Making Butter

I made butter yesterday. I think.  I poured heavy cream with a dash of salt into a cold mason jar, tightened the lid and shook it until the slosh of liquid thickened into the thwip of something that wasn’t quite Kerrygold but was far removed from Cool Whip.  I don’t know if it truly qualified as butter but on the first rainy evening of autumn my friend and I smeared it on fresh-baked rosemary bread and washed it down with homemade soup. It was delicious.

Yep.  Butter making.  Soup making. You might say I have too much time on my hands.  My toilet has never been so scrubbed, my hide-a-way bed so neatly hidden, my laundry so freshly washed and my dishes so deliberately stacked.

And I have to be honest.  I love it.

At first, when I lost my ability to fill the space between appointments, I wanted to believe I’d lost my drive.  I wanted to believe I’d become lazy. Isn’t laziness easily remedied?  You pull yourself together, up the caffeine and step on the gas.

But the only thing rushing through life has ever done for me is blur my vision.

So, for now, I’m going to let life slow down.  I’m going to take a more considered path.  And I’m going to make butter.

Epiphanies and Death Trap Accordion Doors

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I was so lost in thought at lunchtime yesterday that I narrowly avoided being crushed by the folding doors at Piazza’s Fine Foods.  The good news – other than I survived intact – is that had the doors had their way I would have died with a smile on my face.

Yep.  That’s right.  I was smiling.

I don’t know why I feel compelled to mention my smiling brush with death – and let’s admit it – it’s closer to death by embarrassment than death by automatic accordion door – it must be the Summer Doldrums.

I like the doldrums.  Life slows down this time of year. Work dwindles while clients and their kids take vacation breaks.  At first I fidget for a bit with too much time on my hands.  I worry about the dip in income. But then the hot, sunny days slow everything down to a gentle simmer and somehow being alive becomes more about embracing my ‘aliveness’ and less about my cold, strident race to the finish line.

Because the whole mad race to the finish line really isn’t working for me.  Not only does the finish line keep moving but I’ve realized that I’ve been so busy racing against myself that I’ve forgotten to experience the world beyond my doorstep.  I’ve been watching everyone else – my friends, my clients, my yoga students – live their lives.  Meanwhile I’ve forgotten to live my own.

And as long I can master the art of stepping through folding accordion door death traps, the truth is, life is pretty damn good.

The Great Online Dating Experiment of 2011 – Part I

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Somehow I just don't quite see the two of us working out...

If eHarmony is the alleged online dating equivalent to shopping at Neiman Marcus, then OKCupid is Ross Dress for Less – you have to do a bit of digging before you find a potential gem.

I’m about ten days into the Great Online Dating Experiment of 2011 and I have to tell you – it’s not going so well.  Let me rephrase that:  it’s going slower than I expected.  After three days of inappropriate matches from the folks at eHarmony – who seem  under the impression that I would be interested in seventy-year-old men whose dream vacation is a Donny and Marie Concert in Branson, Missouri – I signed up with OKCupid.  I mean no offense to older men, Donny or Marie (whose lips are looking fabulous these days, by the way) or the fine folks in Branson.  But seriously eHarmony – that’s what your big ol’ computer surmised from my profile?  That I was looking for a road trip to the heartland in a kitted out Winnebago?

I exaggerate, of course, and to be honest it’s probably not eHarmony’s fault.  I’m sure the computer did its best with the information I provided.  Here I am, with (according to a friend) a “facility for writing” and I can’t string three words together that describe my wondrousness.  My profile is flatter than a stale matzoh cracker.

Wouldn’t we be better able to rally to the cause of love if profile writing was a group project? I’ve been thinking that it’s not an altogether bad idea for friends to form Profile Writing Groups.  Imagine…a few good friends, a little wine, a couple of laptops and a few hours later one great online profile.  Now that’s my idea of fun.

Of course, meeting a total stranger for coffee might be fun, too.  And, believe it or not, despite painting myself a tepid beige, it looks like that’s what I might be doing this weekend.  My palms are sweating at the very thought.  But it’s good to know that I attract more than sweet, Winnebago owning retirees with a hankerin’ for a road trip.

Back to Our Regularly Scheduled Programming

Ouch.  OUCH.  May I please say it one more time?  Ouch.

