I Hide My Chocolate

Midlife observations

Category: Mindful Living

March 22, 2013

Rejected!

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Resilience (Part 2)

“Fuck You New York Times” was my first reaction.

“I’m not a good writer after all.  I can’t do it.  I quit!”  was my second reaction.

Whoa!  What?  Both reactions require me to be angry, depressed, hiding away licking my wounds in victim-y self-pity.  Swinging between the extreme undemonstrativeness of my father where everything I did got a “fair” assessment and the blind adoration of my mother where I could do no wrong, I am an odd mixture of hubris and anxiety that I am a failure.  Any success I have is dubious, because I am a fraud and have everyone fooled.

The experience of submitting my essay – in actuality – differed from the experience in my mind.  In my mind, the New York Times enthusiastically accepted my submission within 24 hours, eager to publish it immediately.  That Sunday!  I was planning the announcement to my community of friends, family, colleagues, and maybe a few frenemies.  (Hah!  See!  I showed you!)  I was the undiscovered great essayist they’ve been waiting for.  I would become famous and admired for my honest and beautifully written personal remembrances.  I would get a book deal!  True, I would have to confront going public with my stories, most frighteningly to my parents.  But I was ready.  If not now, when?  It was time.  How dare they reject my submission?  I had already planned out my future – all based on their acceptance!  Fuck the New York Times.  I must be a failure and a fraud after all.

That night, my husband was tired of kids’ tennis duty and asked me to pick them up.  I passively aggressively agreed.  This was cutting into my time – it was my night to work late or sneak in a yoga class or just go home and have the house to myself to write.  Besides, I was out of sorts from receiving the rejection email – one month, precisely, from the day I had submitted it, as promised by their precise submission guidelines.  I grumbled out of the house and got into the car and turned on WNYC.  And was transfixed.  The Moth Radio Hour was on.  In my heightened awareness of writing and story-telling, what could have been better?  Josh Axelrad was telling his story of gambling.  His word choice was sophisticated and intricate, his timing and intonation were amazing, his story was riveting.  Wow.  Now that’s how to tell a story!  Fuck the New York Times.  I must be a failure and a fraud after all.

Now what?  Deep breath.  Pause.  Take a day, or a week, or a month, to consider my next steps.  I don’t have to react immediately or impulsively or emotionally.

What now, is that after 50 years of rejections and acceptances I can find a middle ground.   I am a good but new and inexperienced writer.  Maybe the rejection has nothing to do with me and my essay.  Maybe it just didn’t fit the direction they want to go with the column.  Maybe I should submit it somewhere else.  I can do that.  I don’t have to quit.  I can keep writing, keep practicing, honing my skills, getting my 10,000 hours in.

At 17, I was not so patient.  I had been obsessed with ballet.  For all of 2 or 3 years.  Dancing 4 hours a day, 6 days a week, I probably had about 4,000 hours in when I decided to audition for New York City Ballet’s School of American Ballet.  Not a city kid, my mother and I took the train from D.C. to New York, where I was overwhelmed with the monolithic gray busyness of the city.  We took a taxi from Penn Station to Lincoln Center.  We found the dark and cramped administrative corridors in the bowels of Lincoln Center leading to the seemingly enormous mirror-lined dance studios of the school.  I was too nervous to remember much.  My mother had made the appointment, so I had a private audition not a cattle call.  I went into the locker room to change and then they brought me to the studio.  Two older women with Russian sounding accents were there.  Not unkind, they looked me over.  I pliéd and did a glissade.  And that was about it.  Perhaps they had me do a small combination in the center of the grand old studio.  That was enough for them to know that I was not what they were looking for.  I was not tall enough.  I was not ethereal enough.  I was not uniquely talented enough.  I didn’t have my 10,000 hours in.  They suggested that I go to a college with a strong dance program and explore other forms of dance that were not so exacting.  Excellent advice that I could not hear.  I was determined to be a ballet dancer at the most prestigious dance company I was aware of.  That was the future I had imagined in my mind.  They rejected me.  Closed off to other possibilities, I quit ballet.  Later, I quit college to return to ballet – but with similar results.  Bouncing between extremes, I never let myself enjoy being good enough – open to possibilities other than greatness at something ridiculously hard to achieve.

Now what?  What now is that I can practice resilience, mindfully choosing flexibility and optimism.  Rejection is not a tragedy.  It is an opportunity.  Your loss, New York Times.  (sigh, still angry)  I will practice my writing and find other venues to publish and to reach an audience.  Just as there are myriad other profoundly amazing dance companies and dancers (which, regretfully, I was not wise enough at the time to explore – sigh, still sad), so there are other ways to tell stories.

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February 23, 2013

Surya Namaskar Ski

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A Fervent Salute to the Sun

It was a cold and windy week at Stowe Mountain.  My smug celebration of triumph over my anxiety demons vanished with the lack of sun, the bitter cold, and the icy trails.  The smart decision, for me, would have been to accept that conditions were not good, for me, and to settle down with my book: Cyndi Lee’s May I Be Happy.  But it was too early in the vacation week to “give in” to a day off.  And so I fought the conditions, determined to have a magical week.  Our skiing abilities have converged at that happy and temporary moment where we all can ski together.  I wanted to enjoy this week together.  And so I did.

I ski because my husband skis.

We met on a group cross-country long weekend, 20 years ago this February.  I tease him that it was false advertising, because he is a downhill skier not a cross-country skier.  I had my one and only certifiable full-blown classic panic attack when attempting downhill skiing earlier with a former boyfriend.  Of course, I had much to be anxious about as we navigated the fork in the road in our relationship about whether or not to marry.  After sweating, hyperventilating, and resisting the urge to throw up, I decided that downhill skiing was not for me – and I decided not to marry that boyfriend.

I came to more adventurous sports, like cycling and hiking in my 20’s.  I was not brought up with much exposure to athletics and team sports.  I was one of the last girls picked for the softball team.  I discovered physical activity through ballet and loved having a strong and active body.  But skiing was forbidden to ballet dancers, deemed to be too risky.  These adventurous activities were so foreign to how I was raised, that I really got a charge out of the challenge of pushing myself physically.  Skiing, however, added a whole new layer of anxiety and discomfort.

I fell head over heels in love with my husband at first sight.  In my attempt to impress him, I agreed to go downhill skiing instead of cross-country skiing that weekend and fell and hurt my knee.  When we returned from the weekend, he checked on how I was doing post-ski-injury and we began dating.  We had a joyful and passionate courtship and married a year later.

Part of a loving relationship is sharing interests with the other person and doing things that make the other person happy.  I had spent years learning what I was interested in and was very insecure and suspicious about giving up my Self to take on another person’s interests.  This time it felt different.  Somehow it was okay to do things because he wanted to do them.  I learned to ski.

Learning to ski is an enormous challenge, especially as an adult.  It is a scary and uncomfortable activity that requires travelling, carrying equipment, and enduring a variety of less-than-ideal conditions.  For the first few years of our life together, it was difficult to actually ski together because our levels of ability were so different.  I took a lot of classes with other adults at my level.  I was very good in these classes, eager to please the teacher and work towards progressing to the next level.  Then I would ski with my husband and all my eager enthusiasm would dissipate.  I became passive aggressive, going extra slow on trails that should have been easy but I wanted to make sure he knew they were HARD for me.  I would stand at the top of a steep section and my heart would race and my stomach would lurch and I would exclaim that I couldn’t do it!  Somehow, for the most part, he patiently coached me or ignored my save-me-I’m-a-victim theatrics and we built a skiing life together.  It helped that there would be magical days when I wasn’t too cold and nothing hurt and I felt confident and skiing was actually exhilarating. I never gave up on skiing – feeling compelled to prove I could do it; feeling compelled to make him proud of me; and feeling compelled to achieve it because it was such a crazy different achievement from all the intellectual pursuits I had been directed towards by my parents.

We introduced our children to skiing at as young an age as possible and have been skiing as a family for 10 years.  My skiing, our skiing, has changed over the years.  In the early years, it was a lot of work to manage their equipment and our equipment and get them to ski school on time.  My daughter, an obedient first-born girl, unquestioningly and energetically went off to ski school every year and has become a beautiful and technically proficient expert skier.  My son, never one to separate easily, resisted spending the day away from us in ski school.  We insisted and he has also become an excellent skier, though I see elements of my anxiety and passive-aggressiveness in him.  I also see how he enjoys the thrill and the challenge when he skis in the woods and the terrain park.  My husband has become a more patient skier, willing to take breaks and ski less advanced terrain.  And I have lost my anxiety – most of the time.  It still lurches up when I am cold or the wind is blowing and I can’t see well.  But when the sun is shining, I love skiing.  I never thought I would say that or feel that.  It took 20 years – and I really only feel the joy when the sun is shining.

I use all my yoga on our ski trips.  I remind myself that nothing is permanent and that the bitter cold chairlift ride will not last.  I remind myself that my anxiety is a bad habit that I can change, have changed.  I remind myself to breathe and to change the tape in my head to something more positive.  I remind myself that I have nothing to prove and that my reason to ski is to have fun with my family.  I remind myself to be grateful for the happy moments, patient with the uncomfortable moments and compassionate with the different moods that swirl in close quarters.

I have such sympathy for the children and the parents snapping at each other as they struggle off to ski school, such sympathy for the woman at the top of a steep section yelling at her partner that she can’t do it or frozen with panic, such sympathy for the woman who says I am going to go to the spa.

With only one or two exceptions, we’ve spent every annual family ski week at Stowe.  Just as our family skiing experience has evolved over the last 10 years, so has Stowe.  Stowe has always had an active town with many shops and restaurants and plenty to do for non-skiers year round.  Like all ski towns, though, it welcomed a rugged attitude:  “I’m just here for the skiing!  I’ll ski anytime, anywhere, with any conditions!”  Toughness was embraced.  It took several years but the new resort at Spruce Mountain, the Stowe Mountain Lodge, has changed the tenor of the town and the skiing experience.  I wonder what locals think?  The new resort is beautiful, very expensive, and adds a level of luxury and comfort that didn’t use to be at Stowe.  The older resorts seem faded, as if they can’t grasp how to compete or to respond to the new type of person visiting Stowe. Most of our vacations have been spent at the Golden Eagle Resort, a mid-priced resort with not a lot of luxury.  It is familiar, but very dated and awkwardly large and spread out.  Tired aura.  At The Firefox Inn for a basic Italian dinner, we were shocked at the drab décor and the ungracious service.  Bad aura.  Frida’s Taqueria is crowded and doing a good business.  The food is authentic and the service is friendly.  Good aura.  West Branch Yoga exuded yoga.  When we walked in, we looked at each other and smiled.  It smelled like yoga.  We were welcomed generously.  Warm aura.  As for the luxury resort at Spruce, it is not my favorite place.  It is well-designed and convenient, but very expensive and haughty, with closed off sections “for members only.”  The guests there seem self-absorbed and in their ivory tower.  Narcissistic aura.  (Full disclosure – if I could afford it – I would probably stay there.)  I feel for the town and the older establishments as they face this junction in their business.  The more frugal die-hard skier still exists but the money to support the businesses will come from the affluent visitors.  I’m looking forward to heated seats on the chairlifts.  Surely that will be the next upgrade.

Friday, our last day, was the warmest day – though still no sun – and we were all eager for a good day after all the cold days before.  Rested from a day at the spa, I was ready to feel the exhilaration and to conquer the mountain.  We tackled Lift Line, a double black diamond trail, a rare event in my skiing repertoire.  My son wanted to say he did a double black run and my husband wanted to get it in before his knees failed him and I didn’t want to be left behind.  As we headed for the run, the anticipation of anxiety got the better of me.  Just making the commitment to do the run made my heart race.  It’s a nerve-wracking chute down to the top of the first drop off.  I got there and giddily sang:  “Hello Terror, My Old Friend” and made the mistake of stopping instead of just jumping in.  Frozen, I had to talk myself out of panic.  Once I jumped in, the run was fine.  My son was so excited to have done it.  He too conquered his anxiety.

