I Hide My Chocolate

Midlife observations
November 19, 2012

Homage to Hostess

Wonder Bread = Normal

I wanted, desperately, to be normal in a normal household.

I wanted a mother who stayed home like all the other mothers.  My mom, ahead of her time, had a Ph.D. and ran the scientific review committee for NIMH, deciding who merited receiving grant funding for research projects.  She was not home providing after-school snacks like the other moms.

I wanted a sibling.  My best friend in 2nd grade was one of seven kids.  I was so jealous of her tiny cabinet of a bedroom custom built under the staircase, like Harry Potter’s.  My household was quiet, calm, and very orderly.  There were no siblings to fight with.

I wanted to bring my lunch to school instead of buying my lunch every day.  I wanted tunafish (from a can with lots of mayonnaise) on Wonder Bread.  A completely exotic concept in my household.  We had Pepperidge Farm whole wheat bread for toast in the morning and lunch was whatever concoction was on the menu at the school cafeteria.

I do remember that I finally convinced my mother to let me bring my lunch and I was very excited to get a Partridge Family lunch box with a thermos.  I also finally convinced her to buy me Wonder Bread.  I loved Wonder Bread!  I would smear it with butter and eat it simply with just the butter.  Another favorite Wonder Bread snack was to take a slice and smoosh it into a ball.  I am not sure what was appealing about this variation, but it amazed me how Wonder Break was so malleable.  I loved the plasticity.

As part of my foray into lunch-making and filling up that beloved lunchbox with treats, I sampled all the Hostess products at the time.  I did not like the chocolate Hostess cupcakes or any of their other chocolate productions.  I still don’t like bland chocolate items.  But I did and do love vanilla.  Twinkies were my favorite and were pretty much my daily dessert.  Spongey, creamy, gooey, sticky sweet.  I would eat one end and then the other end, saving the middle where the majority of the cream was for last.  Of course, now, I would not be caught dead with a Twinkie.

When I heard that Hostess was having trouble in January, I surreptitiously bought a box of Twinkies and brought them home.  Imagine my family’s surprise!  We looked at them skeptically.  We each cautiously took one and unwrapped it.  The stickiness was still there, as my fingers immediately had twinkie cake stuck to each pad.  We each took a bite.  My husband and son took another bite, ultimately finishing theirs.  My daughter rolled her eyes and refused to deign to eat another bite.  I understood why I loved them at the age of 7, 8, 9, but I could not bring myself to finish it.  It was not worth the calories or the guilt associated with indulgence.  The box went to the back of the snack shelf – where I finally threw it out just recently.  (I am pretty sure my husband had several more between January and August.  After all, they are not preservative-free.)

My last memory of being completely attached to a Hostess product is of eating Hostess Apple Pies for lunch in 10th grade.  Indeed, that is all I ate for lunch in 10th grade.  One Hostess apple pie.  Every day.  That was the year I went from growing into a curvy young woman to disciplining myself into a rail thin ballerina.  I craved the syrupy sweetness and didn’t want to forego dessert by wasting calories on nutrition.

When the news hit last week that Hostess may not continue, I joined the outpouring of nostalgia for the snack food of “normal” 1970’s suburban childhood.  Of course, now, I am proud of my mother’s achievements; cognizant  of how my not-so-normal childhood has shaped who I am today; and fully aware that no family is “normal.”  My mother was wise to let me experiment with food as she patiently waited for me to outgrow my love of Hostess as I matured.

I spent the weekend wondering about an adult version of a Twinkie.  If you got rid of the too-sweetness and the spongey airiness, could it be pleasing?  I am not a patient baker any more; could it be easy to make?  I turned to the bible, Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking and read, re-read, and re-read the recipe for her Butter Spongecake (p 669).  No way was I going to follow all those directions!  Then I got out my Joy of Cooking encyclopedia and reviewed their sponge cake instructions (p 670).  Definitely simpler.  I tackled it, with some Julia Child nuances (butter!), but made a key mistake.  I substituted regular flour for cake flour.  The batter was dense and the cake was heavy.  Then I wondered about what to fill the cake with.  Vanilla Buttercream?  Vanilla Custard?  I settled on Vanilla Whipped Cream.  The outcome was a pleasant cake with delicious vanilla-ness, reminiscent of Twinkie, but not as gooey and not as sweet.  Time to grow up.

Twinkie Cake for Grown-Ups

Spongecake

  • 4 egg yolks
  • 2/3 cup sugar
  • 4 Tablespoons butter, melted
  • 1 ½ teaspoons vanilla
  • 1 cup cake flour
  • 1 ½ teaspoons double-acting baking powder (Julia does not approve)
  • 4 egg whites
  1. Preheat oven to 350°F
  2. Beat egg yolks for about 7 minutes, using an electric mixer, until they are light yellow and creamy in texture.
  3. Beat in the sugar, butter, and vanilla.
  4. Gradually, beat in the flour and baking powder.
  5. In a separate bowl, beat the egg whites until they form soft peaks.
  6. Fold the eggs whites into the cake batter until gently mixed.
  7. Spread the batter into a 9” cake pan (lightly greased and floured).
  8. Bake for 25-30 minutes.  Cake is done when it is lightly golden and begins pulling away from the pan.  Cool.

Vanilla Whipped Cream

  • 1 cup heavy whipping cream
  • 2 Tablespoons confectioners’ sugar
  • ½ teaspoon vanilla
  1. Chill pan, beater, and whipping cream for 1-2 hours prior to preparing.
  2. Whip cream, sugar, and vanilla together until thick.

Assembly

  • Slice cake in half horizontally.  Spread the whipped cream over the bottom layer.  I used about 2/3.  Place the top layer over it.  Dust with powdered sugar.  Offer any remaining whipped cream as an extra dollop on top.

Serves

  1. 8-10 normal servings
  2. 12-16 sliver servings for those of us with fear-of-indulgence issues
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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.

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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
October 23, 2012

108

Devotional Meditation in Motion

“Have you ever done a 108?” Katherine asked, in response to my impulsive and enthusiastic acceptance of her invitation to participate in Operation Finding Peace – a day of yoga at Kaia Yoga benefitting the Give Back Yoga Foundation, a nonprofit that provides yoga to veterans suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. 

No, I have never done a 108.  I barely know what a 108 is.  All I knew was that I felt compelled to do it.  I was sure of very little, but I was sure I had to do this 108.

The familiar, superficial reason was because I am attracted to challenge.  The harder it is the better.  If it’s not hard, it’s not worth it.  A yoga marathon?  To prove I am a true yogini?  I am in. 

The outward facing reason was because it was for a good cause.  In my mid-life search for meaning, the cause aspect of the event was completely appealing.  I could tell people I was doing a yoga marathon to benefit a good cause which would make me look like a good person. 

Digging a little deeper, a subtler reason was because I like to be agreeable and inclusive.   And certainly this was an easy yes.  Katherine was a new yoga friend and my connection to a new yoga community.  I wanted to say yes to her.  I wanted to fit in to this new yoga community.  Being agreeable and inclusive serves me well, but only up to a point.  As a relationship evolves, whether it is personal or professional, you will reach a place of disagreement and it becomes important to put yourself out there with a clear point of view.  This statement of ME terrifies me.  I don’t do it well and have historically hidden from situations involving such a strong expression of ME, letting friendships wither and jeopardizing my professional development.  It is easier to begin new endeavors and new relationships then to work through the challenges of fighting for ME while fighting through the challenges of the relationship. 

But the real reason I said yes to the 108 was because yoga has saved my life, giving me the courage to create the life I want to live – a joyful loving authentic one, not the life I was living, a more duty-driven one filled with chores and work and a focus on responsibility.

When, at the auspicious “mid-life-crisis/enlightenment” age of 47, I was passed over for promotion, losing my team, and sidelined to a quieter job, I questioned everything.  On my daily commute to mid-town Manhattan, I cried every morning on the walk between Grand Central and the gleaming office tower, feeