Slow YOGA/Slow AGING

By Judy I. Blais

Slow YOGA/Slow AGING follows the author on her journey into the aging process.

"Since I hadn't planned to age like everyone else, the pain and physical limitations over the past few years took me by surprise. I'd envisioned a slightly wrinkled, gray-haired version of my twelve-year-old self, hiking trails and riding horses. I

• Language: English
• Publisher: Judy I Blais
• Release date: Jun 8, 2018
• ISBN: 9780692066676

Judy I. Blais

Judy Blais grew up in northern Minnesota and moved to Oregon in her mid-forties. She wrote Slow YOGA/Slow AGING thirty years later... drawing on her background in journalism, writing, ranching and yoga. She was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis in her early seventies.The subsequent years of research into aging, arthritis and other conditions that affect the aging body in general led to the creation of Slow YOGA/Slow AGING. "I learned what kind of diet I needed to follow and what I had to do to recover my health, strength and flexibility. Four years later, I'm taking no medication for pain or arthritis."

Book preview

Part I – The Journey

CHAPTER ONE

THE JOURNEY BEGINS

Three months in an over-55 trailer park

I’m stuck midway through the narrow window of a single-wide trailer, hoping to extricate myself before someone shows up to rescue me. As I struggle to escape all the embarrassing possibilities, my mind wanders back over the series of decisions that led to this predicament.

I won’t be coming to class for awhile, the eighty-three year old rancher said as he limped into my yoga studio. My horse took a bad fall when I was chasing cattle up on the mountain and I’m kinda’ stove up.

We exchanged the usual pleasantries along with a couple of stories about horses and horse accidents. Then, my bronc-riding yoga student settled his sweat-stained hat back on his head, signaling that it was time for him to leave.

As we walked to the door, I thanked him for stopping by… thinking that a salute would’ve been more appropriate.

The men and women who inhabit this vast rural area I call home are roughly divided into two kinds of people: government employees with their steady paychecks and ranchers who work till they drop, get up and dust themselves off to work some more.

My first trip to the county dump was a real eye opener. I pulled up behind a gray-haired woman in Wranglers rolling a fifty-five gallon drum to the tailgate of her dusty pickup and watched as she upended the barrel with a swift, practiced motion. She gave me a quick smile and a wave, hopped back into her truck and drove off.

To me, this sturdy grandmother came to symbolize all the down-to-earth women who live and work alongside their men… raising kids, colts and calves on the sprawling ranches of Oregon’s High Desert.

Ranching has a way of shaping people to fit their tasks and a quarter century later I’d joined the ranks of women to whom farm chores and dump runs were a part of everyday life.

Somewhere around my mid-sixties, the reflexes that had served me so well over twenty-five years of training horses began to fade and I decided to quit while I was still ahead and relatively uninjured.

I may have closed the barn door but was about to walk through another door labeled Yoga that would transform my life. I eventually became a yoga instructor and after several years of teaching classes, found myself wondering how yoga would affect the average American retiree.

Meaning I had to find some average American retirees.

My neighbors were too busy ranching to even think about retirement and most government retirees had already flown the coop aboard generous pensions.

Neither situation seemed to fit the word average.

Plus, I was fascinated by the silver-haired, wrinkle-free couples prancing across TV screens, peddling the glories of an idyllic retirement backed by predictable incomes and the latest in pharmaceuticals.

The traveling gourmet

So, I hit the road and wound up at an upscale retirement community smack dab in the middle of Florida, overflowing with strategically placed shopping malls, restaurants, salt-water swimming pools and lush golf courses.

At first, I was stumped by the daily parade of expensively modified golf carts racing past all the beautifully manicured golf courses… until I spotted vast herds of them, gathered around the community’s many watering holes.

While I didn’t learn much about the average American retiree in the Sunshine State, I did manage to investigate a number of fine restaurants.

I drifted in a westerly direction alongside the Gulf of Mexico until I ran across a trailer park near McAllen, Texas overflowing with a satisfactory mix of retirees.

My initial reaction of Margaret Meade move over, I’ve hit the aging jackpot, lasted until I locked myself out of my new home, a single-wide trailer located in the dead center of my carefully chosen anthropological site.

I prowled around the impenetrable little dwelling, anxious to get back inside with minimal damage to the structure, my ego and whatever image park residents might be forming of me.

Stymied, I trudged over to the office hoping for a spare key.

No such luck.

The manager, who’d obviously had plenty of experience with this sort of crisis reassured me in a measured voice, Manuel - the - handyman - will - be - able - to - help - you - out - as - soon - as - he - is - free.

Waves of humiliation lapped against my heels on the way back to the trailer until I recalled the fork I’d wedged under the kitchen window due to my inherent distrust of gas appliances.

A break-in

I dragged a wobbly plastic table over to the kitchen window and managed to stay aboard long enough to pry the screen off and raise the window.

After eyeballing the narrow opening, I eventually squeezed my way through, barely avoiding an amorous kitchen faucet.

Perfect timing!

I bounded down the back steps just as Manuel pulled up to the trailer.

Problem solved, I crowed and playfully lobbed the keys at him.

True.

Until the second break-in… which should have been a snap.

I was experienced.

The fork and table were still in place.

But Manuel wasn’t.

Oh, crap! This isn’t funny, I moaned as his golf cart appeared around the corner and parked alongside the shuffleboard courts across the street.

The handyman’s project gave me plenty of time to mull things over as I hid behind the trailer. I reached the conclusion that my safe, academic approach to studying retirement, senior moments and aging was rapidly evolving into an up-close and personal experience.

Manuel finished the job and I managed my second B & E without any foreplay, but not without being observed by a nest of spies… given the number of times I was asked about my trailer problem over the next couple of weeks.

Later that afternoon, I had three extra keys made, stashed one at the office, hid another in the car and poked number three deep into the dirt by the back door.

My gradual integration into trailer park life provided valuable insights into a typical day in the life of the average resident… mostly spent in search of some kind of entertainment, food or a nap.

Any kind of handyman-type project acted like a magnet on every guy within range. And, something as diverting as a fanny and pair of legs jutting out of a kitchen window ranked right up there alongside a Minnesota hot dish. (That’s a casserole, for those who don’t speak Minnesotan.)

Also, for the uninitiated, B.Y.O.P.S. in trailer park lingo means Bring Your Own Plate Service to where the food is located and queue up in plenty of time to ensure a good-sized portion.

While words piled up on my computer, the trailer’s fishbowl location offered a handy view of residents heading for the clubhouse or swimming pool. I finally removed my fingers and mind from the keyboard and sat back to contemplate the elderly pedestrians tottering by in a side-to-side motion, eyes focused on the ground in front of their feet.

I managed to restrain myself from leaning out the door and hollering Straighten up, since the logical reply would have been, Got your keys on you? (Turn to Chapter Six for a brief lesson on Karmic payback.)

The novelty of the trip and my new surroundings eventually wore off and I began to experience symptoms of homesickness.

Obviously, I needed to get to work. So, I offered free yoga classes to park residents.

Senior yoga

The classes came with a built-in quid pro quo… a perfect opportunity to study yoga’s effect on the lives of average retirees. When we got down to the basics of sitting, standing, walking, balance and posture, it became very interesting.

Years earlier, I’d joined a Seated Yoga class for handicapped adults. Initially skeptical about the value of a seated routine for normal students, my sweaty body soon taught me otherwise.

The trailer park students were teaching me as much I was teaching them and impressed me with how quickly and easily they tuned in to bodies that had been pretty much ignored for years.

After six weeks of classes Laurie’s posture and appearance improved