We enjoyed every moment of the day.  Perhaps it was our last in Stowe.  What will our skiing life together be like when my daughter goes to college?  Is it time to give Stowe a break?   Finally, on the last run of the day, the sun tried to break through and we found a faint rainbow in the sky.  Magical.  Good-bye for now Stowe.  Thank you for some wonderful family moments and memories.

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January 1, 2013

Meat

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More Meatless

I love meat.  Juicy, rare, marbled steak is a favorite of mine.  Roast chicken, with the skin on, is another.  But when I hit my 40’s, a variety of disconcerting changes occurred.  15 pounds creeped on.  (The Perimenopausal 15?)  When I ate steak, my stomach complained, gurgling for hours and keeping me up at night.  Speaking of sleep, I couldn’t sleep any more.  Every night around 2 am, I woke up to go to the bathroom (beyond tedious) and then was UP for hours.  One (of many) tactics I employed to lose weight was to eat less meat.  While everyone else was having 3-4 meatballs with their spaghetti, I cut back to 1 meatball with my whole wheat spaghetti.  When going out, I split a steak entrée with my daughter.  Now I forego the steak entrée altogether, opting for fish or a vegetarian option.  My stomach stopped gurgling, I slept better, and the 15 pounds (and more) crept off.

Also around this time, I dove deeper into yoga and yoga philosophy. I studied the Yama’s and the Niyama’s, yoga’s ethical guidelines, the most famous of which is Ahimsa or non-harming.  This “Do/Don’t” is an overarching belief that one should live with love and compassion for all beings and not behave in any way that harms another being.  It is generally cited as the reason for yoga practitioners to adopt a vegetarian diet.

As this virtuous circle expanded:  I ate less meat, I did more yoga, I felt better and slept better, I loved more and stressed less, I ate less meat and did more yoga.  I became a big fan of Michael Pollan and Mark Bittman.  Both write with great conviction and adopt a pragmatic approach to eating less meat.  Pollan’s simple advice is to “Eat Food.  Not Too Much.  Mostly Plants.”  Bittman’s approach to eat vegan during the day and loosen the rules at dinner works for me, allowing for more flexibility with my family and our dinners together.

Because, you see, my family does not share my intense über desire to eat healthily and to eat as a responsible world citizen.  It becomes very challenging to eat nurturing meals together when family members have different ideas about what they want to put into their bodies.  We tend to compromise which works fairly well, but it does mean a lot of double cooking and other juggling and shopping for me, the one who is more determined to not just eat something because it’s easy or tastes good.  (My husband, the weekend Italian chef, cooks food that tastes very good.)

Eating less meat makes me feel better.  The health benefits are compelling.  The environmental benefits are compelling.  I made this soup/stew over the holiday break and the whole family enjoyed it (well, not my picky son).  It just got better and thicker as each day passed, a delicious virtuous circle. Turn it into more of a meal by serving over barley, brown rice, or quinoi.

Butternut Squash Soup/Stew

  • 2 Tablespoons olive oil
  • 4 cups of butternut squash, cut into even-sized ¾” cubes
  • 1 large baking potato, cut into even-sized ¾” cubes
  • ¼ cup olive oil
  • 1 small yellow onion, chopped fine
  • 4 cloves garlic, chopped fine
  • 3 cups vegetable stock
  • 2 15 oz cans cannellini beans
  • 1 14 ½ oz can of diced tomatoes, drained
  • 1 Tablespoon of fresh thyme or fresh sage
  • 1 Tablespoon of fresh lemon juice (or more, to taste) – adds brightness

Preheat oven to 350°F.  Place squash and potato on a baking sheet, drizzle with 2 Tablespoons of olive oil, and roast in oven for about 35 minutes.

Saute onion and garlic in ¼ cup of olive oil until golden brown, about 10 minutes.

Add stock and bring to a gentle boil.  Add squash, potatoes, beans, tomatoes.  Simmer until squash and potatoes are soft, about 15 minutes.  Puree half the soup in a food processor until consistency as at desired thickness.  Add thyme or sage.  Stir in lemon juice.

Serves 6, gets thicker and tastier with time

3 Comments
December 28, 2012

The Year of the Crab

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New Year’s Hopes

I love New Year’s Resolutions!  The hopeful promise that this year is the year I will achieve my goals!  New Year’s Resolutions play right to my ocd strengths as a disciplined rule-follower determined to succeed.  I will fill-in-the-blank every day!  While virtuously and successfully achieving all my goals, I will simultaneously stop all my bad habits, cold turkey, January 1!  I will be a perfect person!  (How annoying would that be?)

We all know how this turns out.

This year, instead of resolving, willfully, to stop picking at my skin in anxious rumination; instead of resolving, determinedly, to take 3 yoga classes every week (or more!); instead of resolving, impetuously, to throw away all the clutter in my house – I will refine and build on several goals, hopes, wishes and dreams I started last year that are bringing me more peace, joy, and love in my life.  In 2013, I wish to:

  • Speak my truth.  I know what I think, I just don’t say it in my effort to be liked, or to be right, or to avoid conflict.  It takes a lot of listening to my gut, to my intuition, but my truth is there.  Say it out loud.  Say what I need to say.
  • Listen.  Listen to the people I love.  Let them be themselves, not who I want them to be.  Let them speak their truth.  Encourage them to find their joy.
  • Make eye contact.  It is impossible to hide when you look the other person in the eye.
  • Continue to teach yoga.  Being a teacher brings me joy; connects me to others; encourages me to dig deeper – (and makes me a better student).
  • Continue to practice yoga.  Being a student brings me joy; connects me to others; encourages me to dig deeper – (and makes me a better teacher).
  • Begin to bring meditation into my life, making space for what is meaningful.  Allowing for time to sit still seems symbolic of letting go of the schedule, of the busy-ness.
  • Continue to write.  For now, my writing is where I speak my truth.
  • Be a grown-up.  Do all the financial things that need doing:  will, life insurance, college savings, retirement savings, mortgage.
  • Devote more time to the causes I believe in and have worked hard to develop personal connections with:
    • Gibney Dance, a modern dance company that brings movement training to victims of domestic violence – allowing these women to speak their truth.
    • Give Back Yoga, a nonprofit that brings yoga to PTSD trauma sufferers.
  • Nurture my deepening friendships.  They are more rewarding than my busy busy busy pursuit of my goals.
  • Do and share things with my family.  Let everyone take turns choosing an activity.  Time seems heartbreakingly fleeting.  Get out of myself and reach out to them.
  • Let go of the schedule, the chores, the clutter.  Let in the possibility of more fun.
  • Laugh more.

