The Native American Medicine Wheel, sometimes called the Sacred Hoop, has been used by generations of indigenous First Peoples tribes for health and healing. One meaning reflects the so-called Four Hills of Life.
Each hill characterizes a life stage. The hills one climbs along the way are the challenges we face and the responsibilities we must learn to accept. Spring represents ages 0–25, a time of learning about the world and how we fit into it. Summer is ages 25–50, a time for building a family, a career, a time to figure out exactly who we are. It is a time of great activity and when we are typically in our physical and mental prime.
Fall refers to ages 50–75, a time of turning away from worldly affairs to move inward. Upon reaching this autumnal stage, we start detaching from the pursuit of material gains by spending more time alone in spiritual endeavor. Traditionally, this is a time of moving from more socially-centered situations to spending more quiet time, especially in nature.
Living within walls creates a false sense of immortality. We feel safe, protected, in control but these are illusory. Nature offers solace, knowledge, peace, and ultimately, freedom. The earth constantly reminds our bodies that the only guarantee is returning to the earth; this is where we came from, and this is where we shall return.
My first real job was teaching kindergarten. I had the cutest student named Brittany who always pronounced the word forest like it was two distinct words: for rest. Little Red Riding Hood went into the woods not to see her grandmother, but for rest (it got even cuter when Brittany lost a tooth and it became foe west).
Like so many women my age, I am struggling with the transition from summer to fall. Part of me feels drawn to living a sort of second summer. My child is finally out of the house and I have the time I have so longed for. I have winnowed my tribe to the essential women needed for sustenance and have no guilt declining uninspiring invitations. I am at peace with my body. I should be in my creative prime, churning out writing like never before. I want to see all the places and eat at all the restaurants and attend all the concerts.
But I am just too damn tired. No woman knows exactly what her menopause bingo card will reveal. So far, I’ve luckily skipped the hot flashes and night sweats, but got hair loss, dry skin, and fatigue.
When I say fatigue, I mean bone-crushing heaviness, a soul-deep exhaustion that no amount of sleep can fix. Most days, I feel like I am slogging through mud. Just getting through my day zaps me completely. It isn’t that I lack enthusiasm for life, but rather the energy to participate as fully as I once did.
I know this is temporary and that my normal joie de vivre will return in a few years when I am fully through the biological transition. So for now, I shall go to the for rest. Or at least my favorite chaise on the back porch. I shall watch the leaves green and the clouds scudder, take deep breaths and long naps. I’ll practice being patient and leaning into each life stage as it passes.
