men and women possess some distinct advantages, as Ms. Ollivier points out:

French parents enjoy an infrastructure of social benefits that we can only dream of, including four to six weeks of paid vacation and excellent free education that starts with nursery schools and extends all the way to universities.

She goes on to say:

Though the French and their system are far from perfect, when it comes to parenting their culture by and large nurtures common sense and autonomy.

The Benefits of Social Benefits

And while the article doesn’t mention that health care in France (like education) is treated as a basic human right, may I add that as an additional factor? What about the quotidian stress that millions of American families face? The fear that drives us to hang on through heavier workloads and lower pay, while undeniably job-scared? The pressure that pushes us to find any sort of position to provide benefits? The search for a second job or maybe a third – to pay for a modest amount of health care for ourselves and our children?

Do you think there is no ripple effect when it comes to social benefits of this sort?

Might I remind you that the French health care system, certainly not perfect, nonetheless provides services for its population? May I cite from my own writing on this critical conversation of adequate health care?

Couldn’t we point to health care as delivered in France for example, ranked a few years back as number 1 in the world (the U.S. was ranked 37)? Could we mention the per capita cost of $3,500 per person, which is considerably less than the $6,100 per person in America? Or might we point to Germany or even Canada – and say – no, none of these are perfect systems, but they offer excellent care… ?

As to vacation (actual time off to unwind and spend with family – quelle idée!), wouldn’t four weeks or more allow you to genuinely renew, to create memories as a family, and to tend to yourself and your partner without having to fit it into your busy schedule?

Parenting versus Partnering (Virile Verbs?)

Another ingredient in this mothering mix?

Ms. Ollivier takes issue with the notion that “parenting” has become a verb in the U.S., whereas that certainly isn’t the case in France. It’s an interesting point of comparison, and one that I would like to address.

Personally, I’m an ardent fan of the verb, its energy, its vitality, its ability to jolt us off our dallying derrières, and amp up the action – appropriately.

I daresay that “to parent” involves the same (or similar) activities in France as in other western countries, but with a measure of the madness reduced, as a result of equal amounts of another verb – “to partner.”

Oh, I’m not saying there are never any conflicts over the love, kids, and job juggle – regardless of culture and country. But could we stay open-minded, read the article without judgment, and possibly take a lesson from the French  – at least on occasion?

What if we let loose on the worry un peu, while ratcheting up our partnering priorities?

What if we didn’t turn mothering versus making love into a competition for our time and attention?

What if we continue to sharpen our political awareness, and recognize that personal relationships and families thrive within a more positive social and economic framework?

Paris Rooftops, courtesy Yours Truly.

Click on image of Lady Chatterley to access original at Tout le Ciné.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

His smile always brightened when I met him on the stairs in the January cold and the February cold and the flagrant insistence of the March wind when he would offer to whisk me away to an island and I would laugh, and then decline. In those months of brittle mornings he placed the first cup of coffee between my gloved hands and it was steaming and strong and we walked together; he hooked my arm in his and we took the icy stairs down into the heated belly of the station.

He comes to me in trust during these visits: trust in our relationship, trust that I will see him, trust that I will hear him out. He comes to me as I am standing in our city: we are both young though he is an older young and I feel unbalanced and wobbly in tapered heels that catch in the cobblestone street. I am perched at the top of a dark descent and I see him waving from the bottom, and I know him by his stance and his gestures, and his reliable stature, even from a great distance.

“He is not a ghost,” I tell myself. “I will go, and I will return.”

I take careful steps down to meet him, and there is no railing to steady me and there is only training my eyes on him so I do not lose my nerve and I do not fall.

I seem to be entering a sewer system or underground storage or perhaps some fictional space out of a James Bond thriller. I feel the chill as I continue to make my way down and then I stop – three steps from the bottom.

He lifts my hand to his lips and kisses my fingers and now we’re facing each other, me on the third step while he stands, firmly, on the earthen floor of this unknown cavern.

“Take this,” he says, and he presses a rolled wad of bills into my palm and I am fidgeting and my mouth is dry. I am silenced by equal amounts of unspoken protest and weary pragmatism.