Food-wise, sigh, too many rules here.  I wish to enjoy my food more and not worry so much about my weight.  I will honor my commitment to my New Year’s Goals with Crab Pasta.  I make this dish frequently, because it is easy, delicious (and a bit indulgent).  Sitting down to crab pasta with my family once a month can be a reminder that my goal for 2013 is to live my life with meaning, true to myself, with love and compassion for the people in my life.  The symbolism of the crab resonates.  Hiding under its shell, ready to shed its shell, is a rich soul.

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Crab Pasta

  • ¼ cup olive oil
  • 3-4 cloves of garlic, chopped fine
  • 3 Tablespoons jalapeno slices (Mt. Olive brand is not too spicy and adds nice tang)
  • 3 Tablespoons pine nuts
  • 1 teaspoon crushed red pepper
  • 1 pound jumbo lump crabmeat, picked over to remove any shards of shell
  • ½ cup dry white wine
  • Salt and Pepper
  • 1 pound pasta (Garofalo brand, Calamarata shape – is my favorite for when I am indulging in “regular” pasta instead of healthier whole wheat pasta)
  • 2 Tablespoons parsley, chopped fine, to sprinkle on top when serving
  • Bring water to boil and prepare pasta according to package directions, careful not to overcook.
  • While pasta is boiling, prepare the crab.
  • Heat olive oil.  Saute gently on medium-low heat the garlic, jalapeno, pine nuts, and crushed red pepper until garlic and pine nuts are golden, about 5 minutes.  Add wine and bring to a boil.  Add crab.  Heat together another 5 minutes.  When pasta is done, add to crab and stir together.  Add some of the pasta cooking water (up to ½ cup) if the mixture seems dry.
  • Sprinkle parsley on top to serve.

Serves 4.  (Skeptical children can have butter pasta without the crab, leaving more crab for the grown-ups.)

1 Comment
December 17, 2012

“What Do You Want?”

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Love Under the Christmas Tree

“What do you want for Christmas?” my husband asks.  And asks.  Gently but persistently.  All month long he has been asking.  I have not answered.  Except to say:  “Nothing.  I don’t want anything.”  But that is not a satisfying answer.  It is not a fair answer to someone who truly wants me to be happy and to contribute to my happiness.  Being in a relationship means learning to receive gifts of love, however they may come, openly and appreciatively.

My first instinct is to wonder what SHOULD I want?  What is the right answer to this question?  What does he want to give me that will satisfy his desire to give me something, his obligation to give me something suitable for Christmas, without putting him out too much?  (God forbid I should actually ask for something complicated.)  I could pick out something and he could manage the transaction and have it waiting for me under the tree.  Certainly, there are many beautiful things that would fall into this category.  So many beautiful things that I am paralyzed with indecision.  For my choice represents me.  What if I make a mistake and choose badly, choosing something that is not who I am, not who I want to be, not who he wants me to be?  What if that necklace is too conservative for the more free-flowing person I wish I were and maybe will become…someday?  What if that red leather tote is not the right size or is too heavy and he spends all that money and I never use it?  Why is stuff so expensive anyway?  Besides, I tend to buy what I need and then not want to spend the money on the extra luxury enhancements.  After being downsized and laid off, I have a new appreciation for being able to pay the mortgage.  Keeping the house and sending the kids to college are my financial priorities.  Skip the jewels and the luxury items.  Just as the first bite is the most delicious, so it is with stuff.  It’s shiny and beautiful at first and then…it’s just more stuff.  It’s not what makes me happy.

Every year I feel the pressure to create a fulfillable wish list while fulfilling everyone else’s wish list by deadline.  It’s exhausting and I am not very cheerful about the process.  One season my husband had an aha! moment and announced that he had figured out why I didn’t like Christmas.  (Aside from the fact that it is a burdensome amount of work especially if you are keeping up with Santa.)  It was because I didn’t have anyone to play with and share toys with on Christmas Day as a child.  Wow, that was a profound observation from someone I don’t always give credit to for noticing.  But who knows me better (at least when I let him)?  As an only child, I received many gifts.  Many gifts appropriate for a girl of my age at the time.  And after I opened my last gift one year, I remember having an overwhelming feeling of “Is that it?”  Christmas was over.  No more presents.  No one to play with.  Back to being alone.  Indeed, why would anyone enjoy that?

So, what do I really want for Christmas?  (And will I have the courage to ask for it?)

I want to be loved for me.  I don’t want to be alone.  I want to look into the eyes of my husband and feel love and the joy of having a partner.  I want my children to be happy, healthy, safe and secure – in an increasingly frightening world.  I don’t want my anxieties and neuroses to ruin Christmas for them.  I want to feel there is purpose in my life, our lives, and to feel there is meaning in this world.

It is a strange holiday for me.  I was not brought up to be Christian.  I am not Christian.  Yet I was brought up with Christmas.  How can I create a holiday with my family that is a holy day?  Christmas is beautiful.  The music elicits goosebumps; the lights and the candles offer hope that the dark days will grow bright and long again; the cooking and eating of special food brings us together; and then there are the gifts under that magical tree, decorated with ornaments that we chose for our family life together.  We want to give gifts that show our loved ones that we know them and delight in them and want to make them happy.  Christmas is a time to pause from the relentless pace of our everyday lives and reflect on what is meaningful and to connect with the people we love.

It is not just stuff under the tree.  There is love under the tree, to be given and received.

