Yoga at Seventy
This morning I was looking up at my feet (Shoulder Stand) and regretting that the colorful leggings I’m wearing are too large, now. Then I dropped my feet down to the floor behind my head (Plow) while I noted that the roll of pudge resting on my lower rib cage is getting smaller.
It’s not like I’ve spent a lifetime being consistent at getting healthy exercise. I’m lazy, I have long standing physical issues from a virus laced transfusion at the age of nineteen that sap my energy and strength as the years go on.
Still, when I turned fifty with two kids and a husband who cheated, I decided to make a few changes and set to it with a rage fired will. I started doing Pilates – as illustrated in a magazine published by AARP for those over fifty, and I started walking to achieve that much celebrated Daily Mile while I cut out most of the starch in my diet. It wasn’t sitting well, anyway, causing reactions…
I developed a habit of exercise, dropped twenty pounds.
The system worked fairly well until the Divorce, and then Depression coupled with an environment that didn’t support working out on the floor changed those habits. I continued walking for a year or so, walked sporadically for the next decade, knowing it was good to do, but, well… Depression. Comes. And it goes – but never quite all the way away.
THEN the cancers started. They came on slow.
I’m fairly certain there is a connection between Depression and cancers. The Depression doesn’t need to be on the surface, mine doesn’t always show, but it’s always there, lurking.
When the discomfort in my gut started in the two places where polyps had been removed during a colonoscopy in 2013, I knew the Family Troll had moved in. My mother’s family had a history…
But it took a few years for that part to happen.
My adult life has been one padded with a bit of adipose. Much of this is dietary – I AM going to turn carbohydrates into fat, even if it’s my main source for protein and calories (legumes are starch based protein) and I was a vegetarian for a long time. At fifty I decided to cut out the bulk of my starch intake and much of my weight fell off. More recently, when my food budget was limited to EBT/Food Stamps I started to gain it again while living on the less-than-$200-a-month allotted to single adults, even those with medically specialized diets (I have a list of food allergies). I was gaining weight on fewer than 1500 calories a day. I felt like crap all the time.
That’s when the first twinges of discomfort started. I chalked it up to the higher starch in my diet.
Roll forward four years to notice that it doesn’t matter what I eat, I’m losing weight.
Sure, that’s a good thing, right? Spent a lifetime being told by medical professionals that I should lose some weight…
I’ve also heard from several sources that growing tumors will use up 15% to 30% of your caloric intake. I’ve learned that cancers feed on the sugars (carbs in general) that you consume and one method of slowing tumor growth is to stop consuming sugars (Keto and All Meat diets). So I cut most of the remaining sugars from the diet. Wasn’t easy. I was a frequent backslider. Still am.
Weight loss continued. It came with a lack of appetite and I wasn’t eating enough to maintain my weight, much less gain any. I got scared, because there were definitely bowel issues (Family Troll, I knew ultimate outcome) and I wasn’t (wasn’t wasn’t) going to go through the drugs and dis-empowerment that happens during western medical care. I was largely afraid of muscle loss, which can happen when weight drops abruptly. I didn’t have the energy to walk far enough to call it exercise, so I started up with the Pilates routine.
By that time I was so weak (felt like a limp noodle) that I could barely do the basic routine I’d been doing on and off for nearly two decades. It was really easy to put it off and once I had anything more than water in my stomach it came back during the floor work. SO – I bribed myself to do it by putting off the coffee (one cup a day because it kept me awake until nap time) until after the floor routine.
This worked as motivation, but I was still pitifully weak.
Things changed slowly. Several additions to my life contributed to this change happening at all.
I got a set of Spooky2 frequency generators. If you are unfamiliar with Rife Frequency Generators, go do some research. Lots of folks out there doing it, but the AMA doesn’t approve because it Just Might Work Better than the poisons and controlled violence (surgery) they use.
I have watched friends go through the AMA conventional therapies. I’ve attended Memorial services for a number of them. I had a friend who did four rounds of chemo and rads in five years and died in hospice begging for more chemo.
I’ve another friend who did her rounds then the Trolls popped up elsewhere and she tells me she’ll be on the new-fangled immunotherapy for the rest of her life. Stents and infusions. Trips to the hospital. Medical bills. She’s my age but she has some goals, so I guess it’s worth it to her.
While this second friend was going through the process of chemo, I started with the Spooky2. I knew it would work if I could master the tech involved. Dr Royal Raymond Rife cured cancer in his first human trials nearly a century ago.
