Finding the rhythm—and courage—to beat my drum

My friend Henry invited friends to celebrate his 50^th birthday by sharing a story in a format similar to The Moth. Each storyteller took a turn at the front of the room telling a story with the theme of "lost and found." Wearing my little black dress, my cowgirl boots, and my elk antler canoe paddle necklace, I beat a rhythm on my African djembe drum while I shared my story:

As a kid, I marched to the beat of a different drummer. But it was the 1960s. A girl could be a teacher, nurse, secretary, or if she were really adventurous, a flight attendant. I dreamed of adventure: traveling to Africa, flying a plane, and being a girl drummer. I created drums from household objects: Mom’s pots and pans, empty boxes, the living room radiator.

When we were six, my cousin, Dave and I formed a band, Sue and her Swingers. We didn’t have a clue what a swinger was, but we liked the alliteration. My drumsticks were Lincoln Logs, and my drum was an empty oatmeal box. But Dave, who was nicknamed “Hippy Dave” and wore cool, striped bell bottoms, played a real guitar that his mom gave him. Our repertoire consisted of “Lay Down Your Head, Tom Dooley” and “Down the Valley." We played living room gigs for our parents. Cool, huh?

I kept drumming, but still didn't have a real drum.

For my tenth birthday, for some inexplicable reason, I was sure my parents were giving me a drum set and a real chimpanzee. Imagine my disappointment when I opened my gifts and found neither chimpanzee nor drum set, but instead a tall, metal high chair for dolls. What the heck? It didn’t take me long to discover the doll high chair made a great drum! It was tall enough that I could stand up to play my drum solos! I played a lot of gigs on that doll high chair.

By sixth grade, kids could take band class and learn to play an instrument. My hands shook with excitement that first time I held real drumsticks and played a snare drum. Even the names of the drum rudiments were thrilling: flam, paradiddle, triple ratamacue.

Although my family couldn't afford to buy a new drum, the band teacher let students rent old marching band snare drums for $1 a month. Covering the large drum in a plastic garbage bag, I lugged the drum home on my bike every day after school so I could practice drumming.

That Christmas, Mom surprised me with a gently used silver snare drum. It was a beaut! I don’t recall where Mom found it or how she afforded it, but it remains one of the best gifts I’ve ever received.

I was a drummer in the school band from sixth grade through high school. In our small school, being in the band meant playing in concert band, marching band in parades and pep band at all the football and basketball games. By then, drummer Karen Carpenter was a role model, and I was joined by two other girl drummers. I loved being a drummer! When a popular kid at school referred to me as "the little drummer girl," I beamed. 

But when I moved away to attend college, my drum gathered dust. Mom asked if she could sell it in her garage sell, and I agreed. When would I play a drum as an adult woman?

Shortly after college graduation, I got married and was busy raising a family. I loved being a mom and a wife. But as my kids grew into older teens and young adulthood and I had more breathing room, I realized that I’d lost myself. Although I found great joy in spending time with my kids, the adventurous girl I'd once been had been replaced by a shell of a person. I felt completely alone in my marriage. To cover up my grief and emptiness, I ate chocolate--lots of it--ballooning to almost twice my high school weight.

After counseling and mediation sessions, my husband and I eventually divorced.

More than thirty years had passed since I'd played a drum. Now 50 years old, did I remember how to play my own rhythm? Did my heart still have the capacity for joyful song? I didn't know the answers to these questions, but I was ready to find out.

I joined a women's dragon boat team, the Mighty Women. Paddling three times a week was therapeutic for my soul, and combined with mindful eating and other exercise, helped me trim almost 50 pounds from my 5-foot-2 frame.

It was while paddling on the water that I began breathing again. And smiling. My success in dragon boating spurred me to try other adventures: zip lining, kayaking, stand up paddleboard, snow shoeing, belly dancing.

With each new experience, my courage increased.

The next step was a doozy. Dipping my big toe into the online dating pool, the first few dates were duds. I did meet a couple of kind men who had some shared interests, and it was fun going to dinner or a movie, and nice having someone to talk with. But nothing really clicked.

Then I met a Mountain Man, a fellow adventurous spirit who is finding his way back to happiness and joy. Even more incredible, he was a drummer in high school too. He'd recently bought an African djembe drum at Rhythm Traders in Portland. We went to Rhythm Traders together, losing ourselves in more drums and percussion instruments than I'd ever seen, tapping out rhythms, laughing and finding joy in the moment. I was the only woman there. The only girl drummer. During our second trip to Rhythm Traders, I bought my own African djembe drum. It's a beaut!

Together, the Mountain Man and I have paddled skin-on-frame kayaks, camped in his tipi, hiked, explored museums. He's taught me western swing dancing, archery and alpine skiing. I'm editing his book and helping him publish and market it.