He notes my hesitation and says: “You need it, I have it, and this way you won’t be afraid any longer,” but I am afraid because he’s leaving again and he lurches forward on some sort of conveyor belt, and he looks so striking in his charcoal suit and white shirt and his pale gray banker’s tie, but he is moving away slowly as if through an airport and that after all is where we met and I tell my friends for years “you meet good men in airports” and I am right and then I am wrong and I will never know which flight I should have declined.

He waves and says “let go and take, let go and keep, let go and trust me.”

I open my hand and unwrap the roll of bills and count out 800 Euros in pastel colors and 5,000 green and white U.S. dollars.

He grows smaller now as the moving sidewalk sweeps him out of view and I am suddenly jolted in time; he is my Mr. Big before Mr. Big is invented, in days of flowers and limousines and my own younger body; in private, he recounts stories of Vietnam and stories of his poverty, of his longing to feel safe, of his years of work and never feeling safe enough, of his children by his first wife whom he loves – the children, and I am convinced, still, the first wife. He tells me I need to trust the relationship, I need to believe, I need to give myself to the strength to overcome the destruction of foundations and what appear to be stumbling blocks.

He is a man who builds. He is a man who makes money. He is a man who invests. His lovers are instruments; his children are his most exquisite capital gains.

I am drawn in by his youth and my innocence, by tenacity as well as trials, by the blue of his eyes and touching tenderly. I am wary of the scar on his abdomen, and the smoothness of my own flesh, so I estimate the years we may live together happily. I ponder spreadsheets and probabilities. I adjust for strikes against us.

Now it is Camille Grammer’s dark gaze and only for a moment, and those damnable Housewives in the background and the wedding industry and the marriage agenda and all of it woven into our girlish hearts, even when we reject it for its flawed logic, for its obvious pitfalls, for the devastation we see around us as we promise ourselves That will never be me.

A friend leans in and insists gently “But what about remarrying?” And Camille answers:  “I’ve been betrayed, I would have to learn to trust again.”

Now I am Camille on the other side of an oblong mirror and myself, obscured, paralyzed in the cavern beneath the city. I am not afraid of the shadows or the damp; he did not come to take me but only to advise me – to offer a sign of safety as if to urge me to welcome the cradle of dream, to grant the acceptance of trust, to rebuild the fund which is never entirely depleted.

I stare at the money and wonder if I should keep it. I fold the bills neatly and place them in my jacket pocket. I consider the concept of a Trust Fund, trying to imagine life as it would be now with the one I did not marry, the one who was loving to his children, the one who died from the blossoming beneath the scar, the dreams that died in me a decade later. I marvel that he appears in the unfolding of dawn and leaves me to rewrite definitions: first, the Trust Fund and then, Investment Instruments, knowing these for the uncertainty they always bear, and the compassionate intent of the ones who pen their provisions.

© D. A. Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Are you a good listener? Are you attentive to both spoken and unspoken messages? Tuned into body language, tone of voice, even hesitations and pauses? Do you deflect or reinterpret what you don’t want to hear?

I like to think I’m reasonably adept at speaking my mind, at doing so delicately if needed, and knowing when to probe as well as to pull back. Yet in recent months, I have come to realize how much I don’t talk about, and I’m wondering why.

Some of the reason is surely that I never knew how to broach the subjects at hand.

Sometimes, not talking is the better path to maintaining a relationship. It isn’t so much that we do not speak, as that we ascertain the best moment to speak.

Sometimes, not talking – in love, marriage, or parenting – riddles the relationship with holes. And the longer we don’t talk, the harder it is to begin again.

Privacy in a Relationship

I’ve offered the reasons I believe we should respect the need for privacy in romantic relationships. We are an increasingly confessional society; this works for some, but certainly not all; it’s a matter of discretion, relevance, and yes – healthy self-interest.

I’ve repeated my assertion that too much information on the Internet is a slippery slope. Some use blogging or Facebook to announce intimate details of both happy and tumultuous events. That choice is, of course, both personal preference and a matter of circumstances. But I don’t tell all, as I find an appropriate dose of self-censorship is, for me, more comfortable.

I’ve expressed my opinion that we nonetheless can speak our minds – rallying support when we need to, taking consolation as well, and working through the process of determining what we want and how we feel, by virtue of giving voice to our thoughts and experience in our digital communities.

How to Talk to Teenagers

I’ve written a good deal about my children, and about the highs and lows of dealing with teenagers. Like most parents, I’ve struggled with the task. I’ve done my best with a kid who wouldn’t talk – picking my moments (and digging for patience). I’ve explored some of the issues I’ve lived as a single mother, and glossed over dozens of others.

On certain topics, I’ve explicitly chosen not talking in a public venue. And when I do write of my sons, I hope I do so in ways that assure their trust.

As a woman raising men (and largely alone), I nonetheless worry about what was never said – couldn’t be said really, because I’m not a man. I also realize that I don’t know what my children discussed with their dad, or what behaviors he may have modeled, as all of that has been out of my control for years.

This is an unsettling awareness and admission as a parent. Yet I can only assume that following divorce, it’s far more common than I know.

What We Don’t Talk About

In contemplating my sons and how they’re changing – yes, the result of having them home at Winter Break – I’m recognizing how much I never addressed with them. Other than going with my gut, how could I possibly know what to ask or how to frame it? How could I know what boys-to-men experience at puberty or through adolescence, as they grow more silent, selectively less emotive, and I’m left to read, to research, to observe, and to listen – as my only means to understand?

Even in our open-minded and intermittently chatty household, surely we were mum on any number of issues.

• The details of our social lives. (Reasonable, you might say.)
• The details of our financial situation. (More complicated, and for many reasons.)
• Our health – though we’ve no reason to discuss it particularly. (And yet.)
• New friends – though I admit there are so many names and faces (that in the latter teen years change so quickly) that I can hardly keep up.

I Don’t Know What I Don’t Know

While I don’t know what I don’t know, I’m considering a few of the things I never asked and, consequently, do not know.

Have my sons been bullied? Were they bullies? Can they fight? Do they know how? What about love? Have they been in love? What are they afraid of? What infuriates them? What could I have done better, and could I do anything now or is it too late?

And of course, there are the divorced parent’s questions I never asked: Do they blame me for their world being divided into a before and after? Is that only my impression, the cleaving of “a life” in two – and not theirs?

Have I given too much? Have I given too little? If I need them, will they be there for me in the future – as men?

Appropriate Conversation 

You can talk and not talk; you can observe, you can attend, you can consult with others. You can rely on common sense, including when your gut advises that you remain silent.

When it comes to romance, I firmly believe that we own the right to privacy when it comes to our respective pasts, at least, certain aspects of them. And over the years, I’ve improved my ability to speak clearly, to listen attentively, and to fight fair – another sort of communication skill – all of which I consider steps toward more genuine, more fitting, and more intimate relationships.

Not talking can be an act of courage, or indecision, or even cowardice. Life is a mixed bag; there are times I wish I’d spoken up, and others when I’m glad I kept my own counsel.

As for talking or not talking when it comes to the parenting job, am I suffering from the millennial motherhood reality that you’re damned if you do, and damned if you don’t?

© D. A. Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

According to an article in the New York Times Education Blog, there’s increasing evidence that what I might term “wisdom” is a demonstrable aspect of growing older, and all the more so, when we’ve benefited from higher education.

What do you think? Do you believe that college – the fact of having attended – can influence your aging process many decades later? If not formal higher education, what about ongoing learning that you undertake yourself?

Apparently, all of the above helps maintain our brain function as the years pass.

The article, “A Sharper Mind, Middle Age and Beyond,” recounts a story of problem-solving that is so wildly simple – and clever – that I had to laugh.  Do read the article, but so as not to leave you hanging, a couple in their 70s finds themselves stranded without a ride in a snowstorm, and the duo comes up with a brilliant solution to their transportation problem.

Aging Brain Benefits from Mental Exercise

The gist of the article is this: using our brains in specific fashion, even early in life, keeps them tuned for our older years. Moreover, with experience we gain cross-functional skills that can be of assistance with problem-solving, as in the story mentioned above.

As to the evidence, plenty is cited. But why is it we’re bombarded by so much conflicting information? We’re also told that cognitive decline begins earlier than we once expected, even as popular culture nudges us to tuck and tidy our exteriors so they appear younger.