Here is what I want for Christmas this year:

  • A family photo shoot
  • Ballroom dancing lessons with my husband
  • A sacred place in my house to practice yoga
  • New pajamas (My favorite set has seen too many menopausal night sweats and is threadbare from being washed too many times.)
  • Tickets to just about anything – dance, theater, music.  I love all performing arts and don’t get to see enough of it.
  • Free flowing jewelry, because someday, someday, I will be a less careful and a more free flowing woman.
10 Comments
November 14, 2012

Walking With God

My Friend Agnes

Agnes means “lamb of God,” according to my friend Agnes.  I would joke that I was walking with God when we walked daily.  Truly, it was no joke.  If God is love and the connection between us, then walking with Agnes was walking with God.  Our walks were sacred.

We walked nearly every day for a year and a half.  Monday through Friday we got up at 5 am and walked about 2 miles from 5:15 to 5:45, year round.  On the weekends, we slept in until 6:15 and doubled our mileage for a 4 mile jaunt.  We texted each other every night to confirm, checking in with the weather and the temperature.  I bought us each flashing safety lights that we wore around our waists when the mornings were dark.  She bought us each a fleece top to layer on when the mornings were cold.

Of course the reason for walking was fitness.  I had a grueling schedule and a commute and couldn’t fit in exercise in any other way.  She was launching her real estate career but still wanted to be home as much as possible for her three children and her husband.  Having an early morning walking/fitness partner insured that we did our walk nearly every day.  After all, Agnes was depending on me to show up.

But really the reason for walking was friendship.  I was the quiet, more reserved one, focused on family and career with seemingly little time for nurturing friendships.  Agnes was the talkative, more effusive one.  Indeed she is the connector, the glue for our entire neighborhood community.  We were perhaps an unlikely pair.  As the talker listened, and the listener talked, we shared everything with each other forming a deep bond.  When I slid into indecision or reluctance to express my point of view, she asked questions creating a safe and nonjudgmental place for me to be me.  I looked up to her as being funny and extroverted and energetic.  She looked up to me as being intelligent and compassionate and honest.

We started with the mundane.  “What did you have for dinner last night?” led to lengthy conversations about food, recipes, and the Flat Belly diet.  I am still skeptical of her Brussels Sprouts roasted with bacon but she swears they are delicious. She thinks my preparation of two batches of pasta at dinnertime (regular for the boys, whole wheat for the girls) is unwieldy and not going to happen in her family.  We are both fans of Mark Bittman and his approach to food and cooking as we incorporate more vegetarian options into our repertoire and hope our families follow suit.

We tackled movies, books, and current events.  We both read Three Cups of Tea and later felt betrayed when the accusations against Greg Mortensen came out. Agnes is never afraid to ask a question or reveal that she doesn’t know something.  I am more protective of how I appear outwardly, not wanting to reveal that I don’t know something.  We usually had read the same articles in the New York Times the previous day and she would launch into her thoughts and questions about it – while allowing me the space to articulate my questions and thoughts as well, instead of pretending I had it all figured out.

We shared our hopes, frustrations, and love for our children.  We shared household tips, best buys, and ideas for birthday celebrations.  We groused about our husbands and complained about ornery bosses and co-workers, while working through conflicts and sticky situations.  We shared our family stories.  Her Italian Catholic upbringing contrasted with my Aetheist upbringing as an only child.  So different.  And yet we were interconnected as busy working moms in the same neighborhood at mid-life (though she is quick to point out that she is three years younger than me and technically not a baby-boomer).  “But you do believe in God.”  She stated during one memorable conversation about religion.  It was not a question.  She understood that I was brought up without religion, but she saw the spiritual side of me and never questioned my faith even though I question it every day and am pretty sure most of the time that I do not believe in God, at least not in the sense of an omnipotent being.  But her faith in my faith was unwavering.

As our second winter of walking approached, I couldn’t face frigid, dark 5 am walks any more.  I had discovered yoga and began to phase out walking with Agnes.  I had embarked on a 9-month 200-hour teaching training program that required all my energy that wasn’t wrapped up in my work and my family.  Busy Busy Busy!  I am always busy doing, learning, achieving – leaving little time for friendships.  Somehow the achievement of some goal seems more important than just being with another human being.  As an only child, I can be self-absorbed and spotty when it comes to valuing relationships.  Agnes said she missed me and missed our walks, but she did not express anger or outrage at being passed over for my latest pursuit.  Indeed, she was supportive and one of my most loyal guinea pig students when I needed to practice teaching yoga.  We always picked up where we left off and talked enthusiastically about some crucial topic of high interest to both of us.  But there was a distance, a gap.  I missed her, but I was busy busy busy.

Last week (two years later) I was at her house using her blow dryer during the power outage.  I had shared how the lack of a hair dryer was a source of both physical discomfort (my hair doesn’t dry and my head is cold!) and aesthetic discomfort (my hair just hangs limply, with no body or style!).  “Come to my house right now and dry your hair!” she commanded.  I obeyed.  About the only good thing about the power outage is that I wasn’t busy busy busy, because there was no light in which to do anything.  We talked for an hour, catching up on each other’s lives.  My friend Agnes.  A few hours later that same day another neighbor called me to tell me that Agnes’ husband had passed away suddenly.  WHAT?!  It was just unfathomable.  What could I do for my friend Agnes who had taught me so much about life and friendship?  I stopped by every day just wanting to be near her and to hold her hand, jealous of the more organized ladies of the neighborhood who seemed to have a knack for knowing what to do, praying that my presence was in some way a help to her.  When she got up to give her eulogy at the funeral, I sobbed.  My brave friend, how could this tragedy have happened?  She stood up and shared her love for her husband and her sadness that he was gone and her profound understanding that he loved her and knew that she loved him.  What a gift to know with certainty that you love and are loved.

On the morning of the funeral, the daily thought from the Buddhist Tricycle was written just for the occasion.  Funny how that happens.  At times of crisis and heightened emotion, we remember that it is important to live every day like it is our last.  It is during the ordinary times that it is hard to hang onto this wisdom.

“If we really faced our fear of death, our lives would ultimately be lighter and more joyful. I don’t propose death awareness to depress us. It enhances our ability to live more fully.”

– Larry Rosenberg, “Only the Practice of Dharma Can Help Us at the Time of Death”

As Agnes rebuilds, I hope to be a friend to her as dearly as she has been a friend to me.  We’re going to begin with some walks.

Mark Bittman’s Roasted Brussels Sprouts with Garlic, p 273

Brussels Sprouts must be cooked thoroughly, but not until they’re mushy; they’re best when the insides are tender but not soft.  And they’re ideal when the exterior is crisp.  This combination of sautéing and roasting does the trick nicely, and these sprouts are good when very, very dark brown, almost burned.  Other vegetables you can use: red cabbage or wedges of radicchio.  [I prefer radicchio.]

  • 1 lb Brussels sprouts
  • ¼ cup olive oil
  • 4-6 cloves peeled garlic, or more to taste
  • Salt and Pepper
  • 1 Tablespoon of balsamic vinegar

Preheat oven to 450°F.  Trim the hard edge of the stem from the Brussels sprouts, then cut each in half through its axis.  Put the oil in a large oven proof skillet over medium-high heat.  When it shimmers, arrange the sprouts in one layer, cut side down.  Toss in the garlic and sprinkle with salt and pepper.

Cook, undisturbed, until the sprouts begin to brown, 5 to 10 minutes, then transfer to the oven.  Cook, shaking the pan occasionally, until the sprouts are quite brown and tender, about 30 minutes.

Taste and adjust the seasoning; drizzle with the balsamic vinegar, stir, and serve hot or warm.

Serves 4.

2 Comments
November 5, 2012

Waiting for Con Ed

My Empty Refrigerator

As news of Hurricane Sandy’s ferociousness dominated our area two weekends ago, I alternated between frenetic anxiety (gotta get batteries!) and scornful denial (damn media hype!).  When schools announced their closure, I scoffed at their overreaction, but decided I better get a lot of laundry done.  Just in case.  In my hyper anxious mood, I needed to work off the adrenalin – my son and I went for a walk/bike-ride around the neighborhood Monday morning.  The wind kicked up while we were out and branches started falling.  Hmm, maybe this IS serious.  After all, my sister-in-law is usually right and she said this one would be bad.  I began to panic.  “Aidan, we need to go home!”  We headed home, taking some “before” photos along the way.  Just in case.

I decided to make dinner early.  Just in case.  We frequently lost power in storms and I figured we would lose power this storm as well.  Around 5:00 I set the water on to boil for pasta.  The wind was supposed to be quite bad after 8:00 pm.  Plenty of time for a pre-storm dinner.

Around 5:20, we lost power.  Shit!  Spoiling my dinner!  Not to be thwarted, we all hopped into the car, prepared to head to a local restaurant for dinner.  We couldn’t leave our street.  One tree up the hill had fallen on a telephone pole and knocked out the electrical wires and transformer.  Another tree down the hill had fallen, knocking out more wires and blocking the road.  We were trapped.  Truly, it was shocking – too dangerous, indeed impossible, to drive.  Shaken, we went back home and made the best of our candlelit dinner of room temperature leftovers and discussed possible sleeping arrangements.  We decided on mother-daughter and father-son.  Somehow that seemed the right combination for body warmth, love, and parental protection during a windy scary night.

The next day we rose with the sun (late for me, around 7:30 am) and began our vigil.  Waiting for Con Ed.  And wondering.  How bad is the damage?  What can we do?  But first, coffee.  As someone who is attached to my routines, I feel unmoored when my schedule is disrupted.  I vaguely remembered being able to make coffee during the last outage.  Aidan had insisted we could light the burners last night, but we didn’t listen to him – the baby of the family.  Sure enough, he was right.  Two burners worked in this way.  Coffee and oatmeal for breakfast!  That kept me busy for a while.  That and pacing to the window to see what, if anything, was going on outside.   Around 11:00, we embarked on a walk through the neighborhood to see how everyone fared.  Many neighbors were doing the same thing, in shared dismay.  Trees and wires down throughout the neighborhood, with several houses severely damaged by trees that had fallen on them.  It was awful.  We were lucky.  We had no damage and we were okay. 

Back home and it was time for lunch.  Gotta use up the cold cuts.  Grilled turkey, ham and cheese all around.  Daytime was okay:  we had enough light; we bundled up to stay warm; we kept busy.  And we had hopeful energy.  Stay positive!  Stay busy!  We’re lucky!  Tuesday night’s candlelit dinner was pasta with more leftover sauce.  The boiling pot brought the temperature up a degree.  We huddled around our battery-operated dvd player and watched Ratatouille.  We saved Finding Nemo for Wednesday night, crying over a father’s love and the beautiful connection between beings.

Wednesday my husband trekked to work and the kids and I began our new outage routine.  My daughter and I took a yoga class every morning while my son read his book in the warmth of the sitting area watching over our charging electronic devices.  I was so happy to be in the presence of people!  But as the week wore on, more people got their power restored and returned to normal and I felt isolated in our misery.  Remember, we’re lucky!  By Friday, when the yoga teacher purred about how tragedy brings out the best in people I felt like screaming.  ”Are you kidding?  People are about to kill each other selfishly cutting each other off in gas lines!”  I think tragedy brings out the most primitive emotions in people.  Much of it good and caring, but not all of it.  I wish I were a wise, compassionate, loving yoga teacher.  Oh yeah, I AM a yoga teacher!  I have to remember that!  But I am also a selfish human who wants her electricity back so she can blow-dry her hair, eat her regularly scheduled foods, and drive to her favorite activities without worrying about a gas shortage!  Lucky White Suburban Woman Is Miserable does not make a good headline.

I guess we’re all going to get generators.  That ought to be good for the environment.  Huddled in our individual houses with our gasoline-powered generators rumbling noisily away.  At least we’ll be able to run our hair-dryers.