We've played music together under the summer stars and in the falling snow. Who knew life in my fifties could be so rich?

I've come a long way from the empty shell I was. Each morning, I step forward expectantly, anticipating whatever adventures might lie ahead. And sometimes, I strap on my drum, my hands tapping out a rhythm while my heart sings.

Kirby and I playing our African djembe drums in the garden.

 

Be bold--and don't lose your nerve

Last weekend, I found myself careening downhill on skis -- going too fast and out of control. I lost my nerve and fell on my back. Hard.  

It was a flashback to my first skiing experience 34 years earlier as a teenager. I hadn't skiied again since then.

In 1979, my boyfriend at the time, an experienced skier, dropped me off at the bunny hill and left to ski the big hill. I watched the little kids around me and tried to figure out how to ski. I was at least a decade older than all of them. Later, my boyfriend returned and insisted I was ready for the big hill.

I didn't know how to turn. Or stop. Stopping seemed important. After nearly falling off the chair lift, I kind of fell all the way down the mountain. That one ski run was such a scary experience that I never skied downhill again.

Until last weekend.

In the past year, I've tried dragon boating, stand up paddle board, kayaking, snowshoeing, ziplining, contra dancing and swing dancing. Plus online dating, the scariest of all. Downhill skiing seemed like the next progression on my bucket list of adventures.

I was determined to have a fun experience and to not lose my nerve on the slopes as I had more than three decades earlier.

My first step was getting a private lesson with a professional ski instructor who is calm and ever so patient. I chose Kirby Records, who spends his weekends teaching 3-year-olds and adults to control their skis while having fun on the slopes. He's also my boyfriend. But he's very different from my high school boyfriend.

Before I tackled the bunny hill, Kirby taught me to snowplow slowly down the slightest incline, the pre-bunny hill. He skied backward, right in front of me.

"Just ski toward me," he said. "I'll catch you if you start to fall."

I knew he would. I summoned my courage, eased forward and followed him down the hill. I did it! And I didn't fall!

At the bottom of the hill I got in line to ride the magic carpet lift, a sort of conveyor belt that transports beginning skiers to the top of the tiniest hill. Not only was I the only person over four feet tall riding the magic carpet lift, I also was four or five decades older than all of them. Many likely still drank from sippy cups.

The sippy cup gang on the magic carpet lift.

                                  

With Kirby's coaching, I gained confidence and control by skiing the itty bitty hill half a dozen times.

"Ready for the bunny hill?" he asked.

"Yes! Let's go!"

Kirby showed me how to grab the handle tow to ride to the top of the bunny hill. So far, so good. Again, he skied backward in front of me, zigging and zagging down the bunny hill. I followed him all the way to the bottom. And I didn't fall!

Soon I was skiing the bunny hill without Kirby skiing in front of me. He left for his next lesson, and said he'd return later to see if I was ready for the chair lift and a bigger hill. But no pressure.

I continued skiing down the bunny hill. Shortly after he left, I fell. It was a soft fall. I wasn't hurt, but I flailed around in the snow trying to stand up. Finally, I removed a ski, stood up, put my ski back on and continued down the hill.

I fell again. And I got up again.

"You can do this," I repeated the mantra I tell myself when I feel myself losing my nerve.

On several more runs down the bunny hill, I tightened my turns and practiced slowing and stopping. I was gaining confidence. But I was getting tired.

So there I was, careening out of control down the bunny hill. Now, for an experienced skier watching me, I'm sure my speed wouldn't qualify as "careening," but to this novice skier, I was careening. I was almost at the bottom and needed to stop, but instead of calmly doing what Kirby had taught me, I freaked out, lost my nerve and fell. Hard. Right on my back.

Until 30 seconds earlier, I'd had an excellent time skiing. I was exhausted and thought I'd quit while I still thought skiing was fun. So I removed my skis, stood up and walked to the lodge to warm up, read my book and wait for Kirby.

Last weekend, I conquered my three-decade fear of skiing downhill--and I had a great time. True, I took one nasty spill, but that was because I lost my nerve and forgot to be bold. I won't make that mistake again.

Kirby and I are planning many adventures together: hiking, backpacking, kayaking. He's teaching me to swing dance too.

This morning, I paddled a dragon boat with the Mighty Women. Tonight, my paddling teammate Wendy has agreed to join me for my next adventure: belly dancing!

After all, I am a Mighty Woman.

The Trials and Tribulations of Online Dating

 

I have an embarrassing confession to make.

Recently while paddling my own canoe, I'd lost my way in the drama of online dating. Earlier today I disabled my account on a popular, free online dating site. It took conversations with my sister, a cousin and a girlfriend for me to realize how online dating was eroding my confidence and wasting my time. I spent far too much time trolling the online waters looking for prospective men when I could have been out doing something fun and experiencing life.