Where do we focus? The aging brain? The aging body? Appearances – at all cost?

College Education

The Times cites data that shows college education as a factor in maintaining cognitive function. Also referenced are continuing education, reading, and challenging the mind in structured fashion at any age:

“… college education has long-term benefits well beyond first job and social contacts.” The same could be said for continuing education.

Wisdom

According to Dictionary.com, wisdom is defined as:

the quality or state of being wise;  knowledge of what is true or right coupled with just judgment as to action; sagacity, discernment, or insight

Don’t we believe that we gain a greater sense of right and wrong as we grow older? Don’t we have greater judgment, by virtue of our experience?

Older But Wiser? (I Think So)

Frankly? I agree with the sentiments of the article because I’ve observed in friends, family, and myself that “use it or lose it” helps both mind and body. My mother began studying Japanese in her sixties, and was quite conversant by her seventies.

Just one example?

Of course, but I’m a believer. Sure, I grapple for a word or name now and then, like everyone else I know over 45. Yet I recognize that breadth of reasoning and maturity gives us a leg up in many situations.

I’d say that’s something to be pleased about, wouldn’t you? Or like everyone else at this age, am I looking for the (ahem) silver lining?

Reality Check?

For more (capricious) conversation on our hapless and hopeless decline in midlife – (are you buying any of this?) – take a peek:

• Dress my WHAT?
• Anti Anti-Aging, Pro Great Glow
• Feisty, Flirty, and Fifty-Something
• Sometimes You Give In

© D. A. Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

That always surprises me, and of course I’m curious to see what is referenced. In this case, one of my posts on adult children of divorce sat just above a link on a book called Making Divorce Work.

That’s quite an effective title I think – short, upbeat – and reflecting our collective cultural desire to simplify what is exceedingly complex.

Don’t get me wrong. There’s much to be gained from many of the sources in print and online to do with divorce. I wish they had been around when I was engaged in the divorcing process. But my immediate thought? Shouldn’t we be flooding the market with books on making marriage work?

Then I realized that perhaps we are, and not being married, I haven’t noticed.

Books on Marriage, Books on Divorce

So I Googled.

First, I Googled “making marriage work.” There were 12,600,000 results in less than half a second. Naturally, these aren’t all books – many of these references are articles or web sites, not to mention various services that may offer some sort of counseling.

Then I Googled “making divorce work.” There were 164,000,000 results in a quarter of a second. More than tenfold the supply – or am I really measuring the demand?

Again, there were books, articles, web sites – and of course, divorce attorneys offering their services.

How to Make Relationships Work

Dismayed at the discrepancy in results, and trying to look at the bigger picture, I reasoned that what we really need is relationship education, regardless of purpose. Oh, there’s nothing original in this thought. It’s the logical conclusion, isn’t it?

Wouldn’t we all benefit from learning to get along with each other? To give and take? To clearly state what we need and want? To attentively listen? To negotiate? To reacquaint ourselves with the basics of respect over disdain and narcissism?

I know, I know – not so simple! It ought to start in the home, right? Yet don’t we quickly circle back to all the societal pressures that are straining marriage at the seams – time, money, jobs – or lack thereof? And of course, kids?

Incidentally, I Googled “making relationships work.” 327,000,000 results! That’s astonishing – considering we don’t seem to be making progress in succeeding at making relationships work.

Divorce Discussion Around the Web

There are three fascinating conversations taking place over at the Huffington Post at present. The first is from Lisa Belkin, who raises the issue of blogger Heather Armstrong’s online announcement of her marital split, on her widely known blog, Dooce. The second is a column by Mandy Walker relative to Colorado’s decision to nix legislation requiring a cooling off period for divorcing couples. The third is an article by Dr. Howard Markman on the importance of acquiring relationship skills so that we enter marriage with more capacity to make our unions work.

I recommend all three of these articles, as well as the comments that dig deeper into the issues from a variety of viewpoints. These discussions impact all of us. Who isn’t touched by the desire for an intimate relationship, the potential of its demise, and the impacts on one’s own health – much less the future of our children?

What is a Working Divorce?

As to making divorce work, are we now looking to define the successful divorce? Is it when both parties remarry? And if only one remarries? (There’s that marital agenda again, that underlies so much in our culture.)

Is it a matter of at least one of the former spouses claiming to be happy? Or freer to pursue happiness?

Where do the children fit? Do we ask them? Do we attempt to see through their eyes? Does everything depend on circumstances – whether the marital home was abusive, utterly miserable, or simply a mismatch of the adults as time wore on – though there’s nothing simple about it?

Sure, some “succeed” at divorce, and it’s a matter of perspective, don’t you think? I’m sure divorce “worked” for my ex-husband. I’m sure it “worked” for many exes, particularly those who know their way around the system in their particular state. To my mind, it’s a gray area – all of it.

And you certainly will find children as well as their parents who share the opinion that they are all better off after a “restructure” of their family unit. But how long does that take? How often does it occur? What assists in creating the conditions for that to be true?

As to making marriage work, frankly, I expected to see fewer results on Google than for divorce; by the time we’re looking for how to make that happen, it’s often much too late. But I didn’t expect such an extensive difference in my unscientific experiment.

Loving is the Easy Part

Love may come to us easily; love may require us to face hurdles. Loving – for most of us – is something good, sweet, at times bittersweet, necessary.

But love isn’t enough to make a marriage work. Most who have spent any time as a couple realize that, knowing that friendship and common values are make-or-break, that lovemaking or its absence is both problem and symptom, that children add stresses we never anticipate. Nor is marriage for everyone, or for that matter living as a couple.

So I come back to the notion of making relationships work. What about those 327,000,000 results that highlight our awareness of the problem? Why aren’t we doing better?

Click on image of Lovers to access Susan G. Hammond photography site.


© D. A. Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

I admit to a bout of the blues this week.

I admit, I’m feeling sad.

I also recognize that I’m sleep deprived, in recovery mode from Kid Overload and Post-Holiday Happenings, and I’m in serious need of a dose of sunshine.

It’s January. It’s cold and gray and I’m not at my best in the cold or gray – unless of course it’s Paris. And trust me, I’m not in Paris.

Besides. I have things on my mind. Hard things. Complicated things. I’d like to curl up and hibernate, but that isn’t an option. I believe we refer to that little reality as Adulthood, and yes, with a capital A.

I’m more sluggish this time of year, and I know it. I’ve also been heads down with nose to the grindstone every possible hour of late, huddled over my laptop reading and writing and researching for much of the day. I’m less than consistent in kicking my butt out the door, hitting the sidewalk for a 20-minute trot, and most particularly – benefiting from whatever natural light I can.

And speaking of light…

Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD)

Seasonal Affective Disorder is not something I thought about when I lived in the Cold Cold Northeast more than 20 years ago. The Winter Blues is not what I blamed when, by mid-March, I felt as though everything was crushing me, each hour of the day squeezing the life out of me, every effort to remain energized – futile and exhausting.

I suffered from Depression. Big Bad Depression. And almost on schedule.

Most years, I scraped together my pennies and sent myself off to a beach in Florida – to rest, to swim, to read in the sunshine. All it took was a week, typically alone, and I felt the renewing benefits of a seasonal break.

It was many years later that I learned of Seasonal Affective Disorder, and wondered if I suffered from it, at least to some degree. I rarely spoke of my depression during those years – the stigma of sadness was well entrenched, and I daresay it still is. But, since moving to a region with a shorter winter, I’ve noticed a marked difference in the annual struggle with disappearing down down down into the darkness of the Rabbit Hole.

Moody Blues

Frankly, the annual depression all but disappeared, yet occasionally, when combined with other worries and wounds, I feel tied to the color of the skies (or lack thereof), to the chill that renders my heart more brittle (and breakable), and to the quality of the light.

This sadness?

Some of it is emotional. Life rarely leaves us with nothing to process as we unwittingly dip into corners of memory, as we come to accept new aspects of ourselves, as we face growing into and away from people we love.

As we recognize and re-prioritize our own needs.

Some of the problem is physical.

I need to listen to my body. I’ve improved my ability to provide what is necessary, but I still have a long way to go in accepting that the balance of sleep, nutrition, exercise, and managed stress is critical to feeling well.

Break Dance, Anyone?

What else?

Fresh air. Natural light. A real break. Especially after weeks of a houseful of kids on their break!

