The Preppy Yogini

And all shall be well...

2012-02-09T16:43:00.001-05:00

For a number of years, I've written a blog called The Preppy Yogini. Bits and pieces of this blog have made their way into various yoga and book circles. I feel incredibly fortunate to have had The Preppy Yogini be so well received. It's been a lifeline for me in many ways. I've met some incredible people through The Preppy Yogini and it has opened doors for me in ways I never could have imagined.

And yet, as I wrote in a piece called The Bohemian Sloth, I've felt myself stepping away from my Preppy Yogini persona. I've spent the past 15 months battling cancer, and its physical aftermath, for the second time. No longer am I a yoga instructor. No longer am I particularly preppy. It's been a time of great changes in my life...in what I can do, in what I want to do and to what I will aspire. Blessed Julian of Norwich was an anchoress in the 14th century. She was quite literally walled into Norwich Cathedral. She had two windows: one opened into the cathedral, so that she could be a part of the worship in the church. The other window was outside. It allowed her to receive food (and I'm assuming, to get rid any waste). More importantly, it allowed her to speak with people, to pray for them and to be a part of their lives. She was a mystic and a little "out there" in her theology. And yet, she was also ahead of her in many other ways. She felt God's presence as a Loving, Kind Mother. Imagine that concept in the medieval world!

While the idea of being walled up anywhere is terrifying from a claustrophobia standpoint, I have to admit that I felt some affinity for Blessed Julian for the past year. While I've done some traveling and I have gotten out of the house, I have also been home more than ever have. I've always been a doer, a mover, a goer and a 'be right in the thick of things' kind of woman. I've worked, I've volunteered, I've gone out to lunch with friends and noodled around art museums. I have spent more time in quiet contemplation, over the past year, than ever before. It's a heady thing. I've had to learn how to simply be in peace without anyone else to entertain me. I've learned so much in the past year...most of it having to do with meditation, harmonious quiet and silent images. I'm done a great deal of praying. I've read a tremendous amount, even for a bibliophile like me. I've come to appreciate the beauty in stillness in a way I never had before. I've always been an admirer of Blessed Julian, but I've come to understand her better...even in the smallest way...to know what it's like to simply be alone.

My new blog, And All Shall Be Well, will not be a collection of my own life experiences and lessons from, as I had in The Preppy Yogini. It's my goal to write short essays that may be used in meditation, for inspirational reading, for prayer and for uplifting imagery. This won't be a running diary. Rather, it will simply be a tool for others to use in their quests. I like to describe myself an Episcopalian with dashes of Jewish roots and twists of Zen. I feel honored and blessed by Native American, Celtic and Norse traditions. And All Shall Be Well is most definitely written with God in mind and in heart. But, I'm hopeful that, whatever one's faith tradition, there will be illuminating pieces that will speak to many. I plan on drawing from many sources for my own inspiration.

St. Paul wrote in Philippians, "Finally, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honorable, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things." It's my hope that the pictures I'll paint with my words will uplift and will be worthy to 'think on'.

(Note: I will not take down The Preppy Yogini, but will simply not be updating it further. I've accomplished what I had hoped to. I hope you join me as I work on And All Shall Be Well. Namaste, Peace and Thank you.)

Cottages

2012-02-04T14:24:00.002-05:00

"Better joy in a cottage than sorrow in a palace..." ~ Proverbs

Every child remembers a favorite Christmas. For most, it's the year they received a bike under the tree. For others? A set of slot cars, a pair of ice skates or a trunk of dress up clothes. Yet others? It was that much dreamed of doll, GI Joe or set of puppets. I enjoyed most of those, without question. And yet, my favorite Christmas was the year I received a Holly Hobbie Play House. This wasn't a dollhouse...one to pretend to move my tiny doll family about. This was a small cottage sized playhouse completely made out of cardboard. It was adorable. It had trompe l'oeil design of an adorable cottage. Little did I know that my parents had, quite literally, stayed up all night putting it together. (And later on that day, they realized that they had disassemble the darn thing and put it back together in my room!)

Until we moved, I spent every waking moment in that playhouse. I brought pillows and blankets and enticed our dogs to come hang out with me. I read. I played house. I played school. It was my sanctuary within my sanctuary. I felt happy, safe, free to be creative and utterly joyful there. I never worried about needing to clean it (it was too small to really get untidy). I never thought I might lose anything or that things would just vanish. It was manageable. Additionally, it was just how I wanted it. No one helped me...I simply brought in there bits and pieces from around the house....a favorite silver frame, my books, the soft leopard blanket my mother had sewn, my father's lap desk (which served as the perfect actual desk) and a little antique trunk to hold my "treasures". It was the most essentially 'me' space I've ever had.

It's no wonder that I've loved cottages ever since then. As an adult, I've been incredibly fortunate to have had a lovely roof over my head at all times. From my husband's and my first apartment to our current house, we've never been without the safety of shelter. Additionally, I've had some wonderful help from my mother with furniture and from my mother in law with painting each room. And yet, compromises are always made. Whether it's making do with furniture because it's serviceable, or finding the happy medium between what I find beautiful, and my husband finds too feminine, that majority of the spaces in my house are a testament to adaptation. Please don't misunderstand. I love my home, my husband, my children and our animals. But, every decision to change, or not to change, a space requires modification on my part. I am grateful, beyond measure, for the loving family I'm blessed with. However, I continue to daydream about cottages. Small, charming, folksy, shabby chic, historic, quaint, girlie and scrumptious...I've wanted "a room of one's own", thanks to Virginia Woolf, most of my adult life. Mine just happens not to be a room. My "room" is a tiny house of my own.

When I first came across this cottage in The Grower's Daughter, I fell in love. A former hunting cabin, the cottage was renovated by a Wheaton College graduate, when her husband and she chose to downsize dramatically and moved into a wooded property with very little in the way of luxury. The cottage became a labor of love, a refuge and a sanctuary for the builder. As Wheatie myself, I related to the the builder's aesthetic sensibility, her taste and her desire. I love the way in which every nook and cranny is used. I am passionate about the white, Victorian-meets-Shabby Chic style. I love the roses. I love the chandelier. I love the sleeping loft. I love the pink. I love the lace. I love the doorknobs. I love the china. I love the little porch. I love how utterly immaculate everything is. There isn't dog hair all over the white draped furniture. There aren't hockey bags opened up on the porch. There isn't a gaggle of (however beloved) teenagers draped over every surface. There are no half finished glasses of juice everywhere. It's peaceful. It's dreamy. It's private.

I'd love to have this cottage in my own backyard. I can imagine climbing into the bed (using a ladder I'd put on wheeled tracks), with a cup of perfect tea and a stack of my favorite books. I'd leave my cell phone back in my house. Although I would install indoor plumbing (unlike this dream cottage, that's a non-negotiable for me), I would keep this cottage just the way that it is otherwise. I'd eat things like cucumber sandwiches and sliced mango. I'd wear Victorian inspired dresses and sunhats. I'd wrap myself up in fur blankets when it would get chilly. I could write uninterrupted. I could sleep without being disturbed. I could hear myself think. It would be my own space. Just for me. No sweaty athletic apparel on the floor. No Ramen noodles left to congeal. No unending sports games on television at the loudest possible volume. No television at all, actually. It would be peaceful. Calm. Relaxing. Serene.

I realize this is a pipe dream. Even if such a magical abode just appeared, as if conjured, I know that it wouldn't remain perfect for long. My two dogs are immense and release enough fur every day to create a smaller animal. They'd be scratching to be let in within seconds. I know my husband, ever the space-needer, would be eyeing my cottage as a possible home for his lawnmower, plow and boat equipment. I'm sure my kids would lobby to make my cottage into the teenager hangout.While I'd be at the store, I'm sure I'd arrive home to find my charming decorations out, and the ping-pong table and TV in. Along with the iHome blasting music. My fantasy sanctuary would become doghouse, storage barn and media center the moment my back was turned. Maybe that's why it's best left a fantasy....I can keep it beautiful and perfect in my imagination in a way I'd never manage in real life.

And yet...there's a perfect place under the pine trees that would be just dreamy. Do you think I can keep it a secret?

Q & A with GRATITUDE

2012-01-29T16:36:00.002-05:00

"Sometimes the questions are complicated and the answers are simple." ~ Dr. Seuss

I feel truly, exceptionally and powerfully blessed. So many people have dropped me notes to wish me well and to encourage me over the past year. I have no idea what my life would be like, had my life's course not veered into unknown territory. However, one thing that I do know: I'm eternally grateful for those special folks who have reached out to me. I'm encouraged by your stories, by your thoughtfulness, by your willingness to get to know me and by the new friends I've made. In addition, you have all asked me some good questions. Rather than repeat myself, I've decided to do a Q & A segment on Preppy Yogini. I've done this on other blogs, but not here. So, I hope that I'm managing to answer most of your questions. If not? I plan on doing another one in time. Thank you again for all of your kindness and understanding.

How did you come up with the name "Preppy Yogini"? I did blog piece on this very story about six months ago, called The Bohemian Sloth. When I was doing my yoga teacher training, I was blessed with many fantastic instructors. Unfortunately, one was just hideous. He was a cross between Attila the Hun and the worst Kindergarten teacher ever. He made fun of people. He pushed students to the point of injury and he was simply a rotten person, let alone a terrible instructor. When I questioned his methodology, he spat out, "You're nothing but a preppy yogini". He meant it as the most derogatory slur imaginable. I wear it like a badge of honor now.
You talk about Maine a lot. Are you from Maine? Yes...and no. To a true, iconoclastic Mainer, I am not. I wasn't born here. Therefore, I'm from "away". But, I have spent many years here, first as a summer person growing up, and then with my husband and our children. I grew up in California and New York, and went to school in Rhode Island and Massachusetts, before moving to Europe for four years. I enjoy living in Maine, but I also love traveling to other places. I get itchy feet if I'm in one place too long.
What made you become a yoga instructor? How did you become one? I had been practicing yoga for years before my first cancer diagnosis in 2003. I had three surgeries in just 7 weeks. It was tough! But, yoga was instrumental in helping me recover. When I was well enough, I resigned from my job in traditional education and studied at Kripalu and Gentle Spirit Yoga for my 200 hour R.Y.T. certification. I felt tremendously encouraged by own instructors and this inspired me to pursue my own path in teaching.
What's your favorite yoga style of practice? What do you recommend? That's like asking a mother who her favorite child is! I have honestly enjoyed every form of yoga I've practiced. I believe that every class, regardless of yogic 'arm', has the potential to be fabulous for all levels. It really comes down to the teacher and her willingness to give of herself to her students. For beginners, I generally recommend classes that are Hatha based, or that offer Yoga Foundations. It's a great starting point.
You have mentioned being sick. What was wrong? How are you doing? I'm doing much better! A year ago, I was slowly starting to walk around and drive again. Unfortunately, my Sarcoma based cancer returned. This time, my surgery and procedures were even more invasive...and I'm also 8 years older, making my recovery that much more difficult. The form of cancer I have is not treatable by radiation or chemotherapy. Surgery is my only option. I had some pretty intense setbacks, but I'm on the road to recovery again. It's just a very slow road. Think Los Angeles traffic at rush hour slow.
Why have you stopped doing book reviews? I am still reading up a storm and look forward to writing reviews again on this blog. When I created Ellen's Thirty Day Book Challenge last Spring, I actually ended up reviewing more than 30 books, since I had an impossible time narrowing my list down. I burned out on writing book reviews for a while, as a result.
I like your writing. Have you been published? Years ago, I was published in Parenting, Mothering, The Doula and several other magazines aimed at that life path. I haven't been published since then. I hope to be again. I'm working on several different pieces...but all seem to be longer than magazine articles. I look forward to continuing my writing. While it would be an honor to be published, I truly write for myself and my own spirit. Anything beyond that would be fresh butter cream icing on a very dense carrot cake.
What other hobbies do you enjoy? Beyond writing, reading and yoga, I love design. I think I'm actually a frustrated art director in a yogini's skin! I also love animals...I have two dogs now, but have had horses, cats and one very special bunny during my life. I love good wine, scintillating conversation, travel and long walks on the beach at sunset. Seriously though...I really do love long walks on the beach at sunset.
Are you still teaching yoga? Can I join your class? Unfortunately, my last surgery, the complications that ensued, made teaching yoga impossible for me. I am adjusting to a new definition of normal. If you're going to be in coastal Maine or the greater Scottsdale, Arizona areas, I'd be happy to recommend some amazing teachers. I am taking 3-4 classes a week again, and am enjoying the simplicity of being a student at this time.
What's next for you? I wish I knew. I really wish I knew! I have no idea. I do know that it's time to figure out who I'm going to be as a grown up. It would be nice if the universe sent out smoke signals to give me a hint. While I'm looking for said clues in the heavens, I'm doing a lot of volunteer work in my community. And drinking far too much tea.

Thank you again. Best wishes. Enjoy. Namaste!

La Belle Époque

2012-01-26T12:42:00.001-05:00

The past is always judged by the present. ~ Neith Boyce

When I was a young girl, I was completely enamored of the past. I wanted nothing more than to move back to a simple time of simple pleasures. This interest was mainly kindled into a fire when I read the "Little House" books by Laura Ingalls Wilder in second grade. Using couch pillows and a sheet, I created a covered wagon and tried to enlist our German Shepherd and Border Collie into being my pretend team of horses to pull it. I daydreamed about log cabins, spinning wheels and calico dresses. As I continued to read, I fell in love with Colonial Virginia, when reading a biography of Martha Washington, Ancient Egypt from"The Cat in the Mirror" by Mary Stoltz and Victorian England following my lust for Jane Austen novels. I daydreamed about Ancient Greece and Rome, through books of mythology. I imagined life in Scandinavia as I mentally sailed along with Viking raiders around the North sea. I went on a spirit journey, reading about southwestern Native American rites of passage...envisioning my life amongst the Anasazi. The current age of my childhood seemed ugly, bitter, filled with anger and too fast a pace. I longed for a more quiet life, an uncomplicated life. I imagined restraint, gentility and honor in all the times past.

My new favorite film is "Midnight in Paris", which was written and directed by Woody Allen. "Annie Hall" this is not. It's one man's daydreaming past into 1920's Paris...the time of Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, F. Scott Fitzgerald and Pablo Picasso. It was the era of the great Left Bank artists, poets, writers, musicians, designers...the time of post World War I ex-patriot "Lost Generation" great thinkers and creators. The film is brilliantly created. Each night, at precisely the same spot on a side side in Paris, at Midnight, Owen Wilson's character is picked up in a vintage car and driven into the past, where he meets all of his idols. He experiences the era with which he identifies so closely. He is desperate to be a part of this time in history, when, in his mind, life was ever so much sweeter and so much more imaginative. "Gil", Wilson's protagonist, falls in love with the beautiful Adriana...a muse to the 1920's artists. As they stroll through the Paris streets each night, Gil finds the evenings to be both sublime and transcendent. He's actually living in his dream time and can't fathom anyone else not being outrageously happy. The pace of life, for Gil, is slower, more meaningful and far more beautiful. Adriana, on the other hand, ruminates on her own 'castle in the sky' period of history, La Belle Époque, the late 19th century until World War I. It's no wonder..."The Great War" devastated the globe. As Gil and Adriana travel back in time to the 1880's, they come upon the famous artists of the day who dream about the Renaissance. Gil and Adriana have to decide; should each one remain in his, or her, own daydream, or return to their own present times?

The lesson of the film is quite simple: it's one thing to fantasize about the romance of the past. It is wonderful to appreciate those superlative individuals who help define an era, and help to create something completely new and original. It's quite another to run away from one's problems, one's dissatisfaction and one's melancholy by vanishing into a previous time...even if that disappearing is completely metaphorical. Each generation looks to the previous ones for inspiration and with longing. Every period in history has magically beautiful aspects to it. Yet, we forget, in our reveries, that each period in history has its own share of complications and horrors. No time has ever been perfect. Yet no time has ever been without hope. We exist, as human beings, somewhere between each of these states in our hearts and minds whenever we find ourselves living.

I continue to imagine life in past decades, in other places and spending my time in deep contrast to my present. I love to read, I adore movies and I treasure works of art and pieces of music...often from times and places different than Maine in 2012. However, the lessons I learn here and now are the ones that will create my happiness. I can take advice and admonishment from the past. But, I need to bring those into my everyday life. I find that I want to assimilate those past areas of simplicity, beauty, creativity and joie de vivre into my today, while still having a deep appreciation for the exceptional time I have the privilege of experiencing. As romantic as Elizabethan England might seem, it's awfully nice to have running water, excellent medical care and relative safety.

Daydreams are fun. They're a diversion from the mundane. They're a way to escape, even for a few minutes, from the stresses we are plagued with. The present, no matter how complicated and rushed, has the potential to be infinitely more wonderful than any daydream. Why? Because it's happening this very second. We can breathe the air, taste the food and hear the music. We can feel the snowflakes on our cheeks and smell tang of the ocean. As delightful as the past might seem, right now is what we're blessed with...and right now is pretty extraordinary.

Idea boards....

2012-01-20T10:15:00.003-05:00

The way to get good ideas is to get lots of ideas, and throw the bad ones away. ~Linus Pauling

When I was growing up, my mother maintained a studio in every house in which we lived. If something struck her as inspiring, she'd pin it up onto one of her idea boards. Her idea boards overflowed, and she also maintained files to hold bits of thoughts. Some of these were fabulous quotes that she found intriguing. Others were cartoons from the New Yorker, or even whole articles. Most often, however, these were bits of fabric, photos or sketches to do with design. Mom was the art director for her family's paper goods company, and it was her job to coordinate between what was happening out in the world with her artists, and balancing that with her own sense of the creative process. As she moved into the hotel business with my father, she wore two hats; one was her continued vision for the paper goods company, but she was then also responsible for designing the spaces at my parents' Santa Barbara resort, both inside and out. My grandmother was the same way. She had ideas in design neatly organized in her sewing room...which doubled as her drawing room, sculpting room, painting room and craft space. Grandma was the most talented dressmaker and landscape artist I've ever known. And yet, she did these as hobbies for fun. I used to look at the idea boards of both my mother and grandmother and wonder how many of these bits of illumination would come to fruition. I loved how they looked...mismatched, yet compelling. They were a deluge of creativity, an avalanche of suggestions.I wanted to frame the boards themselves to keep in my room.

Even though these boards were created to inspire art, they themselves, in my humble opinion were the art. The random gathering of home fashion pulled from magazines, postcards from extraordinary places, fabric swatches, old photographs, handwritten notes from friends and any number of surprising bits of vision. Some of these pinned pieces were to decipher; the gorgeous bedroom, done up in green and ivory, was obviously translated to mean a room to reinterpret...at least in feeling or individual pieces. The scrap with just a few words, the piece of frayed, worn out gingham or the restaurant menu were a bit harder to understand. I did know, however, that the creative process ran deeply, and that the tired piece of gingham might not be 'about' the tired piece of gingham. Rather, it could be a reminder of an event, whose memory would trigger a design different that the ratty fabric. Significance, I learned, in idea boards, often had less to do with what was up on the board exactly, than it did for what each piece signified. So, in many ways, the pin boards belonging to the most important women in my life were actually a view into the way their minds worked creatively. The items they pinned were archetypal.

I wish I possessed the gene for creativity and style that my Mama and Grandma have. Grandma could see any couture dress in a store, look at it for a moment, and then go home and make it. Only better. Mama could gather up the most disjointed, unlikely group of furniture and textiles and create exceptional, eclectic and harmonious spaces. Me? I have no sense in either of these abilities. Both women could look at a blank canvas, and could pull forth a painting that seemed to have always existed from within. I can't even draw a stick figure. I have the utmost admiration for this potentiality. I lack depth perception, so I always pick out furniture of the utterly wrong proportion for any room. I can barely hem pants, let alone sew a dress. I can walk into a room I think is dreadful, but have no idea how to change it. Conversely, I can experience a breathtaking space, that just drips style and comfort, and yet be utterly flummoxed as to how to recreate it.

Therefore, when my friends told me about a fun website, called Pinterest, I was certain I'd be unable to do use it. After all, I'm neither creative nor inspired. I don't wake up dreaming about green velvet sofas or styling an outfit around black flats. I wake up hoping for coffee and sunny skies under which to walk my dogs. Who knew that I'd become a "Pinaddict" within 24 hours of my first pin? My friend, Debbie, was teasing that she's turned so many people onto the site that she might as well call herself a Pin-pusher, "Hey little girl....wanna pin?".

Joking aside, it really is a fun site. You can create virtual pin boards online, maintained by the site...no glue, no cutting, no scrunched up napkins and no running out of thumb tacks. You can find ideas for everything from fashion to Fettuccine recipes and from puppies to painting. The boards begin with a few standard ones...'For the home', 'Food', 'Books worth reason'. The possibilities to create your own, however, are endless. You can borrow ("repin") ideas from other people. This isn't considered stealing, but is the basis of Pinterest! It's the sharing of those things that inspire us and is meant to be a public endeavor. You can also upload photos of whatever takes your fancy...using the handy "Pin It" tool...and thereby, share them with the Pinterest community. I've created a dozen boards so far...and none of them are even close to compete. It's an ongoing process for everyone...we keep virtually "pinning" as long as we choose to.