When I first dipped my big toe into the online dating pool, it had been 29 years since I'd been single, or as Bridget Jones would say, a "singleton" out there in the scary dating world. And how that dating world has changed in three decades!

In this all-new world of online dating, I first spent hours writing, editing and tweaking my profile. I'm a writer. That part was fun, but challenging. What words make a person appear attractive, interesting and witty--yet not desperate? Carefully choosing photos to upload to my profile ate up more time.

Then, I wasted more hours than I care to admit answering inane questions that were supposed to help find men who had shared interests and values. Most of the questions did not seem helpful in weeding out men who weren't good matches. And many questions were much too personal. I didn't answer those.

Soon men--dozens and dozens of them--began knocking on my virtual door. I'll admit that at first it was an ego booster to have so many men checking out my profile. But once I weeded out the too young, too old, bisexual, kinky and the worst category, in my opinion, "married but available," the numbers were much fewer.

Although I had specified that I was interested in men within a certain age range, my profile was visited by men spanning a much larger range, from creepy and way too young: "you're almost as young as my son," to creepy and much too old: "you're almost as old as my father!"

Distance factored into the weeding-out process as well. Even if they were as gorgeous as George Clooney (and they weren't), men hundreds of miles away, across the country or on a different continent were eliminated from the ever-shrinking pool.

Men began messaging me. Many were clearly online looking only for sex. Some were downright creepy. Late one night, I was checking who had visited my profile when a man instant messaged me and asked if I wanted company that night. Right-o. Uh-huh. I've never met this man, I don't know what his real name is, and he's hoping I'll give him my address so he can drive right over to my place late at night. Isn't there a slasher movie with that same plot? I told him "no thanks," and he excused his virtual self to go creep out some other woman.

Sometimes I'd work up the courage to email a particularly attractive prospect who had been rated a very good match for me. But many men didn't have the courtesy to reply. I felt "virtually" rejected. One guy at least had the kindness to respond, "I looked at your profile, but I'm just not interested." I appreciated his candor. It was better than being ignored, but I still felt rejected.

I met a handful of guys face to face, always in daylight in a safe, public place, like a coffee shop. I always drove my own car and never got into a car with a man until I'd met him a few times and had the opportunity to Google him and check out his background.

With my first few coffee shop meetups, there was no spark for either of us. We were too polite to say, "Look, it's been nice meeting you, but let's not waste any more time. Best of luck." The first man talked nonstop about his career and his kids, but he didn't ask anything about me. This was my first "date" in 29 years. I was tongue tied and not marketing myself as an Internet dater should. He likely was nervous too. It went the same with the next guy.

One particularly memorable meetup was with a man who was supposed to be 94 percent compatible with me. We had emailed a couple of times, and seemed to share many interests. But when I walked into the coffee shop and saw him, I'm sure my jaw dropped. The photos he had posted were probably 20 years old, and he had gained 50 or 75 pounds or more since those old photos had been taken. He hadn't been honest.

What I found more disturbing was that as we chatted, he seemed to have a negative attitude and difficult relationships with many people. But the last straw was when he pulled out his phone and showed me a photo of himself dressed as a pirate and said he'd like to see me again. (Ladies, he did NOT look like Johnny Depp!) I politely looked at his pirate photo and replied that I was taking online dating very slowly. Then I excused myself and sprinted to my car and made my escape. I wondered if he ever had a second date.

After that I learned to do more research by having phone conversations before we actually met in person. That helped to find if there was common ground. But how do you casually work into the conversation: "One last question: Do you have a pirate costume?"

I eventually did have more than one date with a few nice men. It was fun to have a man to go to a restaurant with, see a movie or a play, and visit farmers markets, museums and more. But after a time, those short-term relationships fizzled out.

Recently, my friend, Henry, and I were comparing online dating war stories.

"I should stop watching chick flicks like 'Under the Tuscan Sun,'" I told him. "I need to realize that I'm not going to move to Italy, be swept off my feet by a handsome stranger and live happily ever after in a Tuscan villa."

With his dry wit, Henry replied, "My love life has been more like the movie 'Titanic'. The last hour--when the ship is sinking!"

Since that conversation, Henry has found a wonderful woman on the same online dating site that I had tried. He's happy. He tells me not to take it so seriously, not to worry so much about it. Just let it happen.

Henry and many other friends have reminded me how hard I've worked to achieve my freedom, to change my life, to start anew. To paddle my own canoe.

Someday, maybe I'll meet a man who is a compatible paddling partner for my adventures. In the meantime, I'll keep paddling my own canoe and moving forward to my next adventure.

Meanwhile, tomorrow morning is my last dragon boat race for the season. Can't wait! Paddles up!