The winter is long – longer for some of us than others – and depression, perhaps kicked into gear by snow or drizzle or gray skies.

And no, it’s not the fact that my boys left and the sink is still stacked with their dirty dishes. It’s not the bills on the table in my den or the laundry heaped in the basket. I’m grateful for the quiet. I’m breathing more deeply in this much needed silence. But I feel off, I feel sad, I feel distant from some part of myself. And I wonder if I could resurrect my vitality and focus with something as simple as a few days of walking under a brilliant sun.

• Are you subject to the winter blues?

• Are you more easily depressed at certain times of year?

• Does everything feel heavier and harder when you’re sleep-deprived?

• When’s the last time you ran off to a beach (or the mountains if you prefer) – just for yourself, to feel “whole” again?

© D. A. Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

I blink to clear my eyes. I look at the country code on the cell display. Switzerland.

“And chicken stock,” he adds.

Okay then. He’s arrived.

“Did I wake you?” he asks.

I glance at the clock. It’s early. I had tried to stay awake through the night until his call, but I’d fallen asleep despite my best efforts. It’s afternoon on the other side of the Atlantic. And apparently, he’s hungry.

“It’s okay,” I say, noting that his voice is buzzing with energy, even after 20 hours of travel.

Exit the Parent’s Home

It was hard when my firstborn left home for college and harder still when I deposited his brother some five months ago, hundreds of miles away. I boarded a plane to fly home, admittedly forlorn, and paralyzed at the thought of empty nest.

Both my sons have taken their independence, exactly as I had hoped for them.

And I was just beginning to rediscover my own.

These past weeks of Winter Break? At times it seemed as though I was beyond any capacity for proper parenting. I was losing my cool. I was unused to interruptions. The all-night partying? My tolerance had waned.

As for the routine responsibilities of having my children around – cooking, coordinating, friends in and out, the car keys – they were a mixed bag – both trying and wonderful.

Enter the Next Adventure

“Butter?” he asks.

“No butter,” I say. “Garlic, pepper, chopped celery. The trick is to have enough of the potatoes and leeks so the soup is nice and thick.”

“Great,” he answers, and I fumble for questions, but it’s before coffee and I’m still foggy.

“Je t’aime,” I say.

“Moi aussi,” he replies. And hangs up.

There was so much I could have asked. So much I should have asked. Coulda woulda shoulda.

Parents of College Students

My younger son?

He’d flown the coop as well, just a few hours earlier than his brother. He traveled from one end of the country to the other, then called to let me know he was there.

Being a parent of a college student – two college students – means trusting that you’ve taught them enough to make their way on their own. It’s knowing they’ll fall, and they’ll pick themselves up. It’s hoping they’ll come to you, for the good moments as well as the problems.

It’s taking an emotional distance from worry, because that’s the only way to survive.

Their Turn

Now that I’m awake, now that steaming coffee is pouring through me, now that I realize I haven’t a number at which I can reach my elder son, I wish I had asked if he’s met the program director and his room mate, if university housing is located in an interesting part of the city, what his impressions are – though I imagine that they’re good.

I focus on the vibrancy in his voice. The excitement. The confidence.

I tell myself I can send an email, but instead I decide to leave him to his new adventure, to the pleasure of his freedom and his obvious delight to be studying abroad. Just as obvious – his ability to take care of himself, and to stay in contact – on his own terms.

My Turn

It was hard having my boys home for weeks. There was little privacy, too much noise, so much chaos, and expenses that beat my budget black and blue.

It was glorious having my boys home for weeks. There was little privacy, too much noise, so much chaos – and thankfully, credit cards to get me through. 

I tell myself that now I can take a breath. I can return to the budget, to my list of tasks; I can control my own schedule, and I won’t have to negotiate over the use of my car!

I remind myself that I’ve done all I can, and I’m grateful for the relationship that I have with my kids. Not without its challenges, but good enough – so it seems – to call for a list of ingredients that will taste like home.

© D. A. Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

I was me. Marital status had nothing whatsoever to do with who I was: my passions, my beliefs, my friendships, how I conducted my life.