Pinning is great fun. Pinning does make the "pinner" feel much more creative. Pinning creates a new community. But, pinning is addictive. Don't say I didn't warn you!

But, please excuse me. I have an idea about an all black and white board. I must pin...

Broken

2012-01-09T12:04:00.004-05:00

Broken: Adjective: reduced to fragments; fragmented, ruptured; torn; fractured,not functioning properly; out of working order.

When my son, Josh, was a toddler, Cheerios's came out with a new twist on their oat cereal. Instead of just having the famous and signature "O", they also came out with "X's". It was cute. It was clever. It tasted the same and had all the same healthy reasons for putting the new gimmick on my shopping list. Josh, however, was duly horrified, as only an 18 month old can be. I thought it was so charming to put the X's and O's on the tray of his high chair. Josh looked at the cereal, looked at me, and then began precisely picking up the X's, tossing them off the tray to the waiting vultures (masquerading as dogs). With each flick of his chubby baby wrist, he'd say "Broken!". Nothing I could do would persuade him to even taste one. In his one year frame of reference, his beloved "O-eee-o's" were not supposed to look like that.

This was a parenting annoyance at the time. But, now, 19 years later, I can understand completely how Josh felt. There was a way that his neatly ordered world was supposed to be. He was accustomed to his snack looking a particular way. It gave Josh stability knowing what he should expect. His passionate rejection of the 'different' was not unlike how an adult might feel when her world is turned upside down. What Josh experienced as baby, on a much smaller scale, many of us discover, to our horror, as grown ups. "Broken" can mean a wide variety of things to us. It might be that a marriage fails. Or a family member dies. Or a debilitating, scary illness is diagnosed. It may be being downsized from a career. It could mean that our belief system is shattered, our hearts are crushed, our friendships aren't steady and our mind can't grasp the changes. Broken can mean that the worlds we work so hard to create for ourselves are in nothing more than a gossamer scarf, holding together the fragile pieces that fit together within the delicate folds.

Over the past year, I've been exploring the concept of brokenness, as it applies to body, mind and spirit. This wasn't intentional. I had no choice in the matter of my body. Cancer is an all powerful, indiscriminate leveler, particularly when one has had the disease more than once. My strength through yoga failed me. I was physically broken, emotionally drained and intellectually flummoxed. How does a non-smoking, organic eating yogini get a rare form of cancer more than once? I was angry. I wanted to power through, to be the little engine that could", to deny that this disease would have any long term effects on me. I refused to allow myself to be broken. I wouldn't stand for it. How very wrong I was! How naive, and how foolish. I wish I could back in time. I wish I could take myself by the hand and say, "You will be broken. You will be challenged. Nothing will be easy. With every step forward, there will be two steps back and to the side. You will not reemerge the same woman. You will be different. You will be changed. You will be splintered. But, you will survive and create something new from the pieces."

After yet another setback last week, I wanted to cry out to the heavens, "Seriously?" But, I realize that there is still more for me to learn. There is always more for me to learn. Perhaps that's the lesson in all of this; no matter how well I think I've put the pieces back together, they seem to twirl out of my hands, crashing to the floor and creating even more fragments for me to contemplate. It's not the breaking that matters. Regardless of how I feel about it, I'm beginning to realize that the brokenness itself may very well be the lesson. It may be that I need to continuously learn humility; that I must deliberately look at each fragment and wonder what it has to teach me. It may also just be a crappy deal that I'm stuck with, and if I don't want to end up as a bitter, hate-filled old biddy, I'd better learn how to dwell with what is, rather than focusing on what is not.

Like a mosaic work of art, made from bits of shattered glass, I need to learn how to see the beauty in brokenness. I need to appreciate what is broken. Why? Because it's healthier than the alternative. One never knows: something exquisite may yet be created. I just have the humbling task of trying to discern what 'it' will be.

It's a new dawn, it's a new day...

2012-01-05T16:02:00.000-05:00

"Birds flying high
You know how I feel
Sun in the sky
You know how I feel
Reeds drifting on by
You know how I feel
It's a new dawn, it's a new day, its a new life
For me
And I'm feeling good" ~ Written by Anthony Newley, performed by Nina Simone

I've begun this blog piece three times before today. Each time I've sat down to write, I've been overwhelmed with emotion. It's silly, but I truly love the idea that each of us are given a chance to start our lives fresh every January. While I may be an eternal Party Pooper on New Year's Eve (who can stay up that late any longer?), I happen to adore New Year's Day. I'll take Beginnings over Endings with gladness. I know that this is mainly because I'm a bounding Labrador of Joy when it comes to starting new chapters. I love new books! I love new places! I love learning a new hobby! I love making new friends! I'm an ebullient starter of the au courant. I love being the first to try something unusual or dynamic.

Unfortunately, the flip side of this positive attribute is that I get bored easily and tend to say "The heck with it", if something becomes too inconvenient, too difficult, too repetitive or just plain too boring. I tried to learn how to knit. I was terrible. I've tried serious, elegant cooking classes. I burned whatever I touched. I have mangled multiple gardens. From herbs to flowers, I have come to realize that I simply have neither the gift, nor the patience. I have skis, a Pilates mat, a bicycle and water color paints. All are collecting dust in my garage. And yet, I began each undertaking with a jubilant bounce. What is it about trying something new that, when I hit a bump in the road, turns the novelty into irritation? Do I truly grow to dislike this endeavors or do I just quit too soon? Am I fickle or bungling?

This year, instead of jumping to the head of the "I want to lose ten---okay, fifteen-- pounds" parade, I'm refraining from even entertaining the concept of a diet. In the place of taking kick boxing (which I am oddly drawn towards), I'm going to stick with my walking and yoga exercise pattern. Rather than sign up for classes in Russian, tap dancing or wine tasting, I'm going to take a realistic look at what I'm already doing to see which areas could use improvement. The "bright and shiny" has always had a Siren call to me. What I see as my goal for 2012 is to walk away from the new and towards improving the old. An expression my mother likes to use is that we're like monkeys: we're drawn towards the lustrous allure of unique and untested treetops. I'm the worst in our family in this way. I will drop down my 'nets and follow' what catches my attention. If it seems complicated, intricate and all-encompassing? All the better. It will be even more delicious to contemplate.

Therefore, my resolution this year is simple: nothing new. This concept alone is novel enough to me to get me out of the starting gate. A few years ago, I would have whined "But, that's so BOOOOOOORING.....". Now? I understand that if I'm going to be a grown up (and I think it's about time to start down that road), I'm going to have to behave like one. No more spontaneous trips to Hobby Lobby. No more daydreaming about learning how to snowshoe (this would be fine for another person...but I really don't like being cold. I just like the shoes.) I will leave all the brightly illustrated flyers my fingers itch to pick up right where they are. Since I'm a virtual Tasmanian Devil when I'm in the throws of a newfangled love with learning to go Vegan or weave willow baskets, I'm going to have to keep the barn door on any new interest closed. And locked. With armed guards ready to shoot at the slightest provocation. If not, I'll take a month's worth of Water Ballet classes only to remember that, despite my pretty new swimsuit, I dislike being wet and lack any sense of rhythm.

The new start for me this year is staying away from new starts. I am, instead, going to turn my energy towards my old starts and reevaluate them. I'll ask myself which ideas, from home maintenance to outside activities, really were successful, and which were a collossal waste of time and money. I'll meditate on being content with where I am, with what I have, with what I am able to do and who I want to spend my time with. Rather than race ahead, crazy legs, to a finish line I can't even begin to see, I hope to take this journey slowly, mindfully, intentionally and with deliberation. As a woman who acts first and thinks after, this is going to be a profound difference.

Just writing this blog piece makes me want to pull my hair out. I'm afraid that I'll be desperate to radically change my style, my house and my interests. I'm terrified that February will come around, and I'll immediately decide that I need to begin wearing 4 inch heels or have a hankering to learn how to smoke meat. The "shiny things" beckon. They call me to me, reel me in and then eventually lose my attention when the next shiny thing appears on the horizon. I know this isn't going to be an easy journey. I may whine. I might look wistfully at a golf course, wondering if I could learn to play. Yet, I'm determined that this is going to be my year of reflection and completion. I need to figure out what works for me, and what doesn't, if I have a chance at a balanced approach in the future.

The new dawn of the new day rises beautifully every morning. We're given a chance to begin fresh and, for most people, to start with a clean slate. My slate this year just won't be a clean one. It will be a messy one. My job will be to turns my eyes away from the glittering, untried slates and to refocus on finishing the many tasks on my well used slate instead.

Maybe next year I'll get a clean one.

Putting away childish things...

2011-12-27T10:10:00.001-05:00

When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things. St. Paul, I Corinthians 13:11

In many places one of the biggest holiday events, particularly for charitable foundations, is the "Festival of Trees". At these gatherings donated Christmas trees are auctioned off to help raise money for new cancer wings to a hospital, an addition to the animal shelter or to help a terminally ill's child's 'wish' come true. Each tree has a theme. I've seen "The Nutcracker Suite", with mice, ballerinas, snowflakes, flowers and a Nutcracker tree topper. I've adored the "Baker's Dozen"..a tree completely decorated with miniature baking implements; roller pins, tins, tiny tubs of flour aprons and recipe books. I thought, given that I live at the ocean, the always stunning "Beach Lovers Delight", embellished with shells in every shape and size, was magical. Each tree had another unique, carefully planned symphony. When I got home from attending these beautiful parties, I'd look over at my funny, goofy, random tree and see a cacophony of mismatched ornaments and cringe.

As tempting as it was for me to chuck my ridiculous, mismatched collection of Christmas decorations, I could never seem to part with them. I have a few stunning crystal ornaments that catch the light and reflect it throughout the room. I have the little gold colored church bauble, that my husband and I gave to our wedding attendants, as party favors. Mixed are the reminders of our children's births, a cable car from San Francisco, a Saguaro cactus from Arizona, a glass blown Eiffel tower, little hockey skates, tiny skis, ballet shoes and trains. We have a Darth Vader that, when plugged into a Christmas light bulb, says, in that raspy James Earl Jones voice, "The Force is with you young Skywalker, but you are not a Jedi yet". That expression has greeted me each time I've turned the tree on for the past 15 years...because my oldest was a Star Wars fanatic when he was very young. There is the elegant Tiffany engraved ornament hanging next to my schlocky German Shepherd angel. A carefully glittered snowflake shimmers like diamonds, just above the incredibly tacky snowman bell.

If I were to continue to peruse my tree, mixed in with all of these tokens of my married life are the ornaments of my childhood. When I first got married, and moved to Germany, my mother gave me the box of these ornaments as a way to bring my past along with me. Knowing I wouldn't be home for the first Christmas of my life, she wanted me to have "home" wherever I was. So our moves to Wildflecken and Idar-Obersten, Germany, Lawton, OK and then back to Camden, Maine, all brought my treasures along for the ride. None of these are valuable in the monetary sense. But each one reminds me of being a little girl. I have bells with my parents and my names on them. and somewhat tasteless 70's ideas for Three Kings crowns. I have some 'once adorable' mementos of buying my 'yearly ornament' at Gervasoni's on State Street in Santa Barbara, following our annual trek to go see "The Nutcracker Suite". Going to Gervasoni's was a tradition my best friends, our mothers and I had. Figuring out which ornament to pick was nearly impossible, as the usual flower shop was transformed into a winter wonderland. And yet, each year we managed to find the perfect one. And I still have all of them hanging on my tree.

The most raggedy of all of ornaments (and that's saying something) is a half bald, woe begotten duck, made out of puff balls and wearing a ski hat. This is the oldest ornament I have, and it made the long journey of my childhood from San Francisco to New York to Santa Barbara and then on to Maine. It wouldn't even suffice as a decent dog toy. Still, it's my favorite. For reasons I can't fathom, when I was tiny I named him "The Chickie" and the Chickie he's remained to this day. I still pull him out from the boxes each year and greet him as I would an old friend who has been on this long journey with me. He's seen it all: the year I turned 5 and had chicken pox and ended up lying in bed wearing my new ice skates and trying to hug my sled. He was present in the afterglow of my seeing my first Broadway show, my becoming a horse crazy tween, my cousins and I sleeping under the tree to "catch Santa", my falling in and out of crushes, and my first true heartbreak. When my then new husband was away for months at a time, and I'd get the ornaments out by myself, the Chickie would remind me that I could connect my Christmases of years past with my present.

Today I'll begin the process of de-Christmasing my house. I'll bring out the boxes in which to place the garland, fold up my burgundy tablecloth and remove the holiday paraphernalia. I will begin to take the ornaments off my tree, one by one. I will carefully look over each piece and decide if it's time has come to meet the rubbish bin. It's not an easy call. Some do actually break. With two exuberant, immense dogs, for whom the tree is nothing more than a fun object into which to crash, I've lost my share of glass balls. Others just looked worn and tired. I know that it's time for them to go...and in doing so, to make room for new pieces of new memories. Yet, it's tough to say goodbye even to the worst of the lot. By saying to them, "You look just awful. I can't have you on my tree any longer", it's as if I'm losing a part of my own Christmas memories. I'm the furthest thing from a pack rat. If anything, I tend to purge our house prematurely. When it comes to Christmas ornaments I've had for 40 years, however, I'm a hopeless nostalgia keeper.

I've resolved to let go of many of these ratty bits of fabric. The plaid covered bell, with places that are so bald Styrofoam can seen underneath is going to the trash. The assortment of Santa looking ornaments, that have always seemed a creepy to my daughter, will be donated, since they're in good repair. The snowman that I myself think looks a little demonic can bite the dust. The others, who resemble nothing in particular but just seem boring, dated and devoid of sentimentality, are out of here. Harder to release are the dodgy ones that evoke childhood memories. I know it's time. I know they don't add any character to our tree. But I think of my late father, whom I adored, when I put up the now shabby lobster boat. I remember my Grandma when I see the falling apart little doll she once sewed for me. And then there is The Chickie. My friend. My amigo. My traveling companion. I realize that I'm an adult and, to paraphrase St. Paul, it is time to put away childish things.

I'm just not quite ready yet.

Rolling with the Homies

2011-12-14T09:16:00.003-05:00

Life is too short for traffic. ~Dan Bellack

What a difference a year makes! I can only look back and reflect now, because enough time has passed for me to take the full measure of all that has happened. I count my blessings every day. I take nothing for granted. I am immeasurably appreciative for the people who have been so good to me. I am deeply indebted to my family, who have been courageous in the face of my fears. I am thankful for the chance to recreate my life anew.

Tomorrow will mark the one year anniversary of my major cancer surgery. One year has passed since I was uncertain about what fate would have in store for me. Would my tumor touch major organs? Would it have metastasized? Knowing that my form of cancer doesn't respond to chemotherapy or radiation, surgery was my only hope to keep it from spreading further. Where would it have insinuated itself? I went into surgery with my mom, my husband and my daughter, Caroline, as my support system with me. Caroline was amazing. She got a kick out of my joking around with my pre-op team and surgeons. She was there for me when I swore like a sailor getting that darn Heparin shot...which by the way, hurts like hell, but prevents blood clots. We held hands, we thought positive thoughts, we laughed, we cried a little and we just spent that hour before my operation together...in the pre-op 'stall' at Maine Medical Center in Portland. Hers was the last face I saw before I was wheeled away. Hers was also the first face I saw when I woke up and was wheeled into my hospital room after the procedure. That beautiful face, with those adorable dimples, was my touchstone that day.

It's only fitting that Caroline and I will share another adventure tomorrow. I'm picking her up from prep school for her last Christmas break before she graduates. We will have another "cruising" experience; albeit a much more positive one this time. Instead of rolling into surgery, we'll be rolling home to Maine. I can't wait. Caroline and I have established a tradition during the 4 1/2 hour trip to and from her school in western Massachusetts. We sing as loudly as we can. Since I tend to flub up words, and can't carry a tune to save my life (pun fully intended), I am a constant source of amusement to my daughter. I insist that my lyrics are correct, and if my tone is a bit 'pitchy', well, it's all part of the fun. We belt out show tunes (I have passed on my passion for Broadway musicals), pop songs and, this time of year, Christmas carols. I once had Caroline nearly rolling on the floor laughing when I insisted I could speak Hindi, when I went through my Bollywood phase, thanks to the "Slumdog Millionaire" soundtrack. She made me realize how tame my generation's music was compared to today's rap lyrics. We laugh, we sing, we tell stories, we catch up, we think positive thoughts, we share and we just enjoy being in each other's company once again.

In some ways, December 15, 2010 and December 15, 2011 won't be all that different. I'll be with my daughter. We'll be talking, day dreaming, venting and just basking in the gratitude of having each other. However, we will be much more lighthearted this year. We still have our worries. We still have issues we're concerned about. But, we have many wonderful memories that are ahead of us. A year ago, we were so entrenched in the present it was hard to see the future. Today, we're happy that some mysteries still await us. I'm glad to be sharing it with Caroline. Not only is she my daughter, but she's my 'homie'. There's no one I'd rather "roll with".

Happy Holidays from our family

2011-12-12T08:50:00.000-05:00

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Writing

2011-12-08T09:10:00.002-05:00

We should be taught not to wait for inspiration to start a thing. Action always generates inspiration. Inspiration seldom generates action. ~Frank Tibolt

The most common questions I'm asked, when people inquire about my blogs, revolve around where I find my inspiration. People want to know if I make notes when special events pop up, and if I have a special writing ritual. Do I write for a certain number of hours each day? Do I only write in the morning? Do I keep a journal? What incites me to put pen to paper (or rather, fingers to keyboard) when a thought pops into my head? Do I pitch anything, or do I keep it all? In short, how do I do what I do?

The short answer is "yes" to all of those queries. I do make notes, when I think about it. I do prefer writing in the morning, though I don't have a time minimum or maximum, and if the muse descends at 2 am, I'll write then. I do keep a journal, although it's mainly written in shorthand notes that even I have trouble deciphering. I'm inspired by art, by books, by my family, by the circumstances in my life, by exercise, by rest, by food, by friends, by music, by films, by nature and by just about everything else in the world around me. I write whatever is on my mind, and if I think it's not ridiculous, I'll keep working on it. If I think it's dreadful, I'll delete it. I like writing with a cup of coffee by my side, but it's not absolutely necessary.

The next question, after the "how do you write?" curiosity, is the bigger one: "Why do you write?". This is the far more complicated posit. I've always written. From the time I was very young, before I had the power of spelling at my disposal, I created little books with drawings on each page. I was able to tell the story to the viewer. Writing has been my medium of choice for communication. I'm an abysmal talker and tend to babble when awkward silences fall. I can't think of the right things to say during countless situations, and therefore, end up with my foot in my mouth, having spoken exactly the wrong thing. I wish, far too frequently, that I could recall my words, just as a fisherman might reel in a line that's been cast astray. Words, once spoken, can never be taken back.

When I write, I feel as if my voice is the way I want it to sound. If I make an error, it's an error that, at the very least, I've given some consideration. The written word provides me the ability to convey my thoughts in an edited, contemplative manner. I can delete. I can enhance. I can recreate. I can discover that a tangent is far more intriguing than the original idea. I can let go of all ubiquitous strains, or I can embrace them. By writing, I can learn what I'm truly thinking and where my heart indeed rests. It gives me a window into my soul, my psyche and my subconscious. I learn more about myself, by reading my own writing, than I possibly could in any other way. Writing, for me, is much like meditation in this way.

Sharon O'Brien, author and noted Willa Cather scholar, wrote "Writing became such a process of discovery that I couldn't wait to get to work in the morning: I wanted to know what I was going to say." I quite agree with her. When I sit down to write, the words often take me by surprise. I'm just as excited to see what my fingers type as I would be to sit down and read a novel by another writer. It's a fascinating process to me and I'm often amazed by what emerges. I might sit down with the inspiration for one piece, and another seems to flow right out. I'm always interested in what I'll say next because I learn and grow each time.

"Why do I write?" is the big question. "Because I must" is the answer.

The Thankfulness Project

2011-11-02T15:37:00.000-04:00

A little over a year ago, I tried the "October Dress" project. It was tough, but I managed to come up with a new and inventive (some days more than others, however) to explore wearing a simple black dress every day for a month. This Spring, I participated in the 30 Books in 30 Days project. I enjoyed this one because, as a lifelong bibliophile, I was able to stretch my imagination to narrowing down those books that have been most special to me.

In the challenge I'm taking on this month, I'm exploring a subject very close to my heart: thankfulness. Gratitude is something sadly lacking in our culture. In this era of "what's in it for me?", people are far more inclined to think selfishly, rather than altruistically. People seem to still want whatever is 'next and new', rather than what's 'here and now'. Additionally, few of us rarely take time to truly appreciate those blessings, big and small, that occur in every day life. I'm as guilty of this as the next woman.