I struggled through the brain fog and a year and some later, I’m still whacking on the Trolls in my body. There were others cancers lurking and cancer often becomes a game of “Whack a Troll” (Witness my friends.) My symptoms are pretty much gone and my weight loss has evened out (I don’t mind weighing what I weighed at sixteen) and I’m still doing Pilates, no longer limp and too tired to finish a single set of reps without resting.
Something happened over the summer. I kept on with the Pilates (mostly) and the frequencies through the winter. In the early spring I started getting through the reps of ten and moving to the next set without resting. At that point I added two more to each set. The first rep wasn’t counted. I said, “Thank you” instead, grateful I could just do the move without resting first. Then I did eleven instead of ten.
Why eleven? Because in many systems the number ten is completion and adding one to that is strength, in the same way Nigel Tuffnel had Marshall amps that went to eleven. One step more. I was focusing on getting stronger, one rep at a time, Thank You Very Much.
The change was in the middle of the summer after I had traveled for a week and been unable to maintain the discipline. On returning to my bed and routine I found that a simple double leg lift put both feet over my head in a classic yoga shoulder stand. It wasn’t intended. I’d done simple Yoga in my twenties and thirties (I suppose there are very few old hippies who can’t claim that), but I was startled at the ease of it, sacred of breaking my neck! It was fully a month before I got comfortable with a Shoulder Stand going into a Plow and then into the essential Pilates “100s”. I incorporated that body knot of a seated twist but stopped trying the Cobra when I tweaked my lower back with the reverse curve. I replaced it with a basic straight arm plank. Couldn’t do THAT at twenty! Some days I can barely do it now, but I do it for the full eleven breaths! Ruth Bader Ginsberg (long may she thrive!) I may not be, but I can plank at seventy and my thirty something son can’t.
I’m still beating on the cancer and strep, but I’m also using frequencies to nudge my own cells into doing what they were designed to do, maybe take on a virus or two. This is where the miracle happens, I think. I ran that set of frequencies in the late spring and into the summer.
I lack the stamina of youth and I have pathogens (as we all do) that have been with me much of my life, but I am now strong enough to lift my feet up over my head and breathe in slowly through my nose and out slowly through my mouth eleven times and more, then slowly – possibly gracefully – drop my extended legs behind my head.
My aging breasts slide with gravity to where they rode when I was nineteen and I see the wrinkles in my leggings (downright baggy), remind myself to budget replacements for the eight year old collection in my drawers. And I breathe slowly. Sometimes it’s comfortable enough I do the eleven twice before unfolding to the shoulder stand for another eleven and then on with the “flapping and puffing” of the Pilates proper.
I have frequency based audios, not typical music, going while I do the routine and while I write. One set addresses Cancers, another addresses my Liver, others stimulate DNA healing, detoxification and moods. I also have a set focused on “Youthing”. Can’t turn back the clock but maybe I can recover some vigor.
I can’t say this is for everyone, but those who try it and stick with the program seem to improve. And you need to stick with it because cancers and long term pathogenic diseases spend years digging in, won’t just move out and take the trash with them because you (the owner of the structure) have told the squatters to move on.
But the time spent might be worth it. Doesn’t cost all that much. Less than insurance.
January 26, 2020
Well. Back in the saddle again!
I’ve spent the past few months getting up to speed and putting words into the computer to the tune of 1001 Words a day. Mostly I write somewhat more, as I tend to chatter and gossip to myself after deciding that it was more a journal or diary than actually writing any of the stories I have stopped working on.
There is The House – a retrospective of 1966 and 1967 in the Haight-Ashbury. That one gets bogged down over my desire or need to have floor plans of the House in question. Twelve apartments, two per floor, six doors at the front, bay windows sprouting out… I lived in this house, once upon a time. I had to move it a few blocks. The original has been so dreadfully modernized that it is difficult to recognize it for the sunny yellow building on the corner of Baker and Fell where I lived back in the days.
And there is Edna’s Name, which calls loudly right now and will demand a lot of research into railroad schedules plus possibly writing the story twice from differing points of view because I can’t tell the whole story effectively from the perspective of a five year old – she didn’t know the adult plans that were going on around her, and lacking that information, the story has no power. Just an old lady remembering a summer of confusion.
But Edna has been muttering at me for three years and I guess it’s time to get back to work on her.
After I deal with the things I’ve been putting off – like setting up this site and advertising the books I’ve already written, which you can find here:
I think I’ll be buying into “Shout My Book” soon, just to see if it brings more traffic.
And now to Publish, make my mark on the internet again.