I am struck by the people who are galvanized to action during disasters.  They deliver meals and clothing to the afflicted.  They open their houses to anyone who needs a meal or a shower.  They open their arms and hearts to all.  My instinct is to hunker down – stoically.  No I don’t need anything, but don’t expect me to give anything either.   My way is a meager way and not the example I want to set for my children.  So, we gratefully accept the hook-up to our neighbor’s generator, powering our heating system for a few hours a day so the house is warmer.  So, we gratefully accept my sister-in-law’s generosity with food, warm beds, hot showers (and a working hair-dryer).  I am not sure how we pay back their generosity.  Perhaps it is simple.  We say thank you graciously and pay it forward. 

By Sunday, I gave up on salvaging anything from the freezer or the refrigerator and threw it all away.  The 5 year old caramel topping for ice cream.  The caper berries I bought when I couldn’t find capers.  The vacuum packed smoked salmon from a Harry & David gift basket – about 10 years ago.  I suppose some of this stuff lasts forever.  But I threw every bit if it away.  Time to move on and start fresh.  It does feel good to have an empty refrigerator, poised with new possibilities.  I cleaned the freezer compartment.  It had never been cleaned.  There was a gogurt from when the kids were little – also about 8-10 years old.  And ancient frozen waffles.  One package of regular.  And one package of whole grain.  And a melted ice cream sandwich.  All gone.  It was sad.  It was freeing.  Time to move on and start fresh.

After a week of oatmeal for breakfast, grilled cheese & omelets for lunch, and pasta & assorted leftovers for dinner, the most delicious meal we had this past week was (leftover) black bean chili served over brown rice. 

Black Bean Chili

  • ¼ cup olive oil
  • 1 onion, chopped
  • 2-4 garlic cloves, chopped
  • 2 bell peppers, chopped
  • 1-2 Tablespoons of chili powder
  • 1-2 teaspoons of cumin
  • 1-2 teaspoons of oregano
  • 1 link of chorizo, chopped (optional add-in for meat-eaters)
  • 2 15 ounce cans of black beans (use the liquid)
  • 1 16 ounce jar of salsa (whatever is your favorite brand and level of spiciness)
  • 2-4 Tablespoons of pickled jalapenos (adds tang more than heat)

Toppings

  • Cilantro
  • Cheddar Cheese
  • Sour cream

Heat oil in heavy skillet over medium-high heat.  Add onions, garlic, bell peppers.  Saute until onions soften – about 10 minutes.  Stir in chili powder, cumin, oregano – 2 minutes.  Add in Chorizo, beans, with liquid, salsa, and jalapenos.  Reduce heat and simmer – 15 to 30 minutes.

Serve over brown rice with desired toppings.  Makes terrific leftovers!  You can stretch out this meal by varying the ratio of rice to chili.

Serves about 6

3 Comments
Aside | October 11, 2012

My Left Thumb

Image

Healing My Left Thumb

My left thumb is healing.  Slowly. 

I pick at the cuticle. 

I pick compulsively at the cuticle even though I know I should stop.  Any rough edges of the cuticle become fodder for a picking session.  I will create a rough edge in order to have an excuse to pick at it.  The slightly painful sensation is a pleasurable distraction from anxiety. 

I pick when I am sitting at my desk looking at my computer wondering which project to tackle or which decision to make – the one that makes someone happy or the one I believe to be the right one for the business.  So, more to the point, I pick while postponing confronting a person or situation that makes my stomach lurch. 

I pick when I am driving.  Yikes!  Two hands on the wheel!  I stopped when the kids were in the car, mainly because my son would point it out:  “Mommy, stop picking!”  I started wearing gloves when I drove.  That was annoying.  Now I place two hands on the wheel and breathe – commanding myself to focus on driving and not the incessant chatter in my head.  It works for about a minute.  And then I try again.

I pick when I am sitting still, because I can’t sit still.  My mind races through my to-do/to-worry list as my hands fidget and pick. 

I pick when I am standing in the kitchen, ostensibly preparing a meal, felled by some anxious thought until I shake myself back into the task at hand.

When my cuticles are smooth, I will find a rough spot somewhere else on my skin to pick at.  Usually around my right ear.  My hair covers my ear so you can’t see the damage.  It is better than it was.  The cuticle of my right middle finger is also a target.  At its worst, my left thumbnail was so damaged and ridged that it throbbed in the middle of the night and I was afraid it would get seriously infected.  I wore band-aids.  This was effective if I didn’t use my hands or wash my hands.  The best bandage was Band-Aid Ultra-Strips.  They stayed put – so well that it hurt to remove them from the nail.  Keeping my cuticles and rough skin patches moisturized helps.  The best moisturizer for this task is ChapStick, neither too light nor too greasy.  I got manicures.  The manicurist would tut-tut and scold me for picking and try to fill my left thumbnail with ridge-filler.  Manicures helped for the first few days after I got my nails done and are a recurring tactic for weaning myself from this ocd, addictive, self-injurious behavior, which apparently has a name:  Dermatillomania.  I made this discovery after reading Alexandra Heather Foss’ post about Trichotillomania in the NYT superb anxiety blog.

But manicures don’t fix the underlying cause of obsessive, ruminative, anxious thought and behavior patterns.  Is it genetic?  Definitely.  I do not need any scientific proof to know this is true at the core of my being.  My parents are anxious, risk-averse, cerebral introverts.  My mother rubs her cuticles and cuts them with cuticle nippers all the time, resulting in thick, ridged 90-year-old nails.  My father, who is arguably borderline Asperger’s, has a ritual for many activities and a well-thought-out explanation for each routine.  My son picks his nails and my daughter likes the sound and feeling of her hair ends pricking her skin.  What have I done to my children!  How can I help them?!  The tendency toward anxiety is genetic and the response to the anxiety in the form of nail-picking is modeled in the family. 