As a two time cancer survivor, I'm deeply appreciative to even be here, writing this blog piece. And yet, I get incredibly grumpy if I feel 'slighted' or maligned. I've felt personally picked on by the universe. Why? Cancer twice does put a bit of a monkey wrench into my sense of fairness. Factor in that I am an organic eating, non-smoking, (now former) yoga instructor, and that I also had a nearly lethal variant of E-Coli in between these two cancer battles. We all have our challenges in life. Mine have simply been more visible to the outsider. I've learned that life is rarely fair. But it can still be beautiful.

It's my hope that, with this blog, I'll stir up a little goodwill in my own heart...and maybe help others to do so, as well. So, on Day 1, what am I thankful for? The inspiration to write all of this out, and the medium in which to do so. Please join me at my new site 30 Days of Thankfulness or begin your own quest for gratitude.

The Unexpected

2011-10-30T12:29:00.001-04:00

“Most people want to be circled by safety, not by the unexpected. The unexpected can take you out. But the unexpected can also take you over and change your life. Put a heart in your body where a stone used to be.” ~ Ron Hall

When I'm traveling to other parts of the country and tell people that I live in Maine, I usually get the same reaction. It's one part "I'm so sorry...you poor thing!", and another part "How pretty it must be there in July!". These comments generally drift into an anguished sympathy asking how I can possibly function with 'all that snow'. To the outsider, living on the coast of Maine year round seems as if we residents go into a 'bubble' from October to June. These folks imagine that we're mole people, tunneling our way underground to have an entire civilization away from the cold. No one can fathom that we lead completely normal lives. Kids go to school. Adults go to work. We go to the market, to the movies and to restaurants. We don't hibernate. In fact, for many of us, winter is pretty nice because the crowds are less and the gatherings are more intimate in the places we socialize. Yes, it snows. But, we deal with it. We have the occasional snow days (to much laughter and joyful dancing). We have to shovel. But, it's life...and frankly, we're just used to it. It's simply not a big deal. It's the expected, and it generally begins after Thanksgiving and before Christmas.

Halloween has always been our last 'outside' blast of fun. In our little town of Camden, there are a couple of streets that get all the Trick Or Treat traffic. There are police blockades set up so those little Fairy Princesses and miniature Supermen can walk safely without cars. For teens, the village green has become a 'somewhat' sanctioned location for the annual shaving cream fight. It can get a bit rowdy, but in general, Halloween in our Maine town is akin to a small version of Mardi Gras. It's all in good fun. There are always a few 'bad apples' who try to ruin it, but it's a traditional night of merriment and joviality. The big storm that hit the northeast was a huge surprise! We've lived in Maine for twenty years and, not once during that time, did we ever have a "white Halloween". It definitely put a damper on what many people, especially young people, were planning for their holiday. Will tiny Ladybugs or petite Firefighters have to wear snowsuits over their costumes? Will the shaving cream turn into a snow ball fight? We just don't know. Jack O'Lanterns are buried all over New England right now.

This snow storm has really struck me as incredibly metaphorical for the challenges I'm facing in my life right now. I do have a diagnosis. I do have some answers. I don't have a way to fix the broken problems with my body right now, here at home. I'm nervous about how to repair my terrified spirit. I'm constantly waiting for the 'other shoe to fall' once again. An October snowstorm sums up, quite neatly actually, the way I feel about my life. I had expected lighthearted joy and received unforeseen melancholy.

What the "October Snowstorm" metaphor has taught me is to find the eye of the hurricane, and to rest in that bright spot as much as possible. In between some dreadfully painful and invasive neurological tests, I was able to go out to my favorite restaurants with my mother and 'aunties'. While my husband has been looking for a new career, we've had the luxury of wonderful time spent just the two of us. The unexpected is terrible. But, it's taught me another lesson: I've learned to never get too 'comfortable' in any situation. Why? Because that comfort can easily turn into complacency. We can be so satisfied in our current circumstances that we allow contentment to override the possibility great changes. We can also become dreadfully set in our ways. "October Snowstorms" teach us to remain open to new situations, and also to learn to react effectively when massive changes hit. Most of all, the unexpected can be a drill in living in the moment and a reminder not to take our current lives for granted.

One of the pleasant parts of my recent health complications was my trip to Arizona, where I was blessed to find a doctor who could diagnose my problems. However, this exceptional woman wasn't the doctor I had flown 3000 miles to see. The expected neurologist was great...not only was he a nice man, but he was a premier doctor at the most highly rated neurological center in the country. And, he was completely stumped by my case. He felt it was "just one of those things that might go away on its own". This didn't help me with my pain level or ability to walk. The doctor who ultimately aided me was recommended by one of my mother's best friends. The doctor is an MD, a Princeton educated doctor no less, who also has studied Eastern medicine. She a tiny office in a tiny town in Arizona. She was the first person to ask me when my ability to walk became a problem, listened to the results of all the traditional tests I'd had (which she'd assured me that she would have ordered) and then proceeded to help me using acupuncture, chiropractic work and other 'alternative' methods. Had I not flown to Arizona, I never would seen this doctor...and she wasn't the health care professional I'd expected to help me. I still have to find 'help' here in Maine, but just having the diagnosis of a compressed spine has made a huge difference.

October Snowstorms come out of the blue. We don't expect them, and we certainly don't feel, when we're in the midst of one, that we can learn anything by the blows we're dealt. And yet, these 'come out of nowhere' experiences also have blessing of pushing us out of our comfortable territory and into exploring new horizons. My mother has a great illustration for this: "Make plans, but always have your running shoes by the door." I get that now. I appreciate that now. I live by that now. The only difference is that I make my plans, but keep my Uggs by the door. I think the same concept works.

Balloons

2011-10-19T18:23:00.001-04:00

As I sit in the tranquil, zen-inspired-by-way-of-Tuscany, courtyard of my mother's house, it's easy to slow down, breathe and count my blessings. The past month has been a hectic, frenetic blur. From one doctor's appointment to the next, then dealing with health insurance and still trying to barrel my way through pain...it's been overwhelming.

I have felt a bit like the girl holding a giant number of balloons. The balloons lift her up off the ground and she's completely stuck: if she releases the balloons, she will plummet to the ground. If she keeps holding on, she is letting those balloons carry her further away. Additionally, the winds are dictating where she will wind up. The girl has no voice in her journey. She is, quite literally, along for the ride. None of her options have happy endings.

However, I've slowly been coming to discover another outcome...one that doesn't involve a crash into the side of a mountain. If I think of each of the trials, tests, struggles and roadblocks as balloons, I can release them one at a time. I'm able to create the image of a Cerulean blue balloon as the vast amount of radiology I've had. I can then imagine it in my hand...and can then simply let it go. It's gone and I don't have to worry about it anymore. I can do the same with the shimmering teal balloon that may be my surgeries, the deep burgundy for the loss of my yoga career and the pearl grey one for my heaviness of heart.

One by one, I can let them go. It's not all at once. I am not dropping my hand without making sure that I'm able to watch each individual concern float away. It's just a way to allow myself to
come down from this worrisome, unknown place slowly, gracefully and at my own pace.

But for now, all balloons are on hold, so to speak. I have my feet planted on Terra Firma. My arms were getting tired from holding onto all those strings. It's good to rest. I can pick them back up later.

Indian Summer

2011-10-10T20:33:00.004-04:00

"I think it pisses God off when you walk by the color purple in a field and don't notice it." Alice Walker "The Color Purple"

One of the greatest joys of living in New England is the change of seasons. I look forward to the magic that each new time of year brings. In part, I think this isn't so much of a case of disliking the current time as it is an eagerness for what comes next. It's great fun to pull out my sweaters every Fall...just as it's a great relief to put them away every summer.

My father, a lifelong Northeast resident, enjoyed our move to California...up to a point. The first few years, I think he managed to "suffer through" being a Santa Barbara resident. However, the bloom was off the Banksia rose (and the orange blossoms, hyacinth and nasturtium), when he bought (and wore) a t-shirt that said "Just another sh%*^y day in Paradise". Other people might have found that statement to be witty and ironic. Dad was dead serious. He missed the snow. He daydreamed about Autumn leaves, Nor'easters and waking up to the crunch of first frost on the lawn.

This year, however, I'm soaking up every bit of the glorious Indian Summer weather. I'm basking in the glow of hazy, breezy afternoon sun. I'm finding incredible peace in just celebrating October temperatures in the 70's. Why? There is just so much unknown on the horizon. In less than one week I'll be in Arizona, consulting with a new neurological specialist. I've run through my meager medical options here and must head to a center that can offer me help, answers and a plan of action. So, I find myself with a lack of enthusiasm for the changing seasons this year. I still love Fall. But I just want to hang onto the present, pleasant days I'm having now.

As exciting as it is to take out that box of warm clothes, I realize how much time I've wasted looking too far ahead. For now, I'm content to just remain utterly thankful for Indian Summer. It's as if I've been given a reminder to stop and notice "the color purple"...especially if that color comes with a glass of iced tea next to the hammock.

Awake

2011-09-30T11:12:00.003-04:00

A brahmin once asked The Blessed One:
"Are you a God?"
"No, brahmin" said The Blessed One.
"Are you a saint?"
"No, brahmin" said The Blessed One.
"Are you a magician?"
"No, brahmin" said The Blessed One.
"What are you then?"
"I am awake."
~ Zen Lesson

While I was lying prone in bed last week, I came upon this lesson former yoga teacher training books. I'd first read the quote about 8 years ago, just as I was beginning my R.Y.T. program. I found it to be enlightening, encouraging, helpful and compelling. I was excited to become a yoga teacher! I knew that I'd be "living what I love" in my new career. The extraordinary concept that I could actually get paid to practice yoga, and to share it with others, was still a novel concept to me at that time. I studied the wisdom words by everyone from Moses to the Buddha to Thomas Merton. My program of study was especially wide ranging. Not only did I learn an incredible amount about anatomy, but I also apprenticed in the 15 most common forms of yoga practice. It was both overwhelming and edifying, and unnerving and revitalizing. I had phenomenal teachers and surprisingly nasty ones. I met lifelong friends in my classes, as well those who took competition (in a 'supposed to be non-competitive' atmosphere) far too seriously. Through all of these lessons, over my 8 months of study and practice, I kept coming back to this first lesson: I asked myself if I was "awake". I felt, at that time, that I was. Every cell in my body told me that I was finally waking up from my lifelong trance-like slumber.

Now that I'm older, more jaded and, hopefully, a bit wiser, I've learned how unconscious I am most of the time. My thoughts of being awake, 8 years ago, are laughable in their innocence. What I had envisioned to be a "one time alarm clock moment", even a 'born again' experience, was simply not the case. I think that, regardless of one's religious beliefs or personal practices, the art of being awake isn't a singular event: it's a lifelong goal for which to strive. I can't possible undo decades of absent minded and heedless practice overnight. In our culture of repetition and unconscious habit, it's tough to remain mindful in everyday life. I seem to operate on auto-pilot through much of my day. Before I'm even aware of it, I'd gotten up, made breakfast, gotten the kids to school, taken the dogs for walks, done the errands, paid the bills and even taught a yoga class, all without consciously being aware of these actions. Living mindfully aware, in the present moment, requires a great deal of practice, I've discovered. I tend to get so caught up in daily routine that my sense of being 'awake' slinks into the background.

I'm no longer a yoga instructor. Unfortunately, my surgery last December made that career impossible to continue. However, I have discovered a bit of a tough lesson: even being a yoga teacher did not make me immune to falling into daily amnesia. I often taught six classes per week, in addition to my other 'jobs' as mother and wife and committee member and volunteer. My daily practice and classes simply were added to my 'to do' list.

It's my hope to find a bit of time each day to "wake up". I'd like to have my reflections and prayers become more than my 'wish list' of 'wants'. I would to get out of bed each morning not just stumbling towards coffee, but as a conscious experience of the new day being the precious gift it is. I truly understand my ignorance of 8 years ago as a wistful enthusiasm. I just hope I can poke that same hopeful, eager, but exhausted woman I was back then. Perhaps in my gentle (or even forceful) nudges to my psyche, I can revivify that former earnestness, but temper it with cautious awareness.

The alarm clock has gone off! I'm awake! But I'm learning that waking up is easy. It's staying awake that's much more challenging.

Too much of a good thing

2011-09-26T09:56:00.003-04:00

"Why then, can one desire too much of a good thing?" ~ William Shakespeare, "As You Like It", Act IV, Scene 1

There are very few things in life I like more than curling up in bed. A cup of coffee by my side in the morning, or tea in the evening, my book, my snuggly dogs, a rainy day and my Netflix account....it just all makes for sheer bliss for me. No amount of temptation can lure me away from the coziness that is my favorite space. To quote my cousin Lori, "I love my bed so much I could marry it."

However, I have learned that even a sloth like myself has limits. Last week I had a lumbar puncture. The old fashioned way of referring to this procedure is a "spinal tap". Dear sweet heavenly radishes, but it was dreadful. After being reassured countless times about how simple, and painless, a maneuver like
this was nowadays, it did not go well for me. Apparently (and in the 'who knew?' category), I do not have easy access to my spinal column. This is in part just how my body works. It's also thanks to my badonkadonk, which gives me a sway back. Regardless, a ten minute job turned into at least half an hour. And, I was left with a Post Lumbar Puncture Headache. This isn't a lousy "let me take some aspirin" headache. Oh, no. This is a "could someone be so kind as to remove my head from my body?" headache.

In order to avoid more invasive hospital cures, I was advised (even ordered) to take to my bed. I needed to lie completely prone (i.e., no beautiful, elegant pillows propping me up) for a couple of days. I was also advised that caffeine would be beneficial. Despite my pain level, I thought, "Hallelujah! I can do this! Lying in my bed all day long drinking coffee! That's my skill set at last!". I mused, "Finally! A treatment I was born to do!".

However, I quickly learned that this activity is, well, just awful. Not only am I used to sitting up while drinking said my caffeine sources, but I'm also accustomed to being able to move about when I feel like it. Despite my marked propensity towards procrastination and sloth, I did have nagging feelings about all the things I wasn't doing. The laundry was getting done! The kitchen hadn't been wiped down! If I forgot something at the other end of the house, it was a "no soup for me" moment.The dogs might be able to go outside through the dog door, but the pitiful way they kept bringing me their leashes showed me that their imprisonment wasn't any more fun than mine. While I did have my friend introduce me to "Dr. Who" on Netflix (a fabulous distraction), I really wanted to go into town. Even though my neighbor went to the farmer's market for me and brought me fresh vegetables, I wished I'd been able to go with her. I missed being with my family in southern New England. In short, the bloom was off the rose. My bed no longer represented a delicious sanctuary. It had become a prison with lovely pillows....pillows I could not use, by the way.

I'm up once more. It's slow and gingerly movement. I'm keeping an eye on the headache from hell. I have to monitor my time up and my periods of rest. I now find myself daydreaming about doing things like climbing mountains in Tibet or a safari in Africa. Just like the child who, when caught eating cake when she wasn't supposed to, and then being told to eat the whole thing, I have find I've lost my appetite for cake. Or, in my case, lying in my bed.

But, the hammock is looking positively captivating.

Nobility and Humility

2011-09-20T08:20:00.007-04:00

"Whatever comes," she said, "cannot alter one thing. If I am a princess in rags and tatters, I can be a princess inside. It would be easy to be a princess if I were dressed in cloth of gold, but it is a great deal more of a triumph to be one all the time when no one knows it. ~ "A Little Princess", Frances Hodgson Burnett

We have had a challenging month or two. My health has gone from adequately recovering from my December cancer surgery to being in debilitating pain. I have suffered through complex neurological issues that have not only taken all my strength to muddle through, but my dignity, as well. My husband, who has always been a hard working provider for our family, has lost his career. We went from looking forward to spending an extraordinary year planning out our next steps as recent "empty nesters" to just worrying about what the next day will bring. I wait from moment to moment, terrified when, and where, my next bout of seething pain will strike. I am deeply concerned about the unpredictability of our financial situation. There are times I want to be impatient, snappish, angry, bitter, jealous and downright mean spirited. I want to smack the hands of the nurses who can't start my IV's (after three tries). I want to kick the shins of the doctors who don't meet my eyes while telling me "We just don't know" about my medical saga's answers. I am seething when I see less qualified, and less competent, people who are still working in their same positions...and who want to buy bigger houses...when I worry about how we're even going to pay to heat ours.These are not thoughts I'm particularly proud of. In fact, I'm ashamed to be such a grumpy, churlish shrew. For better or worse, I'm exhausted. I'm too worn out from pain, from worry and from fear to be concerned about the social niceties.

Yet, when I think of the woman I want to be "when I grow up", this is not she. The woman I want to imbue is not a despicable harpy. She is a noble, kind, humble, loving gentlewoman. The "fully realized" Ellen of my imagination is about as far as I can travel from my current state of resentful harridan. Somehow, I need to make this transition from one of angry terror to one of gracious acceptance. It isn't easy. If I'm not physically in pain, I'm emotionally distraught. I do realize, however, that it's up to me to rise above these present circumstances and move into being the woman I choose to be. One of my mother's favorites quotes, from St. John of the Cross, keeps coming to my mind again and again: "I am not made, or unmade, by the circumstances in my life, but by my reactions to them". If I judge myself in this light, I am thoroughly abashed. I have allowed myself to be 'made' by the circumstances in my life...both the good and the bad. I have taken pride in areas which were really no more than good fortune. I have basked in the glory of praise. Because I allowed myself to get caught up in believing I was 'made' by the good circumstances, I know that it's no wonder that I have been 'unmade' by the poor ones. I am ashamed. Mea culpa.

I believe that this is my chance to grow up at last.I need to let go of letting my situation dictate how I feel. I must "put the ways of childhood" behind me and move into adulthood. The inspiration for desired transformation, ironically, is from my one of my favorite children's books, "A little Princess" by Frances Hodgson Burnett. The protagonist, Sara Crewe, shows exceptional courage and strength as layer, by layer, her carefree, beautiful life is stripped away from her. She's left with nothing, quite literally. And yet, her angelic, compassionate, noble soul shines through. It doesn't matter if she's wearing the latest fashions from Paris, or the rags of a street urchin. Sara Crewe, even as a fictional character in a child's book, embodies the woman I hope to be. She is unfailingly kind. She is loving to those who are wretched to her. She is generous with what little she has. She is altruistic, accepting, satisfied and humane.

Therefore, I've set my goal: I want to be a princess. Not the spoiled, nasty type that one sees on "reality television"...no, I want to be a princess 'on the inside'. I may be in pain. I may be embarrassed. I may be frightened. I may be living with an unspeakable number of unknowns. But, I can be kind. I can be loving. I can remember that if I behave in a way that shows strength, courage, gratitude, peacefulness, acceptance and joy, perhaps that will come true. As Sara Crewe pointed out: it's easy to be noble when everyone knows it. The challenge comes in creating that gentle nobility within myself that is immovable regardless of what happens to me.

I won't be wearing a tiara. I have never owned a pair of Manolo Blahnik's. My wedding did not take place at Westminster Abbey. Yet, I can be a princess all the time. Perhaps, if I think about how a princess should behave, when confronted with adversity, it will be reminder to emulate one.

The End of Innocence

2011-09-11T18:31:00.003-04:00

Somewhere back there in the dust, that same small town in each of us. I need to remember this. So, baby give me just one kiss. And let me take a long last look, before we say goodbye. Just lay your head back on the ground. And let your hair fall all around me. Offer up your best defense. This is end of the innocence. ~ Don Henley and Bruce Hornsby "The End of Innocence

September 11, 2001 began as a beautiful day. The sun was shining. The leaves on our large Maple tree were just beginning to turn. We could see the brilliant yellows and reds outside our kitchen window. I was still homeschooling my children, who were 9 and not quite 7 years old respectively. We were curled up on the couch in our family room, reading "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe". Josh and Caroline begged me to postpone their math lessons to just allow for one more chapter. "Aslan is on the move, Mom! We can't stop now!", they said. I realize that those two sets of beautiful brown eyes were both serious in their earnest request for more reading. I also knew it was partly a ploy to postpone multiplication tables. I was okay with that.

The phone rang just after 9:00 am. It was my friend, and fellow homeschool mother, Jennifer asking if I had the television on. Jen wasn't any more likely to be watching TV on a school day than I was. We took our jobs as homeschool teachers seriously. But, I heard the tone in her voice, and still couldn't comprehend what she was telling me. How in the world could a plane have crashed into one of the Twin Towers? It was with horror that the children and I watched the events unfold. What we thought must surely have been a terrible accident initially, clearly took on much larger meaning for the entire world.

It was the end of innocence for our nation, I've heard it said. No longer were terrorist attacks limited to unfathomable bombs going off in Israel or India. Our oceans to the west and east couldn't protect us with their natural barrier. We were no longer the citizens of a country who had to travel to foreign lands to protect ourselves. We needed protection here at home. Europe bears the scars of war from within the last 60 years. So does most of Asia. We had now joined the unwanted society of countries at war.