I might even go so far as to say that marital status had little to do with my dreams. I knew what I wanted – to write, to learn, to travel, to become knowledgeable and respected in subjects I found interesting. I wanted to distinguish myself.

I wanted to love. I wanted to be loved.

Children? I couldn’t imagine myself a mother.

Surprise, surprise. Well into my thirties I experienced that great privilege, and I have adored the job of parenting my two children. As for marriage and its necessity?

The Title of Mrs.

I didn’t dream of being a “Mrs.” I didn’t plan for it, or think of it, or worry about it whatsoever – until I reached an age when family members, co-workers, even strangers began asking why I wasn’t married. Not being married was somehow a stigma, though most of my closest friends, like me, were single at the time.

I was asked by relatives if I was gay. I was asked if I had something against marriage. When I would travel to France, no one asked me about marital status and it was a relief – like many other aspects of French culture, for me.

And when I did in fact marry – older – what I felt was that I had just been accepted into some exclusive club that I never knew existed. I was invited into a broader circle. I was welcomed in a different manner.

And I was surprised. Stunned, really. This was 1990, not 1960!

Women, Marriage, Name Change, and Identity

When it was time to do the deed, I didn’t want to change my name, though my soon-to-be-husband wanted exactly that, and we both agreed it would be easier if there were children.

I was known in my profession by my given name, and I was reluctant to shed it. I also liked my name. I inhabited it; it suited me. But I opted for pleasing my husband by changing my name.

And many years later during divorce, despite the confusion I knew it would cause (and still does), I was hungry to slip back into my “old” name – my real name, as quickly as possible. I was reclaiming a vital part of myself.

My name.

My identity.

Divorcing Dilemmas

It took me months to remove the wedding ring from my finger, far longer to surrender the possibility that I could save my family unit, and more years than I care to admit that I have struggled with accepting that I will never know why my marriage ended, and why “we” didn’t work.

I focused on the fact that we made beautiful kids. I still focus on the fact that we made beautiful kids, and likewise, on everything I’ve learned in the past 20 years.

The stigma of divorce? I didn’t consider it. I was dealing with the death of dreams. I was preoccupied with the emotional withdrawal of one child and the anger of the other. I was fighting growing legal debt and loss of our home. I was determined to get us through; marital status was irrelevant.

The Marital Status Trap

Over the many years I’ve dated since divorce, any time I’ve seen someone for a few months, I heard the inevitable question – “Do you think you’ll get married?”

Still dealing with contentious issues of support, visitation, and more – remarriage was the farthest thing from my mind.

I’m currently enjoying a good relationship. To my amazement (and discomfort), the questions have started again as if confirmation that even for a woman at midlife “remarried” is superior to “divorced,” and if not remarried, then cohabiting is superior to living alone.

Why?

Judgment and Assumptions by Marital Status

I begin to understand the value of the indefinite engagement as a means to silence the voices who doubt your commitment, while respecting your own awareness that insists on caution.

I recognize the very real financial and logistical advantages to being married rather than single – including rights to spousal benefits (health care, for example). May we agree that this is no small matter as we grow older, and in our troubled economy when many are without jobs or, have no “rights” to health care through non-employee status?

Likewise, there is no doubt in my mind that society at large is more comfortable with those who are married, especially women, though I still can’t quite figure out why.

• If you’re divorced and not remarried, is the assumption that you’re unattractive or unlovable?

• Many men don’t wear wedding bands; we rarely inquire if they are married. Why?

• When we do find out that someone is not married, we automatically assume there is something “wrong” with them. Why?

Hierarchy of Marital Status

Personally, I have noted a hierarchy of marital status “acceptability” in this country. Married is superior to Unmarried; Widowed is superior to Divorced; Divorced is superior to Never Married. Why?

When asked my marital status, most of the time I call myself single.

Yes, I am a divorced woman with a complex story. Yes, I am a single mother or solo mother, depending upon your definition. Yet to me, marital status remains largely irrelevant to who I am, what I love, what I contribute, and how I define myself as a person and as a woman.

We learn from our stories, we live our stories, and we present a face to the world through our stories. Mine include marriage, motherhood, divorce, and these 10 trying and remarkable years that have followed.

But I am more than my stories. More than these stories. And I am certainly more than my marital status.

What about you?

© D. A. Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy