How Loving Warmth on My Face Taught Me to Joyfully Let Go of the Result.

When the student is ready, the teacher appears. One of my most important and unlikely teachers turned out to be the sun.

Dateline: Paris.

I am walking down rue Cler, a pedestrian street in my neighborhood lined with food purveyors. The weather here has been chillingly damp. I don’t like winter. It’s always too long.

Today, I don’t notice the enticing delicacies or the lush fruits and vegetables that line either side of rue Cler. Today, I look up to feel the sun on my face — not hot but, finally, not absent.

I anticipate this moment every spring: when the weather turns for the first time (even if only for a day). Suddenly, it’s warm enough to stand still in the sun.

I immediately text my partner whom I picture sitting in bed, reading the news on her iPad as sun streams through the sheer white curtains.

We should go someplace and have a beverage and sit in the sun. Really is beautiful.

I’m pleased with the response: Ok

News Flash! Sun bathing is bad for you!

I’ve been a sun-worshipper since childhood. I need only look at photos of my extended family in Miami Beach, circa 1953, to understand where I got it from.

My parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles are so tan in those yellowed snapshots that their bodies blend into the background. All you see is teeth and eyes. First-generation children of Russian emigrants, they are Northerners who can afford to fly south in the winter.

Decades later — July 6, 1986 to be exact — this headline appears on page 11 of the New York Times:

DOCTORS WARN ON GETTING TOO MUCH SUN

The article chronicles an “alarming” rise in skin cancer, caused by multiple factors: a diminished ozone layer; shorter work weeks, thus more time for leisure; earlier retirement, often to the Sun Belt. Also, we now tend to wear lighter, skimpier clothing, even when the sun is at its strongest.

The news comes too late for my family. My mother didn’t die of skin cancer but the disease somehow made its way into her uterus at 40, breast at 50, and, lethally, into her bones at 63.

My father had “little something removed” from his forehead in his mid-70s. Knowing him — a man who defied the odds and was tan all year round — it wasn’t his first. Regardless, skin cancer (he thought) wasn’t life-threating. In any case, he wasn’t worried. He had far worse habits than sitting in the sun.

The Times article also cautions:

A large part of lifetime sun exposure occurs during childhood, and the first 10 years of life may be a critical factor in the development of skin cancer.

When I was growing up, I didn’t wear sunscreen; most kids didn’t. A child who got a sunburn was sent back out to play in a white tee shirt. A few very light-skinned, freckled kids showed up at the pool with gloppy white zinc on their noses. Some wore hats in the sun. But not in my family.

We couldn’t get enough sun. Many winters, my parents pulled me out of elementary school for months at a time. They wanted to winter in Miami, and in those days, parents didn’t need permission, nor did their kids have a say in the matter. My mother simply went to school with me to inform my teachers of the plan. They gave her the text books I’d need and a list of assignments.

Imagine a parent doing that today — or this:

My older brother often came down to Miami from his military school in Gainesville to spend school breaks with us. No one — not my parents nor the charter company — objected to a 15-year-old renting a speed boat to zip around the Intercoastal for several hours with his 6-year-old sister. Life-jacket optional. (We were both excellent swimmers, but still…)

Of course, I didn’t wear sun screen that day either. By dinnertime, I was beet red and burning up. It was horrible, but it didn’t diminish my love of the sun.

The life of a frequent tanner.

I like to sunbathe the way others like to shop.

Every spring during college, I lay on the front lawn of my dorm and, later, the sorority house, amidst patches of melting snow. This was in Syracuse, New York, mind you — where the snow starts in October and ends in May.

At the first hint of spring, my similarly sun-addicted friends and I would slather ourselves in a tincture of baby oil and iodine. Worse, we held giant, aluminum “reflectors” up to our faces to intensify the sun’s power.

Wherever I lived after college, I found a place to sit in the sun — a roof, a balcony, a public park, my driveway. At the first sign of that day, when you can sit still in the sun, I started “working” on my tan.

I’d make an afternoon of it, toting food, a towel, sometimes a beach chair, always reading material and, of course, Bain de Soleil “Orange Gelée.” The champagne of sun lotions, it promised a “St. Tropez tan” — and delivered.

The 1986 Times article was the first warning shot over the bow. Still, it took me a longer time time to change my sun-worshipping ways than I’d like to admit.

My denial was fed by friends who also worshipped those damaging rays. We compared browned forearms and feet. Who will win the coveted Best Tan award this vacation? this summer?

Admittedly, some loved ones tried to break through my denial: Jen, entering the health field after college, watched and worried. “Mom, you really need to be more careful.” (She was — and no surprise that her skin looks better at 53, than mine at the same age.)

My partner of 29 years, looking at my speckled brown chest, summer after summer and winters in Florida, kept saying, “I want a girlfriend not a shoe.”

At first, their well-intentioned advice rolled off me like drops of water on a well-oiled skillet. Of course, I knew that “You’re soooooo tan” was no longer a compliment. But I said “thank you,” just the same.

I look better tan, I rationalized.

Now when I look at certain photos of myself from those days, I see someone who is too tan.

Luckily, science and good sense seized the day.

My old ladies tell me its better to be lucky than smart. I was. I have olive-toned skin, so other than that time with my brother, I haven’t had a serious sunburn. I have had days when, too eager to tan, I rushed the process and “overdid” it.

For years, I continued to push my luck. Then I finally got smart.

I didn’t do it because of the dots or dark blotches. I was worried about my health. If excessive sun-bathing didn’t cause my mother’s three types of cancers, it probably didn’t do her any good. And I have at least some of her genes.

Also, this face is the only one I have. I decided in my fifties that plastic surgery is off the table. I’m as looks-conscious as the next, but I’m not going under the knife.

Besides, if I sign up for a face lift to erase the ravages of tanning, the surgeon will tell say words I still don’t want to hear: “Stay out of the sun.”

I can’t. But I have become increasingly careful. I went from SPF 4 to 8 and finally started applying #15 a few summers ago — the minimum recommended by the CDC.

Sometimes, I cheated. I’d dig out that mangled tube of Bain de Soleil that I couldn’t bear to throw out (it was discontinued in 2019). Being “cautious,” I’d apply a thin coat over #15. I didn’t burn, but my cheeks turned red before they browned.

Not good, said a faint voice in my head that was becoming harder to silence.

Finally last summer, I switched to SPF 30 and promised myself I wouldn’t cheat. I applied lotion more often, avoided mid-day sun, and spent less time per sitting.

To my surprise, I wasn’t miserable.

Without realizing it, I let go of the result…

When an addict gives up a habit, she’s keenly aware of what she’s not having or doing. To ease my withdrawal, I thought about Zelda, my old lady who taught me to “look for the good.”

I was in warm weather. I could swim. I could still sit in the sun. You’re not “deprived,” just doing things differently, I told myself. Keep up the good work. You want to be healthy.

“Let go of the result.” I’ve heard that advice from psychologists, artists, spiritual leaders, and problem solvers. I’ve prescribed it myself.

Turns out that the result of my more-careful sunbathing regimen was not what I expected. I got tan. I didn’t get as tan, just lightly tanned. To my surprise, I liked it better.

Better because…

I had actually done something good for myself — made the healthier, more responsible choice.

Better because…

My skin wasn’t leathery, like I’d “baked” it in the sun.

Better because…

I looked healthy. My skin was just slightly darker — in a quiet, life-sustaining way.

Better because…

I realized that what I love most about sun-bathing is the feeling of warmth on my face, not a deep tan. A short sit did as much for my spirits as several hours in the sun.

This ephiphany is not just about sun-bathing.

I sat in the sun all those years to achieve a “look” imprinted in childhood — a deeply tanned face and body — and I carried it unquestioningly into my adul years.

Obviously, I clung to that image of what I wanted. I had no idea that another look — another result — would be just as pleasing, if not more so!

I started realizing this last summer. I had to get used to the new face that started back at me.

It came to me in a whole new way as I walked down rue Cler, feeling sun on my face for the first time in too long. I just wanted to feel the warmth. I no longer craved a deep tan.

Hence, these reminders to myself, whether I’m striving for a goal, investigating a problem, or battling old beliefs:

• Let go of the result because it might — or might not — be the outcome you’re hoping for.
• Let go because the actual result might be better than what you hoped for.
• Let go of the result because you have no choice. You cannot possibly know the result ahead of time.

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