You may have noticed that my posts have been all over the emotional map for the past ten weeks.  I tried to stay on topic.  But I couldn’t. I was too preoccupied by wildly fluctuating hope, joy and despair.  Manic would be an appropriate description.  And what else other than out-of-control peri-menopausal hormones would bring on such mood swings?  Well, you know what?  I don’t really want to go into it.  Let’s just say it’s time to dust myself off and resume regularly scheduled programming.

As the weeks progressed and it became clear that I was not going to have the happy ending I wanted, I found myself seeking solace in the things I love:  teaching yoga and writing.

My mind would not settle long enough to write anything more than a few short essays.

But the yoga?  The yoga was a blessing.

I filled classes with gentle heart openers and soothing forward bends.  When I needed grounding I took classes through strong Warrior sequences.  When the friendship was going well I celebrated with Flying Dragons.  And when it wasn’t we did Flying Dragons anyway.  In my Yin classes I challenged myself to teach poses that wouldn’t be my favorite.

At home, I began the meditation practice I’ve been talking about since August.

But the last two and half months have left me in this strange place of being grateful for the experience of love and connection – no matter how brief the time was – yet mourning for the tremendous loss.  I’ll admit it.  I’m sad.

It seems sometimes that because we practice yoga, because we are teachers, we somehow have the means to rise above heartache.  It’s not true.  I teach yoga. And I’m human.

Constellations

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About a year ago a friend gave me one ridiculously comfortable green leather chair, a set of cobalt blue dishes, the 1971 set of Encyclopedia Britannia including the Year in Review and a box of maps.

Early last month I was digging through the maps looking for inspiring collage material when I found a Hammond Traditional Map of the United States. I decided to tape it to my kitchen wall.

When I was Miss Kuntz’s fourth grade class at Northwestern Elementary in New Tripoli, Pennsylvania I sat next to my friend Debbie.  For two nine-year-old girls, Debbie and I had big dreams.  If we weren’t going to be President of the United States, then we at least wanted to be the first women astronauts.  Failing that, I wanted to draw maps.

It was a short-lived phase. By the time I was twelve I dreamed of folk singing stardom and by high school I was going to be a history teacher or maybe even a doctor.

At eighteen I married Bob instead. I studied art and secondary education, which seemed more suitable choices for a mid-western housewife.  But the marriage lasted less than a moment.  On my twentieth birthday I boarded a bus in McCook, Nebraska and headed four hours east. Alone.

Maps still fascinate me. I love looking at the names of towns and wondering about the people who live there.  I love tracing my finger over the places I’ve been and wondering if I’ll ever return.

Last week I stood back and began to connect the dots.  From Fairbanks, Alaska to Killeen, Texas to Lynnport, Pennsylvania.  My eyes followed a trail to all the places I’ve lived.

I couldn’t stop.  I found string and used it to create a geographic cats cradle – my very own constellation.  An energetic imprint of over half a century of experience.

What does your constellation look like?

Dear Diary…oh, never mind.

My Biological Clock Mixed Media, 24x24 inches

Yes, I know I said I was taking a break.  I am.  I’ve decided to consign the post I left here last night to the dustbin.

My only intention last night was to share this painting that I’ve been working on. Here it is.  In detail.

I’m riding a crazy creative flow.  I’m full of excess energy that I am channeling into collage and yoga and poetry and personal essays. But not blog posts.

The post deposited here last night was yet another rant about that loathsome phrase “it is what it is.”

I say, “it is what you make it.”

We can’t control what life gives us or what it takes away from us – but we can choose our response.  We have, at least, that much power.

The other day I responded to a friend’s question by answering “Because I’m stronger than you.” I can’t even remember what the question was – only that the answer shocked me.  Through all the swinging highs and lows of the past two months I’d forgotten how powerful I am.  How resilient.  But five simple, uncensored words reminded me.

It’s easy to feel physically strong when you practice multiple Flying Dragons or an intense Warrior Sequence.  But feeling emotionally strong is more challenging – especially when it feels easier to believe you have no control.  Especially if you choose to believe ‘it is what it is.’

detail

Pu-erh, Genmaicha and the Hero’s Journey

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Beeng Cha teacake pu erh tea and Japanese teapot

Image by Scott MacLeod Liddle via Flickr

I’ve been thinking about tea. Real tea.  My favorite teas are black Pu-erh and green Genmaicha.

