Zen and the art

I've been feeling pretty Zen lately. I don't know why, which is OK I guess, but usually leads me to fear that I'm about to be thrown into the Neighborhood where Bad Things Might Happen. Even with that, I'm sort of stepping back and looking at things as through a telescope.

It may be one of the benefits of getting older. (Trust me, there aren't that many.) I just had a birthday ten days ago, and am standing on the brink of 5-0 looking into the abyss. The wrinkle fairy stops by frequently, and the menopause fairy done packed up and took her kitbag home, and the fat fairy has eaten through whatever was left of my metabolism in its urge to hold onto fat. Millions of years ago I swore I would never wear clothing sized in the double-digits, and the fat fairy is laughing maniacally at me as it sits on the roll at my waistband.

But I'm OK with it. (Mostly, eh.) I am giving myself a break. There are bigger things to worry about, like this election, and the financial future, and health and education and love and babies and all the good stuff.

Last time I went to yoga I sat in half-lotus and pondered. Maybe it's that I've stopped focusing on what I can't do and what I can -- no, I can't quite get my leg behind my head. I looked around at all the 20-somethings in class and for a teeny tiny second I was disgusted with my old self in its feeble attempt to hang on to youthful bendiness. But you know what? There weren't any other late-40-somethings in class with me, and by God I did get my leg almost up over my head. I show up. I focus and breathe, and I think about just doing what I can do and not worrying about the rest.

Maybe the best I can do really IS good enough.