Because I'm not a politician, or journalist, or in the military, I can't speak for a world perspective. I didn't see the carnage first hand. I didn't lose a loved one or a colleague on September 11th. But, as a mother, I know what our family lost: its innocence. Until that time, my family flew several times a year with ease. My biggest concern was having enough items in my carry on bag to entertain Josh and Caroline for our trips. My only fear was that we'd run out of things to do and someone would melt down in public. After September 11th, our trips changed in tone. My children saw me pulled out of line and searched almost every time we flew. I explained that it was for all of our safety that folks were searched randomly. "Is it so that we don't hit a big building, too?", my daughter asked the first time this happened, "Don't they know you're a Mommy?". I tried to think about how to illustrate the concepts of fairness, equity and impartiality. It was hard to do when my children just wanted to go visit their Nana, and were afraid to fly.

As it turns out September 11, 2001 was an end of innocence for our family in other ways...in aspects that had nothing to do with the terrible events of that day. This was, ultimately, the last year I would homeschool the children. They both went on to doing extremely well in school. They loved their peers and were successful in their classes. They gained independence by leaps and bounds every year. I am exceptionally proud of both of them for their diligence and leadership, both in the classroom and outside of it. But, I still missed the sweet quality our days together had once had. It was the last year before I was diagnosed with cancer the first time. My life was never the same after my first cancer digagnosis. I would find myself revisiting this chapter time and again. I would come to the understanding that no matter how well I take of my body, it can betray me with illness. My husband was working in a job he loved, with people he admired, during this time. Although his career would take another decade to end, I look back on 2001 as the time in which my husband was working in a capacity he most enjoyed.

Obviously, things haven't been all bad since that September 11th. We've continued to travel, to grow, to learn, to laugh, to cry and to explore. We have had outstanding years and utterly dreadful ones. We have known profound joy. We have experienced deep sorrow. Ten years is a long time, but it's also the blink of an eye. I am thankful for every day I've had since the terrible tragedy occurred. If nothing else, the terrorist attacks taught me to appreciate life all the more, to hold my children a little closer, to hug my husband every day before he leaves for work, to call my mom and tell her how much I love her.

Back on the homeschool couch, on September 11th, I used the remote to turn the TV off. I pulled a blanket over Josh, Caroline and me, and we read another chapter from the Chronicles of Narnia. Then, we read the chapter after that. And on, and on, until we finished the book. We may have skipped math that day, but I believe that time spent reading was vital. After all, Aslan was on the move.

My happy place

2011-09-09T09:02:00.004-04:00

Definition of "Happy Place" from online Dictionary: "A psychologically-induced trance-like state, where a person may regress from a stressful situation."

As a student of yoga for the past 12 years, my master teachers have often encouraged us to find our 'happy place'. Nearly every book I've read, and every instructor I've had, has described this internal location as more of a void than an actual dwelling. Because I'm far too visual a person to just go into nothingness (though that's the ultimate goal), I initially imagined an all white room with nothing but two simple chairs. It was more "the Matrix" than the void, but it worked for me. I was able to use this conceptualized, somewhat blank, visual mantra for a while. I could even feel a nurturing, conjured up sage talking me through the meditative technique.

I'd listen to my fellow yogis and yoginis with envy (another bit I'm supposed to detach from), as they described slipping out of themselves during meditation or Shavasana. They talked blissfully about shedding their selves and just leaving all ideas of Place for a while. It sounded liberating. It sounded delicious. It sounded impossible for me.

Much as I tried to even let go of my quite white room, I found that I went the other direction. Instead of leaving it completely behind and just allowing my mind the freedom of nullity, I'd somehow, unconsciously, made that releasing impossible: I began to decorate.

My white room was too, well, white for me. So, I warmed it up with a deep red on the walls, some natural sunlight and a fireplace. I realized that no happy place could be could be complete with floor to ceiling bookshelves. I'm nothing else if not a reader so, of course, I needed some comfortable furniture on which to curl up and read. As much as I love wood floors, rugs really do help make a space feel cozy. Honestly, they should be Persian rugs...after all, I'm going for fantasy, and frankly, the many-colored-designs really do create a focal point in a room. What about art? I need art! Art is beautiful! How can I live without art? Up on the walls art goes. And so on. While other yoginis are contemplating the sound of their own breathing, I'm debating window treatments and the merits of French doors over pocket doors. I've gone so far as to think about making a pergola with a fountain just outside on the patio. Though, in fairness, I'm somewhat stuck between mossy brick or sleek flagstone.

Obviously, I'm very far from mastering the concept of a happy place, at least how it pertains to yoga. I understand the letting go of attachments, enticements and temptations of this world. I just really love to decorate. And I love comfort and beauty. I've come to my own realization, or perhaps it's a justification, that my happy place can be my dream room. I feel safe there. I feel the ability to let go of "House & Garden" moments to just explore how I'm feeling "deep down true". I may not be one with the universe, but I am away from my cares, my worries, my fears and my indignities. Perhaps I do focus too long on the merits and shapes of topiary plants. But, perhaps that's just what I need right now. Maybe I need to think about throw pillows and cozy blankets to get me out of my pain filled head and my despair over our lives' complications at this moment. I beat myself up over my lack of ability to conjure up the empty void. Yet, I'm coming to the realization that what I may need now isn't a void, but a space that's filled with light, peace and comfort.

Professor Dumbledore once said to Harry Potter, "Numbing the pain for a while will only make it worse when you finally feel it." I had a yoga instructor tell me something very similar recently. However, when we're on complete overload, I do think we need a little numbness now and then.

Mine just happen to come with choices in upholstery.

Laughter through tears

2011-09-05T10:52:00.003-04:00

"Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion." ~ Dolly Parton as Truvy, in "Steel Magnolias".

There's an absolutely wonderful short film by European filmmaker Christine Rabette entitled "Merci". In this exceptional 8 minute movie, not a word is spoken. Emotions, however, are conveyed with powerful imagery. The scene opens with an underground rail system and moves into a Metro car. The riders are nearly colorless...bland, beige, drab and downtrodden. Every face has a frown upon it. Every eye is downcast. It's a gloomy, depressing scene. The viewer feels the degradation, the monotony and the bleakness of the lives of the riders.

At the next Metro stop a smiling, robust, jolly man steps onto the train. Despite his grin, no one meets his gaze. He begins to chuckle, at first. Then guffaws. The train riders look aghast initially, or even disgusted. Yet, his laughter is infectious. Before long, the woman next to him is laughing along with him. The serious, stern riders further away begin to smile to themselves. Within an instant they, too, are giggling. A moment passes and the entire train is filled with optimistic, joyful mirth. As the Metro pulls into another stop, The Laughing Bodhisattva departs. But he leaves behind a much happier car.

For the past few weeks, I've felt quite a bit like the discouraged riders on that subway. One situation after another has left me depleted. Once again, I'm unwell. Although we don't have a diagnosis yet, I'm in nearly constant severe pain and am suffering from other ailments. It's been extremely difficult to get a doctor to return my calls. In the hospital, it was nearly impossible to find anyone to even really listen to me. They were simply too busy to meet my gaze. In a sense, those health care professionals were riding on this same sad Metro car along with me. Additionally, my husband just lost his job. More than that, he lost his career, due to downsizing. He's a well educated, hard working man and has always been employed. This blow has also been extremely demoralizing...not to mention that it's terrifying in this economy. My heart has been so heavy, it's been close to breaking for good.

Yet, I had my own personal Bodhisattva appear, in canine form, this morning. My dog, Dakota, is a rescue. She's a beautiful Shiloh Shepherd. She came to us with many fears and has slowly been emerging from her personal troubled subway ride. As Dakota has gained in confidence, a mischievous sprite has taken form. I woke up to find her snuggling with me in bed. This isn't surprising. Dakota is very cuddly. What was unexpected, at any rate, was that my entire bed was covered in toilet paper. Not only was Dakota wrapped up like a mummy, but my other dog, Murphy (a Newfoundland-Golden Retriever mix) also was quietly bearing the binds of his wrappings. My lamps were covered. My robe, next to the bed, was covered. Somehow, my Kindle was completely wrapped up in its own package, as was the remote control to the television. There was toilet paper from headboard to the end of my bed, draping us all in a cocoon. It was as if I woke up in a canopy bed made of toilet paper. Miraculously, none of it was really broken. It was all looping, long, entire rolls. And, I'd slept through the entire construction. My crimson and gold bedding was lost in a sea of white. Seeing through the curtains of toilet paper, I saw two beautiful, mirthful eyes. Dakota had been waiting for me to wake up.

Although Dakota couldn't begin laughing herself, I knew that this was her gift to me. Her sprightly, goofy antics were the medicine I needed. I laughed. And laughed. And laughed. Dakota got up and rollicked around with the now destroyed toilet paper castle. She jumped. She whirled. She nearly pulled me out of bed with her merry shenanigans. I loved every second.

Are our problems solved? No. Do we have any answers to the fearful question we face? Also, no. But Dakota gave me a precious treat: the ability to look at the present moment with joy in my heart. When you think about it, isn't that what we all need? Life isn't about the long term; it's about loving each day as if comes, finding the bright spots and steering your course towards them. It's also about laughter through tears. If we can't laugh during our times of trial, then we won't see the miracles that are right in front of us...even if those miracles are created by a dog with a penchant for toilet paper.

Losing things

2011-08-16T08:13:00.001-04:00

"Anyway, it doesn't matter how much, how often, or how closely you keep an eye on things because you can't control it. Sometimes things and people just go. Just like that." ~ Cecelia Ahern, "There's no place like here"

I lose things. I absolutely, resolutely, completely and totally misplace things all the time. Occasionally, the evasive items seem to reappear in the most random locations possible. I remember, back in middle school, I was absolutely frantic because I'd lost my French book. I had a huge quiz on several chapters the next day. My mother and I turned the house completely upside down looking for it to no avail. I called every friend in that class to see if she might have taken my book by mistake. I retraced my steps over and over again. When my mom (who is a former French teacher) promised she'd do her best to make me up a study guide, with thoughts on her best 'guesstimate' of what the test would include, she realized it was time to start dinner for our family. The mocked up French chapters would have to wait until we'd eaten. As she opened the fridge, she saw, behind the orange juice and leftovers, the hiding text. For reasons I couldn't quite fathom, I'd come home from school, opened the refrigerator to get a snack and then left all of my school books inside. It made no sense, and yet, it made perfect sense. It was a logical, albeit peculiar, place for me to set them down after school and before my riding lessons.

Most of the time, my forgetfulness is exactly like this experience my 12 year old self had had: my missing items aren't actually missing. They're simply misplaced. I'm a terrible organizer, even to this day. I will kick my shoes off in the most illogical spots and then be panicked when I can't find them. (They're usually under my desk or, for reasons I don't really understand, in the pantry.). My husband will find bills in my car. My daughter will notice that my favorite bracelet is in the suitcase I'd used a week before. My son will laughingly point out that my sunglasses are not, in fact, missing, but rather are on my head.

And yet, there are those times when something simply vanishes. It's gone. No amount of house turning over will help. I have learned the "St. Anthony" prayer from my Catholic friends. It does help me locate items that are still just misplaced. I've learned, however, that some odds and ends are stubborn and refuse to be located. I think this is why I enjoyed "There's no place like here" by Cecelia Ahern so much. Ahern (who is best known for "P.S. I love you" and "The Book of Tomorrow") has created a magical world. But, unlike Narnia or Middle Earth, Ahern's other dimension is populated by all those missing objects that people lose every day. The land is filled with car keys, luggage that vanished from being checked onto a plane and thousands of individual socks. More than that, Ahern has imagined a place where all those missing people, the ones we see flyers for every day, have landed. These folks have gone onto have full lives, built homes and a sense of community, in this home of the disappeared. The protagonist, Sandy Shortt (who is over 6 feet tall), has a classmate that vanishes from her neighborhood in Ireland, and becomes obsessed with finding every lost possession. She goes on to create a private detective service, specializing in missing people. Because, in both life and literature, irony remains a crucial tool, Shortt herself goes missing and winds up in this home for the off course. There was no need for money (though the residents have plenty, thanks to those vanished wallets and purses) because all of their needs are met by gathering the new suitcase arrivals. They have homes, lives, jobs and are settled into the lives they now have.

Although some readers had found this novel scary, rather than quirky, I quite enjoyed it. I actually took comfort in believing that, perhaps, my collection of right hand gloves (I have dozens of lefts) are somewhere nice. I am optimistic that my books (most of which I'd only made it halfway through) are being read by someone else somewhere. I'd be relieved to know that my children's favorite toys (which were tearfully left behind in places) would be loved by others. While it's awful losing something we treasure, the possibility that it's gone on to have 'another life' is ultimately reassuring.

Obviously, this can't happen. Those poor books, left forgotten and face down on a beach someplace, have turned to paper goo. The stuffed animals, or Star Wars figures, would have, at best, ended up in the trash. My right hand gloves, most likely left on top of my car after I'd unlocked my vehicle, probably blew off to be driven right over only moments later. Still, the imaginative idea of a second life for all of this 'baggage' is a fascinating daydream. I'd like to believe it.

In the meantime, I'll continue to look for my yoga mat and car keys. If only I could find them!

A day off...

2011-08-06T13:48:00.002-04:00

Sometimes, in a summer morning, having taken my accustomed bath, I sat in my sunny doorway from sunrise till noon, rapt in reverie. ~Henry David Thoreau

When my children were younger, it often felt as if we were on a merry-go-round that was spinning much too quickly. Our days were spent rushing from one place to another. We hurried to get out the door to school, to pick up, then to soccer, to ballet, to hockey practice. We might have had Cub Scout meetings in the evening. We would be up until midnight creating a diorama for a 2nd grade project on dinosaurs while helping to make flashcards to memorize multiplication tables. Even vacations seemed to be too busy, as we hurried to visit one group in the family in one part of the country, while already planning the next trip. It became a stressful, messy blur of movement.

Every now and then, I'd declare a family holiday. No one would go to school, go to sports, we'd blow off Sunday School one weekend and we'd simply let the laundry go undone. I'd throw a blanket down in the yard, or in poor weather, in the family room. We'd watch Monty Python and make traditional English "set tea". We'd play endless games of Mother May I or "Guess Who?". We'd make forts using couch cushions and sheets. We'd make pizza for breakfast or pancakes for dinner. We would let the phone go unanswered. We'd leave the mail in the box. We'd read. We'd read. We'd read. The kids and I read all of the Narnia Chronicles in just such days.

Obviously, we couldn't do this all of the time. We had responsibilities. We had work and lessons and life. It was all just outside our home. But, for a day here and there, we stepped outside the realm of 'have to' and into 'want to'. These were blissful, magical, dreamy lazy days. I wish we'd had more of them. Time does march on, of course. Kids grow up. It's much harder to miss AP Biology than it is to blow off one day of long division. The world becomes more stressful with every passing year.

With the unbelievable dread of the news today, I find myself thinking of those days off wistfully. The horrible helicopter crash in Afghanistan broke my heart. The economic crisis makes me terrified of our own financial well being. My health being precarious only makes my fears more personal. I wish I could take a step back from all of it. I want to turn off the phone. I would like the television to either break, or to only broadcast shows that are lighthearted. I want to throw off bill paying, house cleaning, yard work, personal commitments and everything that causes me concern. I want to lie in the hammock and re-read children's books that are full of fancy and imagination.

I want a grown up day off. Too often when my husband and I have extra time, we need to squeeze the most of it. While Jeff is mowing the lawn or sealing the driveway, I'm getting caught up with vacuuming, dusting and organizing. I wish I could wriggle my nose, like Samantha from "Bewitched", and all of those chores would be completed. More than that, I'd like to curl up and watch "Bewitched", "I Dream of Jeannie" and even "Gilligan's Island" and remember being 10 and having a day off from school.

I think we all deserve it. I believe most of us work far too hard every day not to have a true day off...with an interrupted block of time to do absolutely nothing. Or to do something absolutely silly. Try it. Ignore the news. Ignore the phone. Ignore the calendar. And just be.

Just don't forget to laugh.

Well Behaved Women

2011-07-30T17:34:00.002-04:00

The moment we begin to fear the opinions of others and hesitate to tell the truth that is in us, and from motives of policy are silent when we should speak, the divine floods of light and life no longer flow into our souls. ~ Elizabeth Cady Stanton

Have you noticed how many bumper stickers appear on cars these days? It seems as if everyone has an opinion, on just about every subject. The far left believes that we should all be vegetarians, remain out of all wars, reduce our carbon footprint and vote for the Democratic party. The far right wants us to know that we can take their guns from them...out of their cold, dead hands, as well as demanding that we vote for the Republican candidates. We are told to wear Birkenstocks and to share the road with bicycles. We are implored to shop locally and think globally. We are entreated to ask for birth certificates and reminded of the Bill of Rights. There are stickers denoting a Confederate flag, whether or not a person's child made the Honor Roll at Lincoln Middle School or how they'd like to kill fans of a rival sports team. On and on the bumper stickers go. People don't advertise their politics or personal code of ethics on their sleeves, but on their cars.

Frankly, the one bumper sticker I'd be slightly tempted to put on my car would read "Pro-privacy". Why? Because I prefer not reading about someone's legislative dynamics. Again, why? Because so few people live up to the standards their vehicle may espouse. By virtue of noticing a person's 'light reading' when stuck in traffic, I hold that person to the standards their car advertises. I don't think that's an unreasonable assumption to make.

An experience I had recently brought this point home. The bumper sticker on the back of a Prius read "Well behaved women seldom make history". I happen to agree with this sentiment. I graduated from the oldest women's college in the United States and I'm very proud of that fact. During my time in college, I learned more than the average college student about the role of women throughout history. The suffragette movement was particularly interesting to me because I came of age to vote my first year of college. I learned what an extraordinary priviledge this was and that I was able to be a voting woman thanks to a group of 'non-well behaved women' who lobbied tirelessly. They were the vocal minority fighting against an equally vocal majority who did not believe that women were capable of deciding government affairs.

The "pious Prius" in front of me, however, led me to feel anger at this particular bumper sticker. In addition to cutting me off in heavy traffic, the driver flipped me 'the bird' and screamed "get your 'bleeping' gas guzzling SUV off the road." She also yelled out epithets regarding female dogs and the possibility of my being illegitimate at my birth. As I slammed on the brakes (to avoid hitting her car, as she ran through a stop light), the bumper sticker was inches away from my own front bumper. I followed this driver slowly, through the gridlock of Maine summer driving, and had ample opportunity to think of nasty rebuttals. My mind went round. And round. And round. Every vicious, calculating, evil idea that crossed my thoughts remained on the tip of my tongue. When the non-well behaved woman held up traffic to double park in town, and I was able to inch by her, I had the perfect opportunity to shout any one of the snarky retorts I'd devised. My window was down. She was stuck next to her double-parked car because nobody was letting her cross the road without being in the crosswalk. Dozens of mean spirited comebacks were available to me!

I did not say any of them. I actually smiled, and waved her on so that she could cross in front of me. Of course, I thought these comments to myself. My internal monologue was screaming at this woman. But, I didn't say a word. Why? Because I'm far too well behaved to have caterwauled unkind, and unnecessary, insults. Maybe this means I won't make history. I'm positive it signifies that I'm doomed to live a quiet life of swallowing scorn. But, I'm okay with that. I don't believe I'm any less valuable to society because I am a well behaved woman. I'm frankly damn proud of being well behaved. In a world in which people hurl insults at one another based on which baseball team one favors, I'd like to think I can rise above this kind of petty anger, sparked by bumper sticker mayhem.

I don't put bumper stickers on my car. I have no beef with anyone that does choose to advertise their beliefs in a vehicular fashion.What I do have is some advice: keep in mind that your "words of wisdom" are read by lots of people every day. If you choose to advertise your feelings on any given subject, you should be prepared to live up to those same words. If they entreat, implore or encourage the person in the car behind you to believe in your ideals, you should be answerable to them. If your bumper stickers are offensive, harsh or downright disrespectful to anyone, ask yourself why you feel the need to publicly put others down. I agree wholeheartedly in difference of opinion. The world would be a tremendously dull place if we all felt the same way on every issue. I've actually learned the most from people with whom I have had a healthy debate. Yet, far too often people's opinions cross the line in a very public way that may even reflect badly on the very issues they feel strongly about. Is it too much to just want us all to 'get along'? Is common courtesy a thing of the past? I remain steadfast in my own commitment to simply 'be nice'.

In the meantime, I remain a well behaved woman. I may never make history, but I fully intend to live up to my own paradigm. I just choose to keep those ideals private.

Weeds

2011-07-25T09:48:00.002-04:00

Even a good garden may have some weeds. ~Thomas Fuller

Despite my intensely prolific brown thumb, I was determined to have a garden this year. I love and admire my friends who garden. My friend, Tammie, could create an English country garden in one season...one that looked as if it had been there forever. My friend, Deb, was able to design an outdoor space that had magical looking corners in each part of her yard. Even my mom's Arizona yard is much more 'Southwest resort' than it is desert wasteland. So, despite my lack of knowledge and skill, I decided that this was going to be the year I made my yard a haven, and not a hodgepodge.

