My skin’s had a rough winter.

And it’s only February.

I was diagnosed with rosacea about a month ago. My face often feels like it’s burning. The inflammation and itch spreads from my ears, to my chin, just above my eyebrows, and all across my cheeks.

I’m a vision.

I’m also not convinced I have rosacea. Symptoms aren’t always consistent, no matter my diet, and it’s winter in New England so that means drying heat, drying cold, drying wind … drying skin.

I was prescribed a cream by my doctor and admittedly, it helps soothe the inflammation and burning. For a bit, anyway. But it also dries my face something fierce and results in flaky rough patches everywhere.

I thought maybe it was time to return the doctor’s cream to the medicine cabinet and turn to my pantry for a little relief.

I remember my toddler son’s struggles with eczema and the soothing nature of oatmeal, so I started there. After a little more research, I learned yogurt has soothing properties of its own. Yogurt moisturizes, helps reduce discoloration, and calms feisty skin. And don’t forget the honey – also a natural moisturizer.

I mixed about a third cup of oatmeal with some very hot water and let it set a bit. I added enough water so I achieved a slushy mixture with a little more water than oats. Instantly, the hot liquid took on the milky oatmeal tone, and the oats softened. Finally, I mixed in equal amounts of honey and plain Greek yogurt – about a tablespoon of each.

Let the smearing begin.

I mostly used the liquid and left behind the oats.  Immediately my red skin returned to it’s normal New England winter whiter shade of pale.*  There was a bit of stinging sensation at first, but what followed was pure bliss: No itch. Therefore, no scratch.

With my facial skin improved, I’ll be straining the remaining liquid into a soothing bath for the rest of me.

It is winter in New England which means a good, long soak is necessary for survival.

*Thanks to Procol Harum for the perfect description of my New England winter skin.

As I write this morning, small pellets of ice or sleet or some kind of freezing rain tap at our windows. It’s an hour or so before sunrise, but when I peek out by porch light, I can see a couple inches more than a dusting of snow. And the wind blows.

It’s January, and I’m almost always cold.

Funny thing is, the best way I’ve come across to feel cozier in this long month of dark and cold – is to get outside.

Truly.

It’s hard, I know.

It’s exhausting just getting dressed. All those layers. Bundling up. Hat head. Clunky boots.

Brushing off the car. Hauling in the groceries. Pumping gas. Feeling something close to what must be dread at the anticipation of walking from warm house to cold car.

Doing anything regular feels harder, and there’s always a quick intake of breath with the first step outdoors and then the reactive thought … man, it’s some kind of nasty cold out here!

But the first step is important … because it leads to the next and the next and I’m outdoors and breathing in the cold air and it feels a little bit like I just woke up from some sort of full body slumber.

After a bit of a walk, I feel energized. Awake. And very grateful for the cozy warmth I walk back into when I’m done.

Grab a friend and go for a quick 15 minute walk.

It’s like peppermint for the soul.

 

My Fitbit is old and cracked. When I do remember to wear it, I use it to count my steps and sometimes, my heart rate.

It occurred to me this morning I’d be more interested in the pace of my steps than the number of them.

Every Saturday, my pace slows. I’m more intentional. Even choosy. I have the wide open air of fewer obligations in which to make my decisions and walk my walk.

But flip the calendar page a single day and my pace quickens and probably my heart rate does too. No amount of list making or organization in the world gives me more than 24 hours in a day and 7 days in a week.

Believe me, I’ve tried. I’ve written lists in notebooks and planners. I’ve cleared clutter and created systems. All of these attempts are positive or important somehow to my sanity – and perhaps I’d be far worse off without them.

Still, life often feels like I want or need to be in two places at once and every single thing on the list is mutually crucial. Making one choice precludes another. If A, then B. All of the above sometimes feels like the only answer.

The pace quickens.

Stress provides a running commentary: Do it now. Don’t forget. Be sure to. And on and on and on.

I’m learning, however, that stress is a liar.

Stress tells me, “Do it all, and do it now,” but reality is different than stress-speak. The list needs doing in its time, yes, but the time isn’t all for one, one for all.

So how do I slow down in a hurry up world?

Well, today, I’ve been chopping garlic – a task which needs doing in order to get dinner on the table, but also a task with a needfully slow pace. Chop. Peel. Slice. Dice. There’s rhythm in the knife on wood. A pungent aroma. I’m zesting and squeezing an orange. More delightful smells. And then I add a satisfying grind or two of kosher salt.

Dinner’s on it’s way after a sensory symphony.

Slow and gentle living. Appreciative, even.

My tasks are either as pleasant or unpleasant as I care to make them. I can walk slowly and calmly or at a frantic, demanding, do-it-now pace. I can be more positive.

So what’s next in your day?

I’m off to fold clothing, warm from the dryer.

And won’t that be grand?

My husband tells me I am the most stubborn person he knows.

In a good way. (Most of the time.)

He’s wrong though, because the most stubborn person around was my grandmother.

In good ways, mostly, but like everyone else, Nana had sticking points which went unappreciated by those around her from time to time.

What I loved most about her stubborn streak was her steadfast and unwavering position on aging. She simply wasn’t. Wouldn’t. And many ways, even into her nineties, didn’t.

I’m a little embarrassed, frankly, with the trepidation I sometimes experience about growing older. After a few health scares in 2016, and a political season of unrest, I’m aware to the point of anxiety.

I feel afraid.

I’m fearful of the future. Our future.

Is this living?

Nana grew up in the Depression. She raised her children and then pursued a Master’s Degree in her forties. She taught Jr. High School until retiring, and discovered an acting career in local theater in her seventies and eighties. At ninety, she was still living alone and driving.

Nana certainly had her share of hardship and heartache. She witnessed decades of political shift from right to left and back again. She knew what it was to bide her time and wait for the pendulum to reach its pinnacle and return its swing in the opposite direction.

There were times, maybe, when she should’ve held her tongue. Other times, I know she couldn’t, shouldn’t, didn’t.

She was brash and witty. Direct and sarcastic. Intelligent. Confident. And sometimes coy.

She was unafraid to speak and never waited until spoken to.

As I contemplate the week ahead, as I fear the four years ahead, and as I worry about my own aging ahead … my grandmother’s legacy stays nearby. Inspiring me. Reassuring me. Guiding me to speak, to act, to live.

It’s time to contemplate my own legacy.

I will attend our state’s local Women’s March next Saturday in my grandmother’s honor.