Belly dancing might look like graceful dancing, but when I held a class at my house for ten women, ranging in age from 54 to 64, this age-old dance lightened our moods and deepened our connections as we tried to get our aging bodies to move in unfamiliar ways.

Our teacher for the night, who sold the class to me as a fundraiser for an arts organization, was herself just shy of 60 and has been belly dancing for over 20 years.

I looked around the room at my community of friends, each straining to make circular motions with their less-than-flexible hips while trying to keep their heads perfectly still, and tried (unsuccessfully) to stifle a giggle. Many of the women in the class were friends I have known for years, and watching them jiggling their tushes seemed like some wonderful caricature of primal scream therapy. They were letting it all hang out and feeling better for it.

While working on my own gyrations, I recalled a conference I attended about arts-based therapy programs. Apparently the combination of music, movement, new learning and community can help diminish the risk of dementia and ease symptoms of Parkinson's disease. I didn't need a double-blind study to convince me. My father, who has suffered from dementia for many years, can still sing Hava Nagila and dance a lively hora in his wheelchair. Music and movement keep him engaged.

Many of the women at my belly dancing class, all dutifully pushing their boobs out as our teacher instructed, were friends I had known for years. I knew their secrets. I smiled as Lisa waived her scarf in undulating circles and tried to sway her hips in a sultry rotation. For the past year, Lisa has been battling breast cancer while simultaneously managing the care of her disabled spouse. Despite the significant stress in her life, Lisa has an energy and joie de vivre that is infectious. I have known Carol, a former dancer, since our kids were babies. Just last year, Carol's son was diagnosed with a chronic illness.

To read the rest of this post by Jody Gastfriend, LICSW, check out her blog at http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jody-gastfriend/belly-dancing_b_1625765.html

With autumn's impending arrival, I have found the autumn leaves of my memory undoubtedly swirling in anxious little circles. What I mostly recall -- frantically preparing for back to school with three kids -- is the schpilkes (Yiddish for nervous energy). What are the kids' schedules? What supplies do they need? Does anybody have any clothes that still fit? What do you mean you won't be caught dead in those jeans? I just bought those! All the while fearing that one small thing -- a clogged toilet, a flat tire, a stomach bug -- could throw a monkey wrench into the carefully orchestrated schedule of carpools, after school activities and homework (not to mention a full time job).

Let's be clear: I made plenty of less-than-perfect decisions during the years when my children were in grade school, middle school and high school. I often said "no" to writing one more check or driving to one more activity. I'm sure my kids entertained thoughts -- not often, but from time to time -- that I was out to ruin their lives. But they survived. As did I. In all those autumns past, I did not groom them to become the people they are, nor could I have. And the occasional wrong color notebook or forgotten permission slip didn't change a thing.

Now that my kids are "adults" I am struck at how different Fall feels. Fall comes to my home state in a burst of golden light, with leaves fluttering like crimson and russet confetti in the barely-cool breeze. People from around the U.S. schedule autumn vacations just to admire our woodland hills and fertile fields, crowding into roadside inns and festival grounds in the weeks before the stark stillness of winter descends. And I, in turn, am more contemplative, less reactive, happy to see my kids thriving and wistful that it all went by so fast.

As my youngest returned to college this week, she took with her garbage bags full of clothes along with instruments, hair supplies, books, and other stuff -- all of which sat in my foyer as a monument to her physical and emotional presence. Now the house is neater, less cluttered and far quieter. I don't have to fret about the inevitable migraine I would get while trolling the aisles at Staples looking for a graphing calculator. Nor am I stressing over the daunting complexity of car pooling three kids to different schools and activities.

Instead, I feel more peaceful, happy to see my children thriving but wistful that they have truly flown the coop and are not my little chickadees any more. As a mother, I have more perspective having long ago relinquished the goal of trying to do everything right. In the process I learned to let things go and cherish what I have.

Now, watching the young mothers flailing about in the school supplies aisle at Target, I just want to pull them aside.

To read more of this post from Jody Gastfriend, LICSW, read her blog at http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jody-gastfriend/back-to-school-advice_b_1840953.html