I failed. I failed miserably. The bulbs I planted last fall must have been eaten by the world's fattest chipmunks, who seem incredibly pleased with themselves this year. (No doubt, they'll be expected the same gourmet buffet in October). We lost a good many trees to the heavy snows. My flowers were either overwhelmed by rain or steamed by the intense heat of the past weeks. It was disappointing.

And yet, there are some things growing in my yard. They're just not the roses or day lilies I was expecting. There are flowering weeds just about everywhere. My mom has always maintained that weeds are much smarter than cultivated plants. She believes they are hardier and more adaptable. So, they can spring up wherever they can take root. The irony? Many of them are quite lovely. In my front yard are growing some lovely purple things. Do I know the names of them? Nope. I have no idea what they are. But they add some color and spunk to an otherwise purely green space. I have decided not to cut them or pull them out. They are pretty, they are hardy and they are resilient. So, I'm letting them grow where their wished for cousins have failed to bloom. They are really are quite charming.

I think that these weeds are a bit of a metaphoric message to me. We may wish for things to be different in our lives....we may want to change who we are and what direction we want to take. We may try to cultivate the parts of ourselves that we want to be more beautiful, more successful and more organized. The pieces of our intentions that take root aren't always the ones we expect...or the ones we've desired. However these 'weeds' of our personality may very well be quite wonderful. Perhaps our stubbornness sees us through tough times and enables us to persevere. Maybe our quick temper is a way we focus our energy in short bursts and can be trained--laser beam strong--to cut through layers of drama. What if the parts of ourselves we don't like can be looked at in another way? What if we can see our faults as essential layers of our personality, not to be winnowed and extracted, but honed and refined...creating something unique and useful?

Obviously, not all weeds, whether literal or metaphorical, are good for us. If left unchecked and allowed to run wild, they can take over completely and reign our yard and our lives in anarchy. Still, I wonder what would happen if we began to see other weeds, the pretty ones, the interesting ones, the curious ones, in a new light. Perhaps those weeds might serve a purpose for us if we only look at them in a different way.

Bouncing

2011-07-20T12:34:00.001-04:00

Life is not about how fast you run or how high you climb but how well you bounce. ~Vivian Komori

Blue jeans. Shorts. Bathing suits. My sense of balance. My energy level. My personal idea of self-worth. My health. My job. My fear factor and anxiety level. These are all areas that I've discovered are completely different than they were six months ago. My cancer surgery, to remove the Leiomyosarcoma tumor from my abdominal wall along with a good portion of muscle tissue, was half a year ago. And yet, those ripples of interwoven effect are still very much flowing through my life.

Six months used to sound like a long time to me. I remember saying to a friend, who was an incredible scheduler and planner, than it was hard for me to look a week ahead, let alone six months. This pal was amazing! She'd have a calender of events for her family's life booked anywhere from six months to a year in advance. I was awed by her foresight. In my own life, six months was much too far in the future to fathom. During that time, my children might almost finish a school year, we might get a new car, we might take a trip...it was just a distant horizon. Given the nature of unpredictable, extenuating circumstances, I had an impossible time picturing what might happen half a year away.

The past six months, however, have moved along at a snail's pace. Even after I'd had my surgery, it never even crossed my mind that I'd still be recovering six months later. In my ignorance, I believed that I'd bounce back immediately. I thought my energy level would jump out and greet me with the enthusiasm of a Labrador puppy. I was confident that my body would retain its pre-surgical form. I not only thought I'd be back at work as a yoga instructor, but that I'd be an even better one. How foolish I was! I had no clue that six months is a drop in the grand bucket of time from cancer recovery. Every step, every time I'd sit up, every motion I'd make has been an arduous, laborous endeavor. Simple actions that I could have done blindfolded, such as moving the laundry from the washer to the dryer, have taken me intense concentration, followed by rest. Each improvement I've made has been the result of deliberate conquest.

Because so many of these achievements have been 'behind the scenes' ones, just like the laundry, I've felt guilty for not being 'back to my old self'. When my former boss was kind, but clearly frustrated, with my inability to be back to work in February, she hired another teacher. It was understandable. It was necessary. But, my feelings were hurt all the same. If I couldn't push a vacuum cleaner around without causing myself further injury and pain, I clearly couldn't teach the five intense yoga classes per week that I had taught up until my illness and surgery. I wanted to give myself a parade for being able to sit up in a theater. What an accomplishment! But, to the rest of the world, it simply wasn't a big deal. Everyone can sit up! Why was it a cause for celebration to me?

When I read today's quote by Vivian Komori, I felt as if I could breathe a sigh of sweet peaceful relief. I am bouncing! I may not be holding a Warrior pose for 20 minutes with ease. I might not be climbing Mount Katahdin. I'm still not back to my former career. But, I'm bouncing. I'm doing laundry. I'm traveling with my children. I'm cooking dinner for my family. I'm walking my dogs. I'm enjoying the beautiful sunshine. I'm not where I'd like to be, but I'm on my way there, bouncing as I go.

I've always loved water, and when I was a very little girl, my mom was concerned that my lack of fear about our swimming pool overstepped my swimming ability for a time. Rather than ban me from the pool, she taught me a practical skill: if I ever feel as if I can't swim any further, I need only bounce. I'd push myself down to the bottom of the pool and spring up forward all along the way back to the shallow end. It was invaluable. A few times I really did tire in the deep end. I'd hold my breath, propel myself down and then, pushing off the pool floor, hurtle forward always making progress as I ricocheted along.

Life has been a bit like that for the last six months. I'll go down a bit and wrestle in the deep end of an area in my life and then hurdle upwards with a new spring in my step. Six months have come and gone. I'm not in the shallow end yet. I still have lots of areas that need attention and work. But, I'm bouncing. It may not be far with each upward movement, but I'm bouncing all the same.

Falling in love

2011-06-27T09:49:00.004-04:00

" Falling in love with someone isn't always going to be easy... Anger... tears... laughter.. It's when you want to be together despite it all. That's when you truly love another. I'm sure of it." ~ Helen Rowland

I'm in the midst of falling in love. The moment I saw the photo of my beloved, having never met, I knew it was meant to be. My heart beat a little faster. My eyes misted up with tears. My soul cried out "This is the one!". It was an extraordinary experience. I knew that we were meant to be together, regardless of how difficult the path might be. I was willing to take on any difficulties so that the object of my affection and I could share as many years as possible together. It's a wonderful feeling. I feel more alive. The air smells sweeter. Food tastes more delicious. My senses are more heightened. And, I'm utterly and completely exhausted.

Why? If I'm in love, for what reason could I possibly be this tired? Because my new love is young Shiloh Shepherd dog. I first saw her picture on the Shepherd Rescue organization's rescue page. I am on every possible animal rescue list. I am generous to a fault when it comes to the welfare of animals who are in desperate need of help. My mother has rescued countless dogs over the years. We even rescued some horses in dire straights. If I could adopt every one who needed a home, I'm afraid we'd be out of a place to live. So, I've learned to be sympathetic, to work hard to help animals who are at great risk, but understanding that I can't save them all. Yet, when I saw Dakota's face, I knew she was 'the one'. It was a spiritual experience. Dakota's eyes literally told me that we were meant to be a family. After applying for adoption, and being selected, we had to figure out how best to get this Virginia native up to Maine. This ended up involving a bleary eyed trip to New Jersey and back.

Getting new a dog, even a young one as Dakota, who has already had one home isn't like bringing home a puppy, who has just left her Mama. A dog who has had a home before knows her routine, she knows her 'pack' and she knows her life where she has lived all of her life. Uprooting her, even for the best of intentions, is a tough business. There is a commitment and determination to love someone who isn't quite sure of her new life yet. There is a balance of affection, exercise, routine and gentle discipline so that she knows her new life. It's not a path to be undertaken by someone who just thinks having a new dog would be fun. There is a lot of work to be done.

And yet, it's unbelievably wonderful. I have fallen completely in love with this beautiful girl. I know that she is still getting to know me. I understand that she's spent the first year of her life with someone else. I am teaching her not to bark at new people in the house. I'm helping her to get to know our daily schedule. I'm giving her as much snuggling as I can, while still instructing her that my word is the law. I'm playing with her. I'm brushing her. I'm feeding her, letting her get on my bed, walking her, laughing at her goofy antics and generally getting to know her. Most of all, I'm letting her fall in love with me. That's as much a part of falling in love...since true love is never one sided.

I'm still awfully tired. But, it's a good tired.

Happiness in Balance

2011-06-20T19:13:00.001-04:00

“Happiness is not a matter of intensity but of balance, order, rhythm and harmony.” ~ Thomas Merton

Tonight will bring in the first official day of Summer. I have to admit; I'm a much bigger fan of the first day of Summer than I am of the first day of Winter. Here in Maine, our weather is governed not by a calendar, but by our windows. What we see happening outside tells us which season it is. Snow isn't unheard of in late October, nor is it unreasonable in April. To people in southern areas, this would be a travesty in Autumn and Spring. Frankly, it's just a normal part of life at my home. Because our Summer season is so very short, our celebrations are all the more meaningful up here. We try to embrace and hold onto each moment of warm weather, every trip to the beach and all the memories will keep us warm all winter long.

Because I was so unwell this past Winter (and since Spring is a stealth season, much of Spring, too), I have to admit that I was looking forward to today's 'annual summer kick off beach' excursion even more than usual. There is something about digging my toes in the sand, listening to the waves on the shore and smelling the salt air that just makes me happy. The feel of sunshine on my cheeks, a lovely picnic lunch and a good book is honestly all I need to feel completely at peace. And yet, if it wasn't for the lousy way this winter had gone, I wonder if I'd truly appreciate how magical today was? Would I feel the same amount of appreciation for a simple day on the ocean, if I hadn't been in and out of the hospital? Would I smile, just hearing my daughter laugh with her friends, if my house hadn't been empty and hollow all winter?

I wish I could say that I'd have the exact same amount of joy, on the first day of Summer, if I lived in a warm climate, but I'm not entirely sure that would be the case. Without the dark, there is no light. I imagine that it would be very exciting for a while. The ability to eat on the deck every night would be wonderful. The giggles rising up from the bonfire, as my kids make S'moes with their friends most nights, would be heart-warming. The idea that I could sip my coffee in the sunshine each morning would be pretty delicious. And yet, I know myself well enough to realize that I might take each one of these summer favorites for granted before long. As healing and delightful as I find the sunshine right now, I can just as easily imagine that I could stop noticing it if I had it in spades every day. Why? Because there are times I fail to appreciate living at the ocean. Not long ago, my husband and I were walking our dog along the cove and ran into a very nice family from inland Virginia. They wondered if we just were in awe, every single day, about living in such a gorgeous place with such exceptional views. The fact is, we drive in and out of our neighborhood so many times every day that we don't often look up, as we're driving towards the ocean. Our brains are set to get into the garage as quickly as we can.

Maybe it takes a certain amount of Winter before we can fully appreciate Summer. Maybe we have to be diagnosed with cancer before we stop and realize that life is miraculous. Maybe we have to be completely off kilter and out of balance in order to appreciate having a harmonious symmetry to our days.

Whatever the celebrations will bring this Summer, I promise myself to strive for balance...to appreciate the small things as much as I do the grand ones, and to seek out quiet for every period of revelry. Maybe, this way, I'll just be able to spread out my sense of equity.

Things my Father Taught Me

2011-06-17T09:26:00.001-04:00

We started a program with all our guest contact people using a new secret oath: “Everybody sells!”-- "Think Strawberries", James H. Lavenson

Most people believe that their father was a giant among men. In this, I'm no different. My father, Jim Lavenson, was an extraordinary man. His career had three major peaks: advertising, corporate hotelier and entrepreneur. He conquered all of them and set the standard for excellence in each field. That said, what I remember most about my Dad wasn't his glory and achievement in the business world. It is the lessons about life he taught me. He was courageous, he was terrifyingly smart and he was unbelievably witty. He taught me to strive for those three fundamental principles in everything I do.

Here are some other lessons I learned along the way:

Never lose your sense of humor. I'm serious by nature and Dad taught me that maintaining my sense of humor in all earnest matters will save me from continual heartbreak and hurt feelings. I also learned that a sense of humor can diffuse conflict more quickly than a need to prove that I'm right.
Never take anything personally. This is part two "Never lose your sense of humor". When someone makes a snarky remark to me, I need to think "They can't possibly mean me".
Everybody sells. This was the cornerstone of Dad's business plan. It also meant to be gracious, to be outgoing, to be knowledgeable and to be enthusiastic. It doesn't matter if one is in a sales job or not. We are all sellers of our talents, our time, our point of view and our dreams.
Keep your eye on the objective. Sometimes, when we're reaching out for our goals, there will be stumbling blocks. A lot of the time, those stumbling blocks are awful. We may have to eat crow in order to move forward. Therefore, keeping our goals clearly in mind when we are in a situation we hate, but must pass through, will be the key to 'sucking it up' to get where we want to be.
Never say "Here I am" when entering a room. Say "There you are!" to someone else. Humility is far more important in building character than a large ego. Dad taught me to always treat others as honored and inspiring, and to avoid puffing myself up with pride.
Family is everything. Despite my father's keen business success, I knew that my mom and I were the most important things in his life. I knew he had to work very hard. But, I also was always aware that I was the center of his universe. I never equated his long hours with his not wanting to be with me.
Nature is extraordinary. Dad was a conservationist before the term was ever a political buzz word. While he never managed to impart his love of camping with me (I still loathe it), I appreciate the beauty of the natural world. I want to maintain and keep stunning the unspoiled magnificence just as Dad did. In spite of a dislike for sleeping outdoors, Dad did teach me to ride (both a horse and a bike), sail (albeit poorly), ski (again, albeit poorly) and hike. My lack of 'Maine Guide' skills aren't Dad's fault.
Root Beer Floats make an excellent lunch. So do Banana Splits.
We are dog people. Both of my parents are dog people. Dogs, whom my father trained and loved, were always a part of our lives. If we had to claim a kinship to any animal, it would be dogs.
The best gift a father can give his children is to love their mother. I had this gift in spades. My father deeply loved my mother. He was a romantic until the end of his life and always surprised her in sweet ways.

There are dozens more lessons that Dad taught me. The tears in my eyes, despite his being gone for almost 13 years, are too heavy to keep writing. Above all, my father taught me, through his example, to always strive for excellence, but never to proclaim it for myself. He taught me to work as hard as I possibly can and to learn as much as I could throughout my life. He taught me to take chances, that it's never too late to try something new and to be brave in the face of my many fears. He also taught me to stand up for injustice and strive for peace in all areas of life.

I miss you, Dad. I love you always. And every time I see an "X" in the sky, or a heart shaped rock on the beach, I think of you. You were the best.

The Bohemian Sloth

2011-06-13T08:50:00.003-04:00

When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves. ~Victor Frankl

I first began taking Yoga classes on a bit of a dare. My friend, Tammie, begged me to go with her. I was an aerobics junkie at the time. I loved going to step aerobics and even wore the (now foolish looking) leotards that Jane Fonda made so popular. At a dinner party at Tammie's beautiful Victorian home, she urged me to come with her. She wasn't sure if she even liked Yoga herself and had only been a few times. A long distance runner, Tammie was looking for something to help her stretch out and relax. She'd found a teacher she really liked, but the Yoga itself presented more of a challenge for her; like me, Tam had a hard time turning off her thoughts and mind. So with her lovingly finagling me to come and see what I thought (and promising me that we could laugh together), I committed I'd join her for the Monday morning class. We'd drop the children off at the day care at the health club so they'd all be together. We even toasted our new adventure with an excellent bottle of red wine.

By Monday, I had no idea why I'd agreed to go. I looked in my drawers and in my closet and had absolutely nothing suitable for a Yoga class. I knew my pink paisley leotards would be inappropriate, as would running shorts. With two young children needing a quick breakfast before we left, I had very little time to think about wardrobe. I literally threw on a pair of navy blue leggings and a white Polo and hoped it would all be okay. I kicked on a pair of Sperry Topsiders, threw on an L.L Bean fleece and called it good. It was raining. I was dragging two exhausted, cranky preschoolers out of the door before 8 am and I was regretting my decision to go. All in all, the gloomy weather fit my mood.

Once the kids greeted their friends at day care, once my own friend had helped me find a mat and a blanket, and once I felt slightly settled in place, I met the teacher. She was lovely and so down to Earth I couldn't help but adore her immediately. She put my fears at ease and urged me to take 'my practice at my own pace' and just to do the asanas that made me feel comfortable. If I didn't like something, I didn't have to do it. This wasn't a competition. I remember letting out a sigh of relief as the class began.

Little did I know that that one class would change the course of my life. I began to loosen up for the first time ever...both physically and mentally. I became stronger than I had ever been, in body, mind and spirit. I began seeing the links between thoughts and reality. I opened my very closed mind to an entirely new way of experiencing the world. It was, in short, miraculous. After fighting cancer the first time, I became a yoga instructor. It was a great challenge for me because I had to further expand my practice and knowledge beyond the styles of yoga with which I was comfortable. In a sense, it was as if I'd began anew, as there is a great difference between being a student and becoming a teacher. My voracious appetite for knowledge was a boon as I memorized endless terms in Hindi and studied every muscle group in the body.

My moniker actually was given to me, at this time, by an obnoxious master teacher whose class became the bane of my existence. I couldn't stand his preening, self-aggrandizing manner, the way he berated and degraded his students or the inferior way, I'd felt, he explained the poses. Because I needed to become proficient in all forms of yoga before earning my R.Y.T. (Registered Yoga Instructor), I was stuck with Master Contemptible Crabby Pants for at least three months. When Yogi Beastly made one too many objectionable remarks to me, I snapped at him. I reminded him that a good teacher instructs and helps students to perfect a lesson and that a bad teacher belittles to massage his own ego. He erupted in a stream of nasty comments to me, which ended with "You're nothing but a silly little preppy yogini." I smiled. I honestly liked that. Why? It was the first time I'd ever heard him refer to me as a Yogini.

And so a name was born. What the Gloating Guru bestowed as an insult, I took to heart as a badge of honor.

After 7 years of my own teaching students to appreciate and love Yoga, I now find myself at an impasse. I am, thankfully, able to take classes once again. But, I can no longer work as I once had teaching Yoga. My latest bout of cancer rested in my lower abdominal muscles, necessitating their removal along with the tumor. My strength and ability simply isn't what it once was. Additionally, my sense of style has evolved over the years. I can't imagine wearing a Polo anymore. Long flowing dresses are more my style, as well as chunky necklaces and an arm full of bracelets. My energy level has been quite low since the surgery. I now feel more like The Bohemian Sloth than I do the Preppy Yogini. I'm in search of my next adventure. Wishing for a life I once had is an understandable sentiment. But, I can't allow myself to wallow in regret. I need to move forward towards an unknown destination.

I just will have exchanged my Penny Loafers for Turquoise laden sandals for the walk.

At Loose Ends

2011-06-10T16:06:00.004-04:00

Emma...my new walking partner

Habit is a cable; we weave a thread each day, and at last we cannot break it. ~Horace Mann

A few days ago, my big Newfoundland mix was injured. Obviously, I adore my dog. He's my massive, cuddly Teddy bear. He's my conscience, my best friend and my favorite companion all rolled into a 110 pound package. Murphy is the court jester in our house. He's also the Spirit of Empathy. His torn meniscus may require surgery. His spirit remains positive and filled with joy. But, he simply can't walk around the house easily, let alone on our usual daily treks. It's painful to watch him try to get around. I love him so much that I hate his being in pain.

I also realized, however, that I haven't taken a walk without a child (or two) or a dog (or two) in 19 years. This may sound silly to many people. I am certain the idea of an unencumbered walk would be the ideal heaven to most. I'm perfectly capable of walking around foreign cities and going exploring. I like nothing better than seeing if I can get myself good and lost in new places to try to allow serendipity to bring amazing new spots into my life. I am a believer in kismet and fate beckoning me forward to previously unknown adventures. These chance encounters (with new museums, new restaurants and all new streets) aside, my daily walk is something completely different. I simply don't like to walk alone for exercise or to let off steam.

I am absolutely content in my own company. I'm one of those women who, like a hopefully less suicidal, Virgina Woolf, would love to have a "Room of one's own". Walking alone, however, has left me at complete loose ends. I have no idea what to do with myself. I have walked with company for so many years that I truly enjoy it. When the children were little, I used to push them in the double jogging stroller every day...with them bundled up like beautiful cherubs against any cold weather. As they grew up a bit, we'd stop and look at interesting things...the ducks in the park in Summer, the changing leaves in Fall or the very first Snowdrops in Spring. When the kids outgrew our daily strolls, I began walking the dogs alone. Although the pups didn't chatter away like my children did, they nevertheless provided me with company, fun and a bit of a sense of mischief.

Murphy's injury has taught me a truth about myself: I don't like to walk alone. I'm not afraid. I'm simply too bored with my own thoughts. I found myself dragging along, not even wanting to go. It's much easier to be lazy without a dog to walk! After a couple of days, my neighbor took pity on me, after seeing me walk brokenhearted. She has two lovely Golden Retrievers, who have often played with Murphy. Her younger dog, Emma, needs longer walks that my neighbor can manage right now. Emma was so happy to be my walking buddy! It was also fun watching Emma encounter my usual route for the first time. Seeing the paths through her eyes gave me a whole new incentive to continue to show her other new spots we can walk together.

I will still miss walking Murphy. But, I'm glad that Kismet provided a temporary partner for me. I am never comfortable at loose ends with myself. And since my walks are a vital part of my healing from cancer, I'm glad that Emma's along for the journey.

The 30 Day Book Challenge

2011-05-09T08:15:00.004-04:00

A house without books is like a room without windows. ~Heinrich Mann

When my friend, Jocelyn, first began writing about her Book Challenge on Facebook, I was immediately intrigued. Reading is one of the greatest passions of my life! Having also completed the October Dress Project last Autumn, I was up for another 30 day challenge. Given that we've just completed National Library Week, I decided that this was as good a time as any to begin a new endeavor. Finally, having just come out of my head being in a fog from battling Leiomyosarcoma, a rare form of cancer that struck my abdominal muscles, I believed that an intellectual challenge would be just what I needed to get my mind thinking about the books that have shaped my life.

Does this sound interesting? I hope so, and I hope that you will join me in my latest quest: Ellen's 30 Day Book Challenge

Below are the directions for completing a 30 day book challenge of your own:

Create a photo album and use Photobucket, Amazon, or Shelfari (or some other site with pictures of books) to share pictures of the books on this list day by day.

Day 1: Favorite book
Day 2: Least favorite book
Day 3: Book that makes you laugh out loud
Day 4: Book that makes you cry
Day 5: Book you wish you could live in
Day 6: Favorite young adult book
Day 7: Book that you can quote/recite
Day 8: Book that scares you
Day 9: Book that makes you sick
Day 10: Book that changed your life
Day 11: Book from your favorite author
Day 12: Book that is most like your life
Day 13: Book whose main character is most like you
Day 14: Book whose main character you want to marry
Day 15: First “chapter book” you can remember reading as a child
Day 16: Longest book you’ve read
Day 17: Shortest book you’ve read
Day 18: Book you’re most embarrassed to say you like
Day 19: Book that turned you on
Day 20: Book you’ve read the most number of times
Day 21: Favorite picture book from childhood
Day 22: Book you plan to read next
Day 23: Book you tell people you’ve read, but haven’t (or haven’t actually finished)
Day 24: Book that contains your favorite scene
Day 25: Favorite book you read in school
Day 26: Favorite nonfiction book
Day 27: Favorite fiction book
Day 28: Last book you read
Day 29: Book you’re currently reading
Day 30: Favorite Coffee Table book

Mother's Day advice from a Veteran Child Wrangler.

2011-05-04T13:53:00.001-04:00

Any mother could perform the jobs of several air traffic controllers with ease. ~ Lisa Alther

When I became a mother for the first time, in 1992, I approached this job as I would any other new challenge: I read every book ever written on the subject. I struggled to rationalize the Sears' attachment childrearing method with that of authors who believed that strict structure was fundamental to a smoothly running home. I read about the merits of cloth vs. disposable diapers, breastfeeding vs. bottle feeding and whether or not to return to work shortly after my son was born. I made sure that my baby's room was neither too dull (so as not to diminish his brain capacity) nor too overstimulating (so as not to overwhelm him). I tried incredibly hard to give myself a crash course in motherhood before my baby's birth. I did everything in my power to create a network of support, a plan of action for each eventuality and a determination to be the best mother ever.

I failed. Nothing one reads about motherhood can prepare you for having a Lego stuck in your child's nose on Christmas Eve or for the times your dog stands in the middle of your dining room table, at your child's request, to eat her vegetables. What I did learn was that sometimes, to quote that infamous movie from the '80's, you just have to say "What the f***."

Therefore, it's with a little humor, and a lot of experience over the past 19 years, that I can pass along a few tidbits for the modest edification for new mothers:

It's pointless to write a birth plan. Don't bother. Babies don't have plans and neither do their births. Some will come so quickly that you will barely have time for the doctor to arrive in time to 'make the catch'. Others will hang onto your intestines rather than give up room service in a cozy spot. Trust me. I had one of each.
Let your baby sleep in your bed if you want to...especially if you're so tired you are unsteady on your feet. Your son will be cozy, safe and happy snuggled up against you. He will not grow overly dependent on sleeping with you. He will not leave for college still snug in the family bed. If he does? It'll be his roommate's problem.
When another person says, condescendingly, that it's time for your daughter to be weaned, potty trained, cleaning her own room, doing her own laundry or calculating algebraic equations, smile brightly and say "Thank you so much! That hadn't occurred to me!", while going blithely about your own business.
Read to your child as much as possible. The days will come in which you will beg your son to read a comic, let alone a classic. So, when he asks you to read "Goodnight Moon" for the 300th time in four days, just smile and read.
Expose your children to many different kinds of foods as young as you can. Children who eat nothing but hot dogs and chicken nuggets grow up into adults who eat nothing but hot dogs and chicken nuggets. That being said, you will not be a bad mom if you throw hot dogs in the microwave on busy evenings.
Allow your daughter to wear whatever she wants. The time will come in which she will want to dress identically to her peers and shop in the exact same stores. When she's 3, if she wants to wear her Barbie Ballerina costume for the other 364 days of the year, in addition to Halloween, let her. You'll just be getting your money's worth. Wearing red flowered tights, a purple paisley dress and pink summer sandals all at once (and in January) shows creativity.
When your son tells you, in 5th grade, that he wants to be a NFL Quarterback, a rock star or a cowboy, encourage him. When he gets his first job mowing lawns, he'll understand the value of hard work for the rest of us.
Kiss all boo-boo's, cuts, scrapes, aches and pains. It really does help.
Macaroni necklaces really do go well with everything, including little black dresses. If someone makes a snarky comment to you about your fashion sense, act as if it's a tremendous compliment.
Let your kids take all the pillows off the couch to build forts, obstacle courses and secret hideouts.
Sometimes eating the cookie dough together is much better than baking the cookies anyway.
Become an expert cheerer through all Little League games, Pee Wee hockey games, ballet recitals and school plays. Your child won't remember your presence, but she will be note your absence. If it's important to him, it should be important to you.
When your son's heart is broken the first time, let him cry and understand that his feelings are just as valid as they are for someone twice his age. Just because someone is 15, doesn't mean sorrow doesn't exist.
"Because I said so" is a perfectly reasonable argument.
Make picnics, go for hikes, swing in the hammock, catch fireflies and build sandcastles together. Summer is magical when you're small enough to believe those warm days will never end.
Additionally, make snowmen, put extra marshmallows in the hot chocolate and go through the trouble of dressing the kids in snowsuits on Snow Days from school. When the weatherman announces that your school district is closed for the day, do the happy dance along with your children.
When another mother's children are melting down at the library, in the grocery store or in an airport, don't judge. There by the grace of God....and so on. Ask if you can help out, instead of making a face at her.
Take your kids to Broadway to see a musical at least once. The same goes for museums and professional sports games. Let them experience the world as a much bigger place than their own little realm.
When the worst happens...when there are more bills than there are dollars to pay them, when you find yourself very sick and are scared about what will happen to your kids, when you have to explain the concept of divorce, death, natural disaster, war or poverty, kiss your children on top of their heads and let them know that, no matter what, it will be okay. Kiss them again for good measure.

Above all, remember that there are no perfect mothers. We are all just trying to do the best we can.

If fish wore socks

2011-04-25T09:58:00.004-04:00

There is no love sincerer than the love of food. ~George Bernard Shaw

I am a terrible cook. Okay, maybe not terrible. But, I'm certainly not a good one. I can make about ten decent dishes, and if I just cleverly rotate them throughout the weeks of a month, I can get by without anyone saying, "Mom, I guess I wasn't hungry after all", only to sneak a bowl of cereal a bit later. It's a regret of mine, being a terrible cook. I wish, with all my heart, that I was a good one. But, I think that being a great cook is quite a bit like being a great artist. Yes, you can attend school to learn how to refine your techniques and to learn new styles of preparation. However, the gift of being a chef seems to be an innate one; you're either born with that exceptional talent or you're not. Sadly, in the gene pool doling out gifts, that ingredient was missed in my allotment...along with the skill to balance a checkbook and the ability to carry a tune in notes that aren't only understandable to dogs and dolphins.

However, just as I wish that I was a wonderful chef, I also wish I had the ability to paint and draw. My stick figures are sadly lacking any kind of aesthetic aptitude. When I expressed this regret to my mother many years ago, she (a talented artist in her own right) said, "Ellen, for every person who creates art, there must be someone else to appreciate it. Appreciation is even more important." So, I set out to be a great appreciator. If I couldn't do something well, I would cultivate enjoyment and admiration for the gifts put before me. I like to say that my gratitude for these beautiful things in life are my own expression of art.

It should come as no surprise that I love wonderful food. I adore restaurants. Having grown up in the hotel and restaurant industry, I think my palate learned, from a very young age, how to truly relish amazing meals. I have had far too many of them to count, or to even have a favorite restaurant. My cousin, Lori, loves to tease me that, wherever I've just had an exceptionally fabulous dish, it becomes my 'favorite'...and that I have a lot of favorites, as a result. She's not far off the point. I really do! It makes it impossible for me to have a favorite food, since whatever is freshest in my mind becomes the prize of that moment.

There have been a few notable exceptions to this; and those glaring, dreadful, disturbing meals have left me shaken afterwards..and not just from food poisoning. My mom and I once had lunch at a cute little Japanese restaurant just off 5th Avenue in New York. We'd both ordered Miso soup to start. Friends, it was not good. It was so awful, in fact, that Mom and I weren't quite sure what to do with it. The gentleman at the next table leaned over to us and said, "If fish wore socks, this would be the water they would use to wash their socks in....". Not only did that comment give us something to laugh about, but decades later, Mom and I still use that expression to describe a particularly horrible meal out. It became our epithet, much like Homer's use of "Laughter Loving Aphrodite" or "Grey Eyed Athena".

My son, Josh, and I just had such a meal. There's a local seafood restaurant that's been a family tradition since I was a little girl. The food has always been excellent, and whenever we eat there now, I remember my father sitting at each table with an enormous smile on his face. Because it was just the two of us for Easter dinner this year, it seemed only fitting that my son and I should go to my late father's "special" destination for the holiday. It was one of the few places I can remember eating with then very young children AND my father, when he was still alive. We'd never had a bad meal there. Until last night. To say that it was horrific would be too kind. Josh's steak resembled a hand grenade. Had we had chosen to bring it home, I believe that he could have easily played street hockey with it. It was more rubbery than any ball we own. And, my friends, we own a lot of street hockey balls. My Coquille St. Jacques was a nightmare. Not only was the topping so hard, I could have driven across it with my SUV without making a dent, but the sauce was so fishy, it was inedible. Once again "If fish wore socks, this would be the water they would use to wash their socks in....".

Having grown in restaurants, I used to hate it when people would complain about the food. But, because I grew up in restaurants, I knew that sometimes people weren't being difficult...that there might be a problem with a dish that we should be made aware of. When our waitress asked us about our meal, pointedly looking at our barely touched plates, I did explain, nicely, what the issue was. The owner came over and was emphatic that there was NOTHING wrong with our meals...that she prepared the sauces herself and they were FINE. No apology. No "I'm sorry you didn't enjoy it". We were left with the feeling that it was OUR fault for not liking the meal. I can understand completely when a restaurant has an off night. I can also understand if it was really 'us', and not 'them'. But, in this dead age of good customer service, we were treated with no more than a glaring sense of disdain. It was not a pleasant way to conclude an otherwise happy Easter.

So, Josh and I came home, looked in the fridge, and decided that we really weren't hungry after all....only to find ourselves pouring out bowls of cereal later on. Still, "if fish wore socks" left a bad taste in my mouth, and a sense that I had been cheated out of beautiful art. But, it will give us something to laugh about. Eventually.

The Power of Beauty, Time and Perspective

2011-04-18T10:39:00.002-04:00

Do I love you because you're beautiful,
Or are you beautiful because I love you?
~Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein II, Cinderella

I have always been a sun worshiper. I have reveled in the summer months. I've spent countless hours at the beach, allowing my feet to tickle their way through the top layer of hot, silky sand down to the cooler, submersed floor below, as if they had a mind of their own searching for buried treasure. Every poolside beckoned me and I used to spend immeasurable moments reading, laughing and talking before inching my way into the water. I've loved being on boats, and feeling the wind upon my face. I've even just happily wallowed in sunshine in my own yard, gently rocking in the hammock, one foot trailing on the ground.

This love aside, something has obviously changed greatly for me: the way I look. I am thankful for the DNA that blessed me with a somewhat pleasant appearance. I never needed to make major changes or have dramatic makeovers. I was always self-conscious about my thighs, but then again, so are many women. I am one of those people, however, that genuinely enjoys eating healthfully and exercising, so staying in shape was second nature to me. The passage of time made its way across my face, but I was thankful for that bit...it allowed me to see the lessons I've learned. My "smile lines" were even a badge of honor, showing others that I had laughed far more than I had cried.

Following this most recent cancer surgery, my body has been left damaged. My scars are evident. My body's defense against this invasiveness of the surgery was to send "helper cells" to different spots around the trauma, leaving me with pronounced, but highly uneven, puffiness. I lost approximately 1/3 of my lower abdominal muscle, in which the malignant tumor has insinuated itself. One would think that this would make me concave. But, instead, it's as if the area is in rebellion at losing part of itself. My face is changed...more tired, older, careworn. My hair, still short from the biopsy, gave me nothing to 'hide behind'. My confidence in my appearance is at an all time low. I remain thankful at being here, but fearful and exhausted.

I had resigned myself to spending the rest of my life in "modest mom" bathing suits...the kind you'd see on older ladies who also sport flowered bathing caps. Both my own mother and my teenage daughter encouraged me not to change the way I approach my love of sunshine. They insisted I wear the same bathing suits I've always worn, and that, should I hide myself away in layers of spandex, it's as if the cancer has won regardless of my surgery's outcome. While in Arizona in March, I blissfully sat out by my mom's pool...no one seeing me but family. It was heavenly to feel the sun on my skin after such a long winter of pain, recovery and fear. I was slightly encouraged in the way I looked, and just that hint of a tan I gained made me feel much more like the 'old me'.

So, bikini packed, I headed to Florida last week. My son was moving out of his apartment and getting ready to head home for the summer. I flew down to help him get everything organized and settled. In between trips to the UPS store and phone calls to the movers, I did have a couple of blessed afternoons by the hotel pool. For the first time since my surgery, I sat out in a bikini in front of strangers.

Friends, it did not go well. There was a 20-something couple, drinks in hand, who saw me walk by as I neared the pool steps and snickered at me behind their hands. They'd look up and laugh a little more. This hurt me tremendously. My face flushed with shame and all my insecurities came rushing back, hurtling like a runaway stagecoach. My urge was to flee and hide indoors. Who was I kidding? I looked like a Frankenstein-ian experiment gone horribly wrong. I am a 45 year old lusus naturae. What was I thinking, wearing a bikini? And then, just before I grabbed my towel and ran for the safety of the pool house, I stopped. I took a couple of deep, measured breaths. Then I continued on my journey towards the pool steps. But, before I walked into the water, I turned and looked at the very young, very foolish pair who were laughing, and said, "Beautiful day, isn't it?".

And so it was.

The Fine Line

2011-04-08T11:08:00.004-04:00

Practicing compassion, caring for others and sharing their problems, lays the foundation for a meaningful life, not only at the level of the individual, family or community, but also for humanity as a whole. ~ His Holiness, the Dalai Lama

People say that there are only three seasons here in Maine: Summer, Autumn and Winter. Summer is glorious and we revel in it. The long hours of sunlight, filling our days with the beach or boating. Lovely picnics and laughter well into the warm evenings. Autumn is nothing short of magical. The trees turn colors we only see in gemstones; rich ruby, glimmering topaz and vibrant amber. Winter, while seemingly endless, takes on a rhythm and sense of coziness. The snow blankets every surface and shines like diamonds each morning. Spring, however, remains elusive. Gray skies, torrential rains and fields growing nothing but mud seem to be the norm. The past few days, however, have been exceptional. I have taken to walking my dog, Murphy, and have taken full advantage of the sunshine to get back into shape following my surgeries. Walking has been therapeutic for both my own health, and for Murphy's...as he tends to look more like a Hippopotamus, than a Retriever mix.

Our long walks have taken us into town, exploring streets we don't normally travel. It's been a bit of an adventure for the two of us.We love setting out in the morning, with no particular destination in mind. We may not be ready for a 10K walkathon, but we are definitely improving our stamina.

However, a recent walk left me shaken, not from over-exercising, but from my own fears. As Murphy and I lumbered along in our usual mediocre pace, I saw a young man on the road ahead of us. He had a tattered coat, an over-sized backpack that was bursting at the seams and a very long, shaggy beard. His entire demeanor gave off a threatening vibe. I looked around and didn't see another soul on the road, either in a car or on foot. In short, I was scared to death. I was a woman alone with a dork of a dog on an isolated country lane.

My conversations with my friend, Jennifer, immediately sprung to mind. Jen is a gifted social worker and teacher on womens' issues of personal safety. I have learned more from her than from anyone else on this subject. Jen taught me to scream "FIRE!", rather than "Help!" in an emergency....people being who they are are far more likely to respond to the former plea than they are to the latter. I learned that, if someone tries to pull me into a car to hold onto something solid, like a telephone pole or, when biking, to my bicycle. Jen explained a number of ways to incapacitate a would-be abductor. All of these scenarios flashed through my mind in an instant. I felt my heart pounding in my throat as the scary fellow approached. I seriously considered turning my dog around and running as fast as I could in the opposite direction.

In the next instant, I was filled with shame. Here was someone clearly down on his luck, and walking to his next destination. My recent theology class discussion about compassion rang in my ears, and I was horrified to have judged harshly when I espouse kindness above all else. Are my lessons in practicing hospitality, generosity, graciousness and consideration just empty ideals, with no place in my real life? Can I say one thing in an abstract setting and another when faced someone in need? My face burned red with embarrassment.

So, where is the fine line between ensuring our personal safety and practicing altruism? How can we remain grounded in a dangerous world, and be mindful of our own vulnerabilities, while still showing tenderness to those in need? With my thoughts on ways to keep myself (and Murphy) safe, I continued walking towards the intimidating man. I made eye contact, I smiled and said a cheerful, "Good Morning!" to him. He stopped and looked right at me. His gentle blue eyes showed nothing of the 'keep away' signs I'd seen before I spoke to him. Though bedraggled, his entire persona seemed to shift before my eyes, transforming him into a handsome, albeit world weary, traveler. He reached down and patted Murphy's immense head before looking up at me and saying, "And, good morning to you, Ma'am" with such kindness in his face. We exchanged another smile, and then went each in our own direction.

I was reminded of the verse from the book of Hebrews in the New Testament, "Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing, some people have entertained angels without knowing it." I didn't entertain the young man, nor did I invite him home. I knew that that would be foolish of me. But, I am happy that I showed kindness, rather than rudeness, and a peaceful heart, rather than a fearful one.

Who knows? Perhaps I just 'entertained an angel'. Or, at least, brightened someone else's day. In either scenario, I feel both blessed and grateful for the encounter.

A book by any other name is still as sweet

2011-04-05T10:04:00.004-04:00

These are not books, lumps of lifeless paper, but minds alive on the shelves. From each of them goes out its own voice... and just as the touch of a button on our set will fill the room with music, so by taking down one of these volumes and opening it, one can call into range the voice of a man far distant in time and space, and hear him speaking to us, mind to mind, heart to heart. ~Gilbert Highet

It should come as no surprise that I'm a book lover, a true Bibliophile. From the first moment I wake up, until my eyes grow unbearably heavy in my head, I am reading. Books, both reviews and in metaphor, have been a large part of this blog, not to mention, my life. I can't remember ever not reading. My mother loves to tell the story of my seething, incensed Kindergarten teacher who told Mom, after my first bewildering day at school, "She knows how to read!", believing that I should be unable to do so, by virtue of my age. To quote Curtis Sittenfeld's wonderful fictional account of the former first lady, Laura Bush's passion for books, "Above all else, I was a reader." I'm sure those who know would feel this is a fitting epithet for me too.

Although I graduated from both high school and college, and was well on the path to an M. Ed., I still maintain that my greatest education has come from reading. I consider myself to be an autodidact. I learned far more about physics from reading "Einstein's Dreams" than I did in class. My passionate love of history was animated far more from essays and fictional accounts than from dry lectures aimed at entrapping fellow students on exams, rather than imparting knowledge. I never knew I could be enamored of geography, philosophy or chemistry, until I began perusing them on my own. I've discovered a world of fascinating subjects simply by turning the pages of a book on a subject about which I knew very little. For me, reading has been a way to shine the light on a world of possibilities...ones I never deemed accessible.

In my blog piece, a couple of years ago, I daydreamed about what heaven would be like for me. I envisioned an English library, with ever changing views to suit my mood. In my interpretation of heaven, every book I've ever wanted to read would be available at my fingertips. I have since gone on to think about my long desire for one of those fabulous library ladders on casters, a la Harry Potter in Olivander's wand shop. I truly stand by this interpretation of my own desire in "The World to Come"...I can't fathom eternity unable to read.

To Kindle or not to Kindle was a piece I wrote not long after my meditations on heaven. Having borrowed a Kindle from my library, preloaded with a few titles that the staff had picked (two of which I'd already read), I can't say I was impressed. I simply didn't 'get' the big deal of a Kindle. I missed the tactile sensation of page turning. I missed using a bookmark. Silly though it may sound, the ability to watch my reading progress by the advancing movement of my bookmark, gave me a profound sense of satisfaction. I knew I'd miss wandering aimlessly around bookshelves, my hand alighting on a tome that no one had picked up in a long time...feeling as much a discoverer as Christopher Columbus, and realizing I'd come upon a land of treasure.

This opinion of the Kindle recently changed. During my confinement (which I define as an inability to get to the library), my girlfriends banded together and bought me a Kindle and an Amazon gift card with which to purchase e-books. I was in so much pain, and feeling so trapped in my own home, that something I had once 'poo-poo'ed' became a delightfully transporting mechanism. Since simply getting up and walking down the hall was a challenge, I knew that my meanderings around the library or a bookstore would be months off. The closest I could muster would be meandering around the Amazon website, picturing the concept of virtual shelves in my imagination. As tactile as I am, it was a bit of a challenge for me initially. But I came to realize that I could 'pick up' a book by reading sample chapters and I could chose to put that book back down, or to order it on my Kindle. And thus, a new love affair began.

I adore my Kindle now. I bring it everywhere. I can finally travel without having my entire carry-on bag be crammed with half a dozen hardcovers. I can slip it into my purse and sneak a chapter in while waiting in doctors' offices, during boring meetings and ever-so-carefully in the bathtub. I treasure how tiny a space it takes up and how giant a world it opens up for me when I'm reading. I am completely and totally a convert, with all the zeal and enthusiasm of one who has just found a new religion. I now espouse that books, in any form, are still books. I preach the saving of trees to all who will listen. I share the wonder of any book available at any hour of the day or not. I have shown an elderly friend, who is losing her sight, how large the print can be made to suit her. I have helped my mother, who is my soulmate in reading, how to use her new Kindle, and have successfully transformed her into adoring it too. It's become a way of life for me, in just the few months that I've had it.

Given my new creed on the use of an e-reader, has my vision of Heaven changed? Do I now picture something entirely different? No. My imagination, my comfort place and my illusion of where I daydream about is still my wonderful library. I picture Mahogany shelves from floor to ceiling. I can just make out the unbelievably comfortable chair, the side table holding my tea and the beloved wheeled ladder. I can smell the slight mustiness coming from the tomes. But in my eager hands, there is just as much likelihood of seeing a conceptualized Kindle, as there is a leather bound volume.

As far as my previous opinion, mea culpa.

When words fail

2011-04-01T10:22:00.002-04:00

Words without thoughts never to heaven go. ~ William Shakespeare

One story my mother loves to tell is that I didn't walk until I was close to my 2nd birthday. I did, however, speak well before my 1st. She laughs that I was like a minute carrot, roots stuck firmly into the ground, issuing orders, telling funny tales and making pronouncements. Like a Baby Buddha, I simply sat and spoke. And spoke. And spoke. The power is speech seems to be one with which I was born. The words flowed out, even before I really understood what I was doing.

Speaking became a bit of a problem. My mouth, once fully engaged, never quite learned how (or when) to shut. "Motor Mouth", "Blabber Mouth" and "Gabby" were the epithets my cousins named me. I couldn't keep a secret to save my life. I spoke without an internal censor. I spoke without thinking first how my words would effect others. Words filled my head and immediately found their way onto my tongue. My mother and grandmother, in both frustration and with hope, encouraged me to write what I was thinking, rather than allow my intricate, internal monologue to keep those around me abreast of every idea. It was a great plan. I wrote a prolific amount. My mother and grandmother, both lovers of the arts, helped me "publish" my little books and many of them survive to this day. Writing gave me a way to get out all those ideas, each of those thoughts and every bit of my concepts out of me, without boring the daylights of my family. It also, I'm sure, kept me from embarrassing them further. I was a massive, undulating volcano erupting dramatic stories. These, I learned, didn't have to be told. They could simply be written.

Slowly, I learned what it was okay to say, and what it was better to write. I still put my foot into my mouth a great deal. I still reddened the faces of my parents, when I declared things to others that were best left private. But, for the most part, I learned the valuable lesson of subtlety. I also learned that, when I felt bottled up inside, ready to explode with a torrent of conversation, sometimes it was a wiser plan to scribble in my journal than to loose the canon of my mouth. Additionally, I learned the valuable lesson that journaling taught me; when I wrote how I was feeling, what I was doing or the stories in my head, I could learn from them. Those words remained with me, rather than flowing away forever. I could go back over them, read them, scan them, devour them. I could edit....sometimes profoundly editing my feelings, along with my words. I ascertained that I could write letters that never would be sent....just to get those emotions, that threatened to detonate my spirit, out by writing them down. My writing became a source of inspiration, a private cell for confession and a medium of self-therapy.

It came as a great surprise to me, and a source of severe discontent, when I found myself unable to write recently. The words, once a white capped, endless ocean, became a dry riverbed, desolate and forgotten. The cancer robbed me of the gift (and curse) of my power of speech. When I was in Arizona recently, while walking around my mother's beautiful desert home, I took a good long look at one of the arroyos nearby. It had every indication that it once held a bountiful current. The lines in the sand were echoes of the water that had flowed freely, leaving behind large rocks and tiny pebbles in its wake. I thought, "I'm that arroyo. I once held water. There are a few nuggets left behind. But, other than that, I can feel where the rushing waters used to course. I can hear the distant reverberation from where the words used to spring. But, now, it's silent and still."

With a bit of regret, and a great deal of grief, I walked back up to the house, missing my words all the more. My words were my comfort. They were my own form of living water within. Without them, I felt unmoored and adrift. I felt fear rising in my throat, with no outlet...either spoken or written. I was once riding a raft over a plethora of ideas, concepts, contentions and conversations, and I now felt stranded, unable to convey the smallest prattle. I felt trapped in silence, and stranded there in the desert. When I tried to write, what came out was infantile, boring, meaningless, confusing and simply unfinished.

I'm beginning to see the tiny trickle of a new stream...the genesis of a brook. I am hopeful that it will expand, stretching out its banks and moving forward. The words, once caught in my throat, are beginning to venture out. In the meantime, I'm learning the value of silence...both of my pen and of my voice. It's been a challenging lesson. Stillness isn't an easy concept for me. My monkey mind usually loves those jumping movements from thought to thought. Yet, I haven't had a choice. My illness and recovery have taken my words from me, and forced me into an internal communication exile. But it's okay. I have faith the estuary of ideas will return. I can hear its stirring. In the meantime, I can also learn to value its absence. Quiet of mind and pen can be beautiful too.

The Blues

2011-03-02T11:40:00.003-05:00

No one really cares if you're miserable, so you might as well be happy. ~ Cynthia Nelms

Louis Armstong. Johnny Lee Hooker. Bessie Smith. Etta James. Duke Ellington. Bo Diddley. Howlin' Wolf. B.B. King. Familiar names, to most of us, as blues musicians who have defined what people consider to be the crème de la crème of the genre. Their music continues to appear on soundtracks to popular movies, is played on current radio stations and has influenced scores of other artists. What about Big Bill Boonzey, Blind Boy Fuller, Memphis Minnie and Sippie Wallace? They're not as well known as their more contemporary successors, but their music, style, verve and creativity in blending 19th century gospel and spirituals, with early swing music, forever changed the course of musical history. From the Rolling Stones to Coldplay, the Blues have influenced countless musicians. The Blues has long been my favorite genre...I can easily get lost in the traditional 'four line' repeat. The pace and rhythm draw me back whenever I'm feeling scattered. It's been my mainstay, my touchstone and my musical 'home' during every phase of my life. Even as a 21 year old bride, I had a blues/jazz band, rather than the more popular DJ's, or 80's "wedding singer" style of music, entertain at my big day.

The Blues has transcended racial, cultural and national barriers. It's powerful enough to speak to people in every country, of every ethnicity and socio-economic class. It's a passionate draw for both men and women, young and old. The Blues is there for the 'taking'...and can be relevant for nearly everyone, everywhere. And yet, the Blues began, in its inception, by conveying sadness, sorrow, depression, loss, heartache and dismay in a creative, culturally appropriate manner. The Blues spoke of injustice, devastation, protest and worry. For those who had no 'voice' with which to express their angst, the music gave them a powerful tool in doing so. It allowed others, who couldn't express what they were feeling, a way to 'feel' along with the music. Depression, sadness and anxiety could be 'listened to'...and allow those experiencing those emotions an empathic vehicle. The success, and transcendence, of the Blues shows me how important it is for us to have outlets during times of trouble.

I have to admit that the non-musical form of the blues has hit me fairly hard over the past few months. I was scared beyond belief during my cancer diagnosis, testing and surgery. I was anxious about my recovery and convalescence. I was frustrated and aggrieved by my physical setbacks. Now? Despite being incredible thankful and appreciative that I'm as well as is possible, I still have moments, lapses and periods of discouragement. More than half of all cancer patients will experience depression *after* their treatment ends. Why? When one is in the midst of treatment, there is a plan of action. It's terrifying. It's painful. But, it's an agenda for getting well. When treatment ends, and the cancer patient is left with a battered, changed and ravaged body, it's easy to see why loss often hits after cancer is over. Factor in fear of insurmountable medical bills, terror that the cancer will return, loss of jobs and income, overwhelming post surgery rehabilitation and a shattered sense of self worth, and all the earmarks for seriously bruised spirits are in place.

One of the things I keep reminding myself is that I have a new definition for 'normal'. What ordinary, everyday and fit meant to me 4 months ago are completely different than what they mean for me now. It's not easy to readjust one's expectations. Clothes that were flattering in October no longer work for my new body. Emotions that were easily held in check are now more difficult. My usual ability of looking at myself in a mirror has been altered forever. I don't like my reflection most of the time. I don't like the lumpy, shattered, unalluring woman who gazes back at me. I don't know how to dress, what to do, what to say or what to think most of the time. I am well aware that my bikini days are over. It's disturbing in body, of course, but also in mind and spirit. What do I do with this new self, one that barely resembles the woman from last November? How do I change the way I feel, the way I look, the way I cope and the way I move forward?

I do have the blues right now. But, the blues don't define me. I don't allow them to take over my life, my spirit or my hope for the future. I have lots of new things to learn. I have new skills to master...many of which were simple for me a few months ago. I have to regain the woman I once was, temper her with what I've experienced and discover improved ways to move forward. A case of the blues will not ruin the second chance I've been given. They do teach me how much I've lost. They also remind me about what I've overcome. I can take my feelings and examine them logically. It isn't an easy process. I realize how tied up in being pretty, being physically strong and being vibrant I once was. I see how much my self-worth was tied up in these feelings.

I'm not out of the blues yet, and they hit me unexpectedly at times. I do have an immeasurable sense of appreciation for the gifts I have been given. My blues aren't completely pitch black and I do see a great deal of light. I am thankful that I can create shades of indigo, cobalt and turquoise. As Bessy Smith sang, "It's a long old road, but I know I'm gonna find the end."

Miracles

2011-02-25T10:34:00.004-05:00

"There are two ways to live; you can live as if nothing is a miracle; you can live as if everything is a miracle." ~ Albert Einstein

I feel incredibly blessed right now. I'm doing very well, and while I still have further to go on my journey of recovery from surgery, I am gratified by how much progress I've made. That said, I have been hearing, with increasing fervor, that my prognosis and recovery are a "miracle". This expression has passed through the lips of atheists and believers in God alike. I've heard it from older people, and from the friends of my teenagers. I know that these utterances of thankfulness regarding my health are meant with love, joy and gratitude. I realize that people are reassured that someone can have a malignant tumor, go through major surgery and then reemerge, healthy, on the other side. I am overwhelmed by how pleased people are on my behalf. I feel astonished that so many have been pulling for me. And yet, I am absolutely, completely and totally, uncomfortable with the word "miracle" when it comes to my recovery.

Why is it that one little word goes down my spine the wrong way? Shouldn't I feel appreciative that, despite sporting a colossal battle scar, I'm one of the lucky ones and therefore, a miracle? The definition of miracle, according to the dictionary I have next to my computer, is: "an effect or extraordinary event in the physical world that surpasses all known human or natural powers and is ascribed to a supernatural cause." When viewed in this way, all I can say "Yikes!". I'm not a miracle in this way. If I am, then why was the woman, in the hospital room next to mine, given the news that there was nothing more that could be done for her cancer, but that she would be kept as comfortable as possible until the end? Why would I be spared and she be taken? Who am I that I should be considered "worthy" by God? I'm no one special. I pay my bills, do my laundry, teach some classes, walk my dogs and write this modest, irrelevant blog. Miracles should happen to those people who have the capacity to change the world, not to whining, annoying slobs like myself. I am completely unworthy of a miracle. I have nothing to offer the world in return for my health.

Perhaps, my discomfort of the world "miracle" has to do with my own inability to give back to the world what I've been given. How can I possibly repay the universe for more years with my family? What do I have to offer than couldn't be more exceptionally lavished by a woman with more talent, more intelligence, better skills, and frankly, more chutzpah? I'm an inadequate miracle receiver. I can't even make toast without burning it! What can I do to improve the lives of those around me, when I whack off the side mirrors of my car with frightening regularity? I'm humbled and bewildered.

Still, as the French writer and satirist Jean de la Bruyere wrote in the 17th century, "Out of difficulties grow miracles". Had I not been diagnosed with Leiomyosarcoma for the second time, I wouldn't have been in a chance to take stock in my life, my circumstances and the blessings that I had already been given. Maybe the miracle isn't my recovery. Maybe it's in the way I choose to live my life from here on out. Maybe it lies within my ability to smile at those people having a bad day, or being kind to everyone I know. Perhaps, it's the delight I've begun to take in the most mundane of tasks. I have a silly kind of joy at being able to vacuum my own floors again. The miracle in my life, I believe, is not my recovery. I put that solely in the hands of my excellent doctors, as well as in my own stubborn sense of hard work when it comes to exercise. The miracle, I think, is what I choose to do from here on out.

Am I a miracle? No, I am not. I remain the same exuberant, goofy klutz I have always been. The miracle lies in the little bits of love I can throw out, like a tiny pebble tossed into a still, deep pond. The circles, ripples and small currents I create in meager ways, may just produce that phenomenal wonder. I can only sit back and watch it unfold.

My final CaringBridge Post...reposted.

2011-02-22T09:59:00.003-05:00

For each new morning with its light,

For rest and shelter of the night,
For health and food, for love and friends,
For everything Thy goodness sends.
~Ralph Waldo Emerson

I am incredibly thankful.

I am thankful for this past weekend's grand tour of New England, during which we accomplished much, including visiting with both of our kids. All four of us being in one state is increasingly rare these days.

I am thankful for safe travels for all of us in my family, for nice places to stay and for far too much good food to eat.

I am thankful for a happy place for my beloved, immense, annoying, overly exhuberant dogs to stay, while I'm out of town.

I am thankful for GPS, even when I yell at it. I am thankful for my ability to navigate without the darn thing when its directions make no sense.

I am thankful for fact that I could sit up at every single game and deal with freezing cold temps, obnoxious hockey parents (from other teams, of course) and minimal pain levels.

I am thankful to have a son and a daughter who bless me beyond measure...and who are far too good for me to ever deserve the honor of being their mom.

I am thankful for a husband who is flexible enough to take conference calls on the road, and never to lose his professionalism or hard work, regarldess of where we are.

I am thankful for a mom who loves me beyond my understanding.

I am thankful for Dunkin Donuts coffee, who kept me going from late night to early morning games and long stretches of highway.

I am thankful for those teachers and coaches who have mentored my kids along the way.

I am even thankful for my puffy hockey mom coat, that keeps me exceeding warm, even when the wind chill is -5. Caroline, I know you hate it as a bad fashion statement. We'll revisit this conversation when you're 45.

I am thankful for those people who have prayed for me, who have pulled for me, who have sent good juju my way and who have thought anything remotely positive for me for the past four months.

Thank you. Bless you. Over and out for Caring Bridge.

Yoga! Yoga! Yoga!

2011-02-15T15:28:00.001-05:00

If I'm losing balance in a pose, I stretch higher and God reaches down to steady me. It works every time, and not just in yoga. ~Terri Guillemets

With cancer officially behind me, I am galloping ahead into recovery. Because my particular form of cancer was asymptomatic, the process focuses exclusively on healing my body from both the traumatic and invasive surgery, and the post surgical complications. I've missed yoga more than I can possibly express. Because I've been practicing yoga steadily for 12 years, and teaching for 6 years, having that support mechanism taken away from me was incredibly difficult. Not only was I anxious and in pain, but my usual 'go to' method for dealing with those problems was impossible! So, I'm especially thankful to be back into taking three classes per week. It's given me a way to regain strength in my body, my mind and my spirit.

I've been asked often enough in the past few weeks which poses (or "asanas") seem to be the most healing for me right now. I've put together a little list to give for my fellow yoginis, as well as for those interested in creating a practice. This list is by no means the limit of poses that I am practicing right now. These are only a few of the many that I'm working through during each class. Additionally, my teachers have been wonderful about helping me find what my body is asking for right now. I fully expect to continue to add to this grouping very soon. These just happen to be 'hitting the spot' literally, and metaphorically, at this time. Would I recommend another person to attempt these following major abdominal surgery? Not at all! I went into surgery in pretty good shape. Each person is different, and each procedure effects our bodies differently. So, please talk to your own physician before beginning yoga, or any other exercise program, following any surgical procedure.

Without further ado...here is the list:

Staff Pose (Dandasana) has proven to be the most difficult asana for me post surgery. While it appears to be incredibly simple, the amount of lower abdominal strength that it takes to keep me in proper alignment has been a challenge. I lost much of my involuntary abdominal muscles. What I didn't lose altogether was cut and sewn back together using artificial tissue. Therefore, it's been very difficult for me to sit up without slouching, slumping off to one side or to just give up. I breathe more heavily during this pose than any other one right now. But, I also find that it's helping me to reestablish those muscle, and nerve, connections.

Downward facing dog (Adho Mukha Svanasana) has had the opposite experience in my new 'post surgical' practice. I've found it to be incredibly affirming, exhilarating and inspiring. I've rediscovered strength I was afraid I'd lost forever. Each time I move into Down Dog, I'm reassured that I will overcome these physical obstacles. Additionally, the variations of this pose ("Walking the dog", Standing Split and Half Dog--dropping down to my forearms) have provided me with the ability to work from a place of strength. Down Dog strengthens many different muscle groups all at once. It also has helped me to open up my overly tight hamstrings that had begun to become painful, after all that lying about. I have felt exceptionally motivated to keep moving in my practice when I am in my Adho Mukha Svanasana series.

Sphinx pose has been enormously helpful, as have many of the back bend series asanas. When you lie in a hospital bed, or do a great deal of sitting, your spine compresses. I found that my back became quite painful...simply from doing nothing. Literally. Sphinx was the first back bend I attempted when returning to class. It was as if I had been sitting in the dark for weeks and someone turned on a beautifully shining light! Just opening up my shoulders alleviated nearly all of my back pain. Sphinx pose also was my starting point to move into more challenging back bends, such as Upward Facing Dog, Seal Pose, Locust Pose, Bow and Camel. Back bends, my yoga teacher once told me, are a way of healing the past. Often people who have unresolved issues in their hearts and minds have a very difficult time with them. I found that regularly practicing Sphinx has helped me let go of a lot of the drama the past few months created.

Child's pose (Balasana) was another one that seemed so simple before my surgery, and was such a challenge immediately afterwards. Because my abdomen remained so swollen, and so sore, for a long time, just getting into this position represented some difficulty for me. I began easing into Child's Pose by creating a V with my knees. Now that my flexibility is beginning to return, I'm working diligently to create space by working towards the traditional 'belly on knees'. When used with the 'arms over the shoulders' variation, I've also been able to stretch out tight deltoids. I focus my breath into my lower back, and am able to renew my energy there.

"Legs up the Wall" pose (Viparita karani) has been a salvation for me. I have a very difficult time letting go of my "Monkey Mind". It's as if my brain is constantly flitting from topic to topic, replaying conversations on a loop, creating to do lists and just not turning 'off'. Imagine a Spider Monkey jumping from branch to branch, tree to free. That's the way my brain works most of the time. Regular exercise is the best way for me to keep this bad habit at bay. When that's not possible, my mind runs out of things to think about and begins to worry anxiously and needlessly. Other restorative poses, such as Corpse Pose and Reclining Butterfly, are wonderful. But, they're not as effective in battling my evil Monkey Mind. Legs up the wall gives me a leg up (pun fully intended) in shutting my brain up for ten minutes so that it, too, can relax. Inversions have a spectacular way of taking the guesswork out of restoration. I can't help but sigh in repose.

Finally, if anything is going to get me back into shape, it's going to be Boat Pose(Navasana). I used to be able to hold this pose for ten minutes and carry on a conversation with a class of my own students, and not even think about the difficulty. Times have changed! This pose is now a struggle for me, but it's also one that I've found becomes easier each time I practice it. Beginning with my knees bent in half boat, I have slowly gained strength and am inching my way, slowly, back up to full boat. Am I chatting and laughing? Heck, no! I'm sweating, and would probably swear if if I could get away with it. But, I do find that Boat Pose is helping me to renew, restore and regrow muscle. It just isn't much fun yet.

This series of six poses is not all inclusive to what I'm doing now. But, I do try to include each one of these along with whatever else I'm doing each day. They're helping me me to bring balance back into my life through my yoga practice. I'm mindful to cut out all negative thinking (and this includes "I hate my body now!") because it really does set me back. Full descriptions of each one of these poses are available at Yoga Journal online. Have fun perusing the various asanas! You may just discover a few you'd like to try.

Namaste!

Love is in the air

2011-02-14T09:28:00.001-05:00

“Love is something eternal; the aspect may change, but not the essence.” ~ Victor Hugo

I remember the early days of being in love...my heart beating faster just at the mere thought of my first crush...the way I'd draw hearts all over my school notebooks...the earnest way in which my Kindergarten boyfriend would always save me a seat on the bus, and then carry my Kimba the White Lion lunch box into the classroom, putting it into my cubby for me...the way notes would be passed in Junior High asking me if I liked a certain boy, and to check a box in response if my feelings were in the affirmative....the way my heart literally seemed to shatter into jagged, wretched pieces when it was broken the first time. Love, when you're young, means everything. Crowded, noisy rooms will feel empty when in the presence of your heart's desire. Time will seem to be speed up, and hours will fly around the clock, when you are with that person. You won't believe it's time to go home, until you see the street lamps come on, and know that your mother has dinner waiting on the table. The phone will ring, and your breath will catch in your throat, hoping that a particular boy is brave enough to get past your gatekeeper father in order to speak to you. It's an incredible thing, young love. It is mesmerizing, captivating, all encompassing and bewitching.

And yet, I wouldn't trade my 23 years old marriage for anything...not even to go back to those easy, lovely, dreamy days of stolen kisses and hypnotizing infatuation. There is something even more romantic about the choice to remain with one man for all of adult life. Having met during our college years, my husband and I were still young by today's standards, when we fell in love. Additionally, we never lived in the same city until six months after we were legally married. Our newlywed stage, which I consider to be the first five years of our married life together, consisted of learning how to occupy the same space for more than a few days. Our courtship consisted of a great many blissful weekends together. I had no idea what was in store for me when I actually had to share a house with a boy...forever. As an only child, and then a young lady who went to an all women's college, living with a guy who never went home was new to me. Even though my father was an incredible force in my life, my mom and I did outnumber him, and therefore, our house was kind of 'girl world'. Boy stuff---from the accouterments of Jeff's Army career to his shaving gear in the bathroom--were all new territory. There were entire years we drove each other crazy. We had no idea how to coexist when it came to building a life together. We realized how very little we had in common. However, we made the promise to each other to find that middle ground, and we've been doing so since 1987.

Here are some insights I've learned along the way...during this journey of love, marriage and building a shared partnership:

It's better to be kind than right. My friend, Leslie, taught me this one. This was a difficult piece for both Jeff and me to digest. We both have a highly developed sense of competitive spirit. We both are willing to defend our positions to the end. During those early years, everything from how a peanut butter and jelly sandwich SHOULD be made to which route to take on a trip, became fodder for arguments. What did I learn? 99% of the time, it's better to simply let an issue, that doesn't really matter, go. Will the Earth stop spinning if I've got the correct answer to a trivia question, but mon mari is sure of his? No. Kindness doesn't mean being a doormat over the truly important matters. But, it can be a balm to heal a multitude of tiny cracks in a relationship's foundation.
Don't expect your partner to be everything to you. My husband loves the great outdoors. He adores hiking, camping, mountains and sports. I love cities. I gain energy from art museums, great theater, fascinating stores and energetic diversity. Jeff still plays hockey. I practice yoga. I would no more fit my husband into following my salivating, day dreaming forays into Barney's than he would expect me to sit in a freezing rink at 10 PM on a Sunday for a hockey game. We give each other space in which to pursue the activities and passions we don't share. We don't believe that you need to carry your partner with you in your back pocket everywhere you go. We do some things solo, understanding that our choice of endeavor is sheer torture for the other person. Then, we share our enthusiasm. Our favorite trip we've ever taken, just the two of us, was to the unbelievably gorgeous Equinox Resort in Manchester, Vermont. Jeff golfed. I took yoga classes and enjoyed the spa. We met later on in the day for scrumptious, fabulous dinners. We took hand holding walks through the beautiful grounds. We had the right mix of things we each enjoyed separately, and things we enjoyed together. It was heavenly.
Make an effort if something is very important to your partner. This may seem to contradict the advice I've given just above. However, making an effort is more about caring about someone else more than you care about your own feelings. Jeff has gone to Broadway with me, and made a huge effort to enjoy what I love about New York. I have actually gone to a Boston Bruins game, and cheered until my throat was sore. I was even a great sport when the drunk guy next to me began swearing like a sailor in front of our then 8 year old daughter. If something is special to the person you love, show an interest. Learn the position, and key players, in sports, ladies. Even if you don't like the game, it never hurts. Likewise, gentlemen? Brush up on a few artists and designers. You never know when a comment like "Really? That's a Michael Kors? It seems way too avant garde..." will make your woman beam with pride. I am not saying that I plan to take up ice hockey (though it would be great for a laugh!), but I do hope that I am kind enough to know which key Red Sox players have been traded.
Build a foundation together. This is one area that always surprises me...despite Jeff's and my utter lack of common ground when it comes to personal interests, we share the identical goals for the foundation of our relationship. We made choices, and we continue to make choices, that are for the 'common good' for us, and for our children. Sometimes this means compromise...finding that middle path. Other times, we are completely on the same page. There are dozens of metaphors about foundations crumbling because they were not built on firmly enough. So, discover what that ground is together...talk about what's important to you. Think about what you're willing to let go of, and what is a non-negotiable principle. Common goals, common beliefs and common intentions trump common interests every time.
Be appreciative. I can't stress this piece often enough. When the person you love does something nice for you, say thank you. Notice even the smallest efforts. Be thankful that somebody loves you enough to fill up your car with gas, to fold your laundry in the exact way you like or to watch a movie that's not that your taste. Just say thank you. And, say it again.

When it comes to love, there is no right or wrong. Whether it's a first love, being spied across a busy schoolyard, or the precious celebration of a 50th anniversary, it's all extraordinary. Love never goes away. It simply changes, morphing into something new and different with each new experience. If you have love in our life, cherish it. Treat it like the inestimable gift that it is. And remember always that love comes in many forms, in all shapes and sizes, and every piece of it is worthy.

All shall be well...

2011-02-12T11:12:00.001-05:00

All shall be well.
And, all shall be well.
All matter of thing shall be well.
~ Julian of Norwich, 14th century Anchoress and Mystic

So, what do I have in common with a 14th century Benedictine nun, who was, by her own choice, walled up (read as: no door to the outside, and most definitely, no bathroom) inside a medieval church? Like Julian, I have felt trapped by my ill health. Also, like Julian, I have been given a window, in the form of my wonderful family and friends, with which to connect with the outside world. Finally, like Julian, I felt a profound sense of belief that all would be well, regardless of the circumstances of my cancer. Despite having had dark days (which I'm willing to bet would strike even the most optimistic of souls), I knew that I'd find the path again...despite a lack of light for illumination.

I just had my final check up today...and all is well. Am I completely healed? No, I'm not. I still have a heck of a battle scar. I still have significant swelling and am dealing with Lymph Edema. My bikini days may very well be behind me. I have every six month CT scans (which will need 5 days of pretreatment, given my new allergy to contrast dye). I have every six month exams to follow those scans. But, as of today, I no longer have cancer.

I am free. I am thankful. I am blessed.

Breathing Room

2011-01-27T09:50:00.002-05:00

I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart: I am, I am, I am. ~Sylvia Plath

Six weeks. Six weeks since my surgery. Six weeks since I was wheeled into the operating room, breathing in and out, hopeful that I'd breathe well under anesthesia. Six weeks since I felt as if I could take in a deep breath and let it out fully. Six weeks since my body was whole. Six weeks of recovery. Six weeks of set backs. Six weeks of big leaps forward. Six weeks of discomfort. Six weeks of thankfulness. Six weeks of fear. Six weeks of laughter. Six weeks of profound worry. Six weeks of sincere appreciation. Six weeks to catch my breath.

It's been a tricky thing, catching my breath. As a Yoga instructor, I'm trained to breathe consciously. Obviously we all, as human beings, know how to breathe. We're born knowing. From the moment we enter the world, we are breathing on our own, if we are healthy to do so. The inhaling and exhaling process is innate. Yet, all too often, we lose our depth of breath. We are worried, we are anxious, we are troubled, we are nervous, we are frightened. We breathe shallowly, not filling our lungs fully, not releasing all the Carbon Dioxide completely. We hold onto what we shouldn't, and we don't fill ourselves with what need desperately. We go through life with clenched stomach muscles, poor oxygen levels and headaches. As a Yogini, it should be second nature to me...breathing with depth and meaning. But when in pain, when scared, when overwhelmed by life, I forget my training and sink right back into the panicky, surface breath of the devastated.

Breathing deeply has been the lifeline to which I've clung the past six weeks. During the times I've been unable to unclench my fists, I've listened to music to help me let go enough to catch my breath. My daughter created a playlist of gentle songs for me to listen to to help me relax. My husband and she bought me extraordinary Bose headphones for the hospital. The beeps, the bangs, the unsettling noises of the hospital were making my poor breath pattern even worse. The Bose headphones began their life with me by simply blocking out the harsh hospital resonance. I was able to relax slightly simply by removing the jarring and replacing it with silence. When I came home, and my discomfort was so palpable that I couldn't separate pain from my reality, the music that I was able to play on my I-pod enabled me to transport my psyche from discomfort to direction. It's very tough to breathe deeply when one feels out of control. Music allowed me to regain some feelings of governance over my body.

Despite knowing how to breathe properly, it's been a challenge for me in the past six weeks, both literally and metaphorically. Catching my breath has been somewhat like climbing a ladder. I am able to tackle one rung at a time. Yet with each rung, I realize how far I've come...but how much further I have yet to go. I still am battling some truly unpleasant obstacles to recovery. I still feel overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of what I used to do on a daily basis. However, I constantly remind myself that, instead of just looking at the illustrative wall against which the ladder is leaning, I must secure myself on my current 'rung' and turn around to face outward, and to peek downward. By looking out at how far I've climbed already, by taking stock in where I've been, I can breathe a little more easily. I can also take deep breaths to appreciate the moment in which I'm currently resting. I may not be close to my destination yet, but I've been climbing and climbing on this journey. I'm most certainly on my way.

Breathing room is the space I need to create for myself on this journey. I need to quit worrying about whether or not I can button my jeans yet. I need to let go of my own preconceptions and guilt regarding what I should be doing at this very second. I need to come to terms with the fact that my body isn't healed yet. I need to treat myself with kindness, patience, gentleness and mercy. Perhaps then, I'll find my breath....and my voice...once more.

Caring Bridge: The Journey

2011-01-08T11:10:00.002-05:00

My journey through sarcoma cancer has been a time of great highs and lows. I've felt euphoric and appreciative and incredibly blessed. I've also felt miserable, terrified and deeply burdened. But, I'm on my way to regaining my health. For that I'm truly thankful. My brain is still somewhat of a blend of Swiss cheese and loosely woven fabric. I hope to back up and writing the Yogini soon! In the meantime, I hope you can share in my journal throughout the past couple of months. It isn't always poetic, but I can say that it is always honest.

Namaste Soon!

The Great Whodunit: Me

2010-12-02T08:37:00.004-05:00

How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth? ~ Sir Arther Conan Doyle

For reasons beyond my control, I've been voraciously drawn to reading mysteries lately. I've rekindled my passion for classics featuring my beloved Sherlock Holmes and Miss Marple and have increased my thankfulness for the visions of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie. I've finally taken the advice of numerous friends and have been introduced to books by Daniel Silva and Ken Follett. Most recently, I've fallen in love with the wonderful juxtaposition of the Los Angeles Orthodox Jewish Community featured in the mysteries by Rochelle Krich. Each one of these novels of suspense have taken me out of my own life, and dropped me into a world of clues, lies, deception, secrets and riddles. I've had to face each conundrum and try to puzzle out the answer, along with the detectives. I've delighted in feeling completely overwhelmed by too many possibilities, and then been able to narrow them down to make "probable" from the "improbable". From Victorian drawing rooms to the seedy underside of lower Manhattan, I've relished the final moments of victorious revelation. My love of great literary fiction,whose prose elegantly flows off the tongue to create poetry on every page, has taken a backseat to "The Great Whodunit" lately.

The reason for this is simple: my health has taken a turn for the worse. Not only that, it has been an enormous mystery for my doctors. The type of cancer I had 7 years ago was rare enough then. I was the youngest person to have ever been diagnosed with it. Not only my own doctors, but others my mother consulted with, agreed: it was gone forever. To quote another thriller, "Poltergeist", "It's back...!". My doctors are stumped. Though the type of cancer I have is rare, and does have a 50% recurrence rate within 10 years, most specialists felt that this was not going to be the case for me. After 5 years, I pronounced absolutely "cancer free". To compound this, I began having excruciating nerve pain on one side of my head. It was agonizing, debilitating and completely humiliating. My neurologist is still working various scenarios on this piece, but thankfully, after many days of pain, the right medications are keeping me comfortable from a neurological perspective. How could two rare, complex and peculiar syndromes hit a seemingly healthy, 44 year old non-smoking yoga teacher? Why at the same time? What can be done to help me? These are puzzles we don't have all the answers too.

At the moment, I feel a bit like a jigsaw puzzle. My photo is staring back at me (and my doctors) on the lid. The pieces are shaped strangely. Some are easy to fit into place. Others seem to have no place at all, but because they came in the box, they must certainly fit in somewhere. The clues are there. The information is at hand in my scans, blood work, family history and symptoms. But, how to discern the entire cryptogram remains partially veiled right now. It's as if I'm my own mystery novel...and as much as I'd like to skip to the last page and say "Of course! That's it! How could we not have seen that before?", that's not how life, or medicine, works.

In the meantime, I'm learning to live as a walking cliffhanger. I've learned to clean my house, shop at the market, cook, take my dogs for walks, read, write and even sleep, not knowing what my physical state will be very soon. I am dealing with the ability to pay my bills, to send out holiday cards and to plan special events not even knowing what my future will be when these are all received. I won't lie: it's an awful feeling. I hate every moment of it. The past two months have been the beginning chapters of a mystery novel. I can begin to see the parameters of the quandary, but the more 'clues' I receive, the more confused I (and my caregivers) seem to be.

It's just like that first run I take when I ski in the winter: I know I'll catch myself (at worst, in a baby-like 'snowplow' down the mountain), but there is that moment of panic where my heart beats a thousand times a minute and I find myself thinking "Can I turn back, or can I really do this?". Unfortunately, there is no turning back on this run. I can't take the chair lift down the mountain in the ride of shame. I simply have to point my skis, small as they are, down the hill and trust enough to know that I can conquer this particular slope.

In the meantime, you can spot me in a coffee shop reading novels in which I can discover the end does eventually come, terrible occurrences will happen along the way, but good will triumph in time.

Crossing the Finish Line

2010-11-04T09:25:00.000-04:00

“Long is the road from conception to completion.” -- Molière (Jean-Baptiste Poquelin)

It's done! It's over! I did it! I did the entire October dress project! I may have taken some liberties with the photos, but I did wear the dress each day...I simply took some fun photos here and there (such as wrapping my girlfriend's dog in it) to make for more interesting archival pictures. I have to say that I am feeling a tremendous sense of pride, and yes, relief, at completing this project.

I'm a terrific beginner. I love starting new endeavors. If a prize could be given out for enthusiasm on Day 1, I'd be a shoe in for the blue ribbon. When there is any kind of a wait to be allowed into an event, I am first in line. However, when it comes to sticking things out, my spunk and good intentions peter out pretty quickly. I am fickle, get bored easily and have no qualms about walking away from a situation that isn't working for me. I have half finished needle point pillows, terribly lumpy half finished knitted scarves, dozens of blog posts and shorts stories that remain in limbo, and more dinners thrown in the rubbish than I care to count. Some might call me a quitter. I call myself a 'creative finisher'. I like to be engaged in whatever activity I'm undertaking. I also like to know it's going to be fabulous. The October Dress Project was truly an exceptional learning experience for me. Why? Because I made it a point of honor not to quit.

Some of aspects of the dress were easier than I had anticipated. Putting outfits together was really quite fun and entertaining. In this area, I had expected to be bored out of my mind. Yet, by perusing catalogs, magazines and just reorganizing my closet (Shop Your Closet was a terrific resource) helped me to envision different ways to rethink my simple black empire waist dress. Additionally, I didn't have to think so hard about what to wear. I knew what I was going to wear. The only question that remained was how I would wear it. Also easier was my own self-imposed 'not buying anything new'. I love pretty things. I love looking like a girl. I love shopping. Yet, this Lenten-like fast was much less complicated than I'd believed it would be, simply because I wasn't focused on what was 'new and now', but rather what was 'here and helpful'.

Other areas of the October Dress Project were more difficult. I was given some bad news, from a health stand point, during this month. Not only did this throw my creativity for a loop, but it also threw my life for a loop the size of a planetary orbit. I didn't want to wear the silly dress. I wanted to wear my favorite jeans and my favorite sweater and to call it 'good'. I had a deep desire, being the lifelong quitter that I am, to say "Time out! This isn't convenient for me!". And yet, I discovered something fascinating: as I was headed from one doctor's office to the next, the dress became a comrade. It felt like a hug. It felt as if I had company along the way. Despite painful and often invasive testing, the dress was there to say "I was here for you yesterday. I am here for you today. I will be here for you tomorrow." My defeatist attitude was somehow strengthened towards the positive by the dress. Where I had anticipated my own self-realization and leanings towards abdication of the project, I found my health crisis to be a reason to keep going. The dress was something I was proud of doing during weeks in which my pride was all but vanquished.

So...will I burn the dress or simply toss it, as I'd promised? No. I'm keeping it. It will hang in a place of honor in my closet. We've been through a lot this past month, my dress and I. Will I wear every day? Unlikely. But, I know it'll be there as my touchstone in months to come.

The October Dress Project

2010-10-12T09:31:00.001-04:00

Life really is simple. We just insist on making it complicated. ~ Confucius

For those kind Preppy Yogini followers, who may have wondered if I've:

Dropped off the face of the Earth, to find myself in Yogic Purgatory, where nothing but Bikram Yoga is taught, and the only food available is from McDonald's....or
Have been swallowed by a giant whale, spit out on the shores of Ninevah (or in my personal version, Siberia), and told to teach Yoga to the unruly citizens...or
Went on a cross country camping trip, hiking the Appalachian Trail (which sounds like paradise to some, but in actuality, is terrifying to me)...or
Took a vow of silence. Those who know me understand this would have lasted a miraculous 12 minutes and 19 seconds. I've tried.

The answer is 'none of the above'. I do plan to resume writing on this blog regularly when I'm finished with my current undertaking. I wrote about The October Dress Project about a year ago in Project Dress. It's a fascinating concept, and one that has weighed heavily on my mind ever since. Therefore, I took it upon myself to try this endeavor on my own...one dress, for one month. I can accessorize to heart's content, and obviously, I can wash the dress as needed. But, it's been a wonderful learning experience for me. I tend to be attracted to whatever is new. This project is teaching me to be content with what I have, to live as simply as possible, and to have great fun in learning to become more creative. I hope you will check out Ellen's October Dress Project and visit how my journey is proceeding thus far.

By November 1st, I'll be back as your humble, goofy, preppy yogini.