Pu-erh is an earthy tea. Its scent alone transports me to a dark woods.  One sip and I feel I’m walking on a soft forest floor inches thick with fallen, decaying leaves and pine needles.  Moss grows around tree trunks and drapes over the rocks that line my trail.

Genmaicha is light and clear by comparison.  It’s roasted with brown rice that softens bitterness and adds a warm, contented note. When I drink Genmaicha I think of standing in an open field with the sun on my back and a broad, cloudless sky above.

But to enjoy the complexity of these teas, they must be brewed correctly. Pu-erh can be brewed forever.  Manhandled.  Genmaicha requires more finesse, water just below the boil and a short brew time.

Thirty-six hours ago, when I posted Mani/Pedi Om, I didn’t know it would be my penultimate weekly (sometimes daily) post.  But as I moved through the day I couldn’t shake the feeling that while I was good at observing life, I wasn’t doing so well at living it.  My life had become as weak and diluted as a cup of tea brewed from a used, day old bag.  Sound familiar?

There’s something missing and I mean to find it.  There’s a gap between what my life is supposed to be and what it has become.

Every time I sit down to write a poem or work on a book proposal or even think about composing a query letter and instead become distracted by Facebook or Twitter or this blog, I’m throwing another bucket of sand on the fire I used to burn with.

I’ve lost track of who I am.  I’m not brave anymore.  I used to be brave.

If I remain glued to this chair, this desk and this laptop engaging in barely witty repartee with people I’ve never met; or if I struggle to be profound in one hundred forty characters or less, I’ll never see Norman Foster’s Millau Viaduct.  I’ll never walk through Tate Modern again, or cry when I see Prague’s St. Vitus’ Cathedral for the first time.  I’ll not drink a pint of the black stuff at a session in Donegal, toss back too much sake and belt out bad karaoke in New York, or play guitar with Mike in Reno.

I’ll never be published.

And I won’t find someone to read to me.  And that is my favorite thing in the world, when someone reads to me.

If I stay here, doing this, I’ll never find out what happens next.  I won’t ever really know how my story is supposed to end.  My only view of the world will come courtesy of Wikipedia.

I learned about Pu-erh and Genmaicha in the garden of the Santa Cruz Zen Center five spring times ago.  A man I knew and maybe loved read TS Elliot’s J Alfred Prufrock to me in the afternoon sun.  We brewed the Pu-erh and Genmaicha.  And then he served sliced oranges dressed in rose water and cinnamon.  I’ve not seen the man for years, but I’ll never forget that quiet, perfect afternoon.

So I’m taking a break for awhile.  It’s time for me to dig a little deeper instead of tossing off six hundred easy words because I can.

Last night I finished reading Karen Armstrong‘s The Spiral Staircase (for the second time).  Towards the end, she talks about the hero’s journey:

The hero has to set off by himself, leaving the old world and the old ways behind.  He must venture into the darkness of the unknown, where there is no map and no clear route.  He must fight his own monsters, not somebody else’s, explore is own labyrinth, and endure his own ordeal before he can find what is missing in his life.  Thus transfigured, he (or she) can bring something of value to the world that has been left behind.

I’m not going on a hero’s journey – at least I don’t think I am – but Armstrong’s words certainly inspire. So do these:

“Not only our actions, but also our omissions, become our destiny.”

And I, for one, have no intention of leaving anything out.

Mani/Pedi Om

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Last Thursday I indulged in a gel French manicure and a pedicure.

My unrecognizable hands now look as though they’re ready to become the newest cast members of any Real Housewives franchise.  My toes, tipped in red, are perky little Phalanges of Joy.

I didn’t stop there.  Lady Clairol stopped by and washed the blossoming swath of grey on the right side of my head away with a box of Medium Cool Brown.

Next stop?  Oh, I think I’ll have someone apply and then brutally rip away molten wax on my lip, chin and a few other places I’d rather not mention. It’s time to take care of the excess hair that has plagued me since puberty.  It’s just what my self-esteem ordered.

If only I could nurture my inner beauty with the same zeal.

I have a difficult time with balance.  I sometimes ignore the shades of gray and go right for the black and white.

This is not a particularly strong quality for a yoga teacher to have.

But I’ve been working on it.

I’ve figured out that I CAN have a pedicure AND care about Japan.  I can wear nice yoga togs and buy the guy who sits in front of Whole Foods a sandwich.  It’s not one or the other.  I can do both.

I can care about my Self without sacrificing compassion for others.

Don’t get me wrong – I’m never going to win any awards for altruism.  I don’t give a percentage of my income to charity, I don’t tithe, and to be honest, the guy outside of Whole Foods sort of bugs me.

Maybe it boils down to give and take, checks and balances.  Or maybe I never quite figured out that we all deserve to have a little fun – a little joy in life.  That includes the guy outside of Whole Foods.  But it includes me, too.

Mani/Pedi Om.

Margaret’s Brain on Ice

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One year ago today it was standing room only in Emancipation Hall on the lower floor of our nation’s capital. I was there, with most of Margaret’s family, to see her receive her Congressional Gold Medal for service as a civilian WASP pilot during World War II. Twelve months later, Margaret and I still meet every other Thursday at 10:00 in the morning for a yoga lesson.   Her body doesn’t move as easily as it did last spring. Her joints ache, especially her shoulders.  Her mind, however, is as sharp and sassy as ever.

Today I suggested icing her shoulder after our workouts.

“But I can’t be fiddling with that stuff – it leaves no time for poetry.”

Her voice was a layered mix of smoke from the ten cigarettes she treats herself to each day and 87-year-old ornery mischief.

“What?”

“If I’m messing around with those damn ice bags, Mimm, I can’t think of the lines of poetry.”

“You mean having a bag of ice on your shoulder…”

“It muddles my brain, Mimm.”  She laughed and cleared her throat.  “If I’m doing all that ice and heat stuff to keep things moving, well, it’ll move those lines right out of my brain.”

I shook my head in disbelief and began to pack up my equipment.  That’s when she began:

She is as in a field a silken tent

At midday when the sunny summer breeze

Has dried the dew and all its ropes relent,

So that in guise it gently sways at ease,

And its supporting central cedar pole,

That is its pinnacle to heavenward

And signifies the sureness of the soul,

Seems to owe naught to any single cord,

But strictly held by none, is loosely bound

By countless silken ties of love and thought

To every thing on earth the compass round,

And only by one’s going slightly taut

In the capriciousness of summer air

Is of the slightest bondage made aware.

“That’s Robert Frost.”

“That’s beautiful, Margaret.”

“How am I supposed to remember that with a bag of ice on my shoulder?”

“I don’t know, Margaret.”

I was all packed but I didn’t want to leave.  I love Margaret.  Sometimes when I arrive and she opens the door she’ll stand for a moment.  Her nearly sightless eyes will look me up and down and she’ll ask,

“What fresh hell is this?”

How could I not love her?

We laugh together.  We solve the world’s problems.  We work on solving mine, too. She does not give me a single inch of leeway.

Today we talked about death.

Margaret taking a look at her Congressional Gold Medal with her magnifier.

“I’m not ready to go yet,” she said.  “I like what’s here, and I don’t know what’s there.”  And then she began to recite Emily Dickinson.

In 1944 this tiny, pixie haired woman flew military aircraft so large she needed two pillows and a packed parachute to reach the rudder.

If Margaret doesn’t want to ice her shoulder because it muddles her brain, she doesn’t have to.

Harvest Follows Trust, Not Control

Harvest follows Trust.

I’m great at control.  Trust?  Not so much.  Surprised?  How could a yoga teacher not embrace all that life has to offer with an open heart and unending faith in the Universe?

Easy. I’m human.

Remember eight days ago, when I wrote “I can kick adversity’s ass”?  Well, I’m not really feeling it anymore.

A friend continues to remind me of Rumi’s words “the cure for the pain is in the pain.”  To be honest, I find deeper comfort here:

Oh soul, you worry too much.

You have seen your own strength.

You have seen your own beauty.

You have seen your golden wings.

Of anything else, why do you worry?

You are, in truth, the soul, of the soul, of the soul.

It’s a scary thing, relinquishing control, opening myself to the possibility of disappointment or failure.  But what can I do?  My choices are limited.  I can stagnate.  Keep living the life I am living.  Or I can hold tight to possibility, spread my wings and fly.