Nail-picking must correlate with thumb-sucking.  I was a thumb-sucker until age 11.  My daughter was a thumb-sucker until the orthodontist forced her to quit cold turkey at 7.  My son sucked a pacifier until he started biting them and they became a choke hazard.  When I called to order a case of pacifiers, the telephone customer service rep asked me why I needed a case of them.  I told her.  She refused to sell them to me.  Kudos to her.  Cold turkey for him at age 2.  One year, I created a chart and goals for us.  After all, I optimistically announced, it only takes 21 days to change a behavior, to break a bad habit.  We decided on what incentive we wanted when we achieved our goal of unpicked healthy nails:  A Playstation for my son; a bed frame for my daughter; a Prada bag for me.  They got their prizes.  That was about 4 or 5 years ago.  I am still waiting for my Prada bag.  I don’t need the bag.  I would be happy with unpicked healthy nails. 

Yoga for Anxiety

I don’t pick at yoga.  It is perhaps the only place where I am able to still my mind and my picking.  Here is how yoga works for me:

    • I move inward, closing my eyes, paying attention to how my body feels.  Usually, I tell my body what it should feel.  With yoga, I listen to what my body tells me.
    • I breathe.  Slowly counting my breath gives my mind something to do besides dither, helping me to relax and to focus.  Breathing and meditation have helped my perimenopausal insomnia, a profound relief. 
    • I enjoy being in a yoga community with other people who are contemplative and supportive.  I have friends!  (A big deal for an only child.)
    • I listen to the teacher and her many directions.  Concentrating on the poses and her voice gives my mind and my body something to do besides think and fidget.
    • I learn that I am not my mind’s obsessive thoughts.  I can observe my thoughts and begin to change them.  I can observe my anxiety and choose a different, happier and more optimistic way of being. 
    • I become aware of habitual ways that I hold my body.  I question why my right shoulder rolls forward chronically to protect my right breast and the tense pain in my neck that results.  I stand straighter, more sure of who I am and that I am all right.
    • I realize that I am not what I wear.  I stop shopping compulsively.
    • I savor the taste of food and eat mindfully.  I eat less and enjoy food more.
    • I learn that every step in the process is crucial and can’t be skipped.  I slow down and stop grasping at achievement.  The pose never ends.  
    • I make an intention on the mat to be more loving, honest and authentic off the mat.  I do it. 
8 Comments
September 28, 2012

The Gift

Wisdom from The World According to Mr. Rogers: Important Things to Remember

Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood

I LOVED Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood when I was a little girl.  LOVED.  LOVED.  LOVED.  Specifically, the mini-scenes acted out with puppets in the land of Make-Believe.  I completely adored these characters: King Friday XIII, Henrietta Pussycat, and Daniel Striped Tiger were my favorites.  I tolerated the educational lessons before and after just to get to where Trolley would transport us to Make-Believe.  The concept of building a set and writing the story and acting out the characters spoke to me.  I have been fascinated with live theater ever since and any kind of story-telling.  And everyone was so real!  King Friday would be selfish.  Daniel Tiger would get his feelings hurt.  Henrietta Pussycat would stand up for something she believed in.  They would fight through the crisis and resolve it.  As a lonely and introspective only child, I learned a lot about how to be a person, a friend, a part of a community.

Mr. Rogers reminded me of my father.  The good parts of my father.  They shared the same first name.  They wore cardigans.  They spoke deliberately.  They had a subtle sense of humor.  They approached learning scientifically:  breaking down a subject, asking questions, and explaining all the nuances.  But there were important differences.  Mr. Rogers didn’t lecture ad infinitum.  He seemed to understand and to be interested in me, in us, in his audience.  It was a safe place.

As the show and I grew up, I found the expanding neighborhood of make-believe characters to be overkill.  I resented the newcomers intruding on my cherished core group.  New and bigger was not better.  I wanted to hang on to the original small group.  I stopped watching – leaving the neighborhood. 

Flash forward 40+ years and I am in the car on a road trip with my family listening to Jason Mraz, Love is a Four Letter Word, and reading through the “album notes” on the CD.  I think I love Jason Mraz about as much as I love Mr. Rogers.  He bares his soul with complete joy.   May I get to such a place of honesty and love; creativity and connection.  Jason quotes Mr. Rogers:  “Understanding love is one of the hardest things in the world.”  I whoop with pleasure.  I am not the only one who finds Mr. Rogers to be a role model, a philosophical mentor.  And I share delightedly with my family the connection between me and Jason (my husband is jealous) and the name of the book from which the quote is published, The World According to Mr. Rogers.

We return home and life returns to its relentless pace.  In the middle of its relentless pace, I turned 50.  It was a wonderfully ordinary special day where I felt loved, felt appreciative of my friends and family and felt proud of where I am today.  And then my daughter gave me my birthday gift.  My very own copy of The World According to Mr. Rogers.  WOW.  I was completely surprised and delighted and in awe of her thoughtfulness.  The best gift is one that shows the recipient that the gift-giver knows you and loves you – soul to soul.  Namaste, beautiful girl.  You understand love.

 From the point of view of a mother to her beloved daughter:

I Won’t Give Up

By Jason Mraz

When I look into your eyes

It’s like watching the night sky

Or a beautiful sunrise

There’s so much they hold

And just like them old stars

I see that you’ve come so far

To be right where you are

How old is your soul?

I won’t give up on us

Even if the skies get rough

I’m giving you all my love

I’m still looking up

And when you’re needing your space

To do some navigating

I’ll be here patiently waiting

To see what you find

‘Cause even the stars they burn

Some even fall to the earth

We’ve got a lot to learn

God knows we’re worth it

No, I won’t give up

I don’t wanna be someone who walks away so easily

I’m here to stay and make the difference I can make

Our differences they do a lot to teach us how to use

The tools and gifts we got, yeah, we got a lot at stake

And in the end, you’re still my friend at least we did intend

For us to work we didn’t break, we didn’t burn

We had to learn how to bend without the world caving in

I had to learn what I’ve got, and what I’m not

And who I am

I won’t give up on us

Even if the skies get rough

I’m giving you all my love

I’m still looking up

I won’t give up on us (no I’m not giving up)

God knows I’m tough enough (I am tough, I am loved)

We’ve got a lot to learn (we’re alive, we are loved)

God knows we’re worth it (and we’re worth it)

I won’t give up on us

Even if the skies get rough

I’m giving you all my love

I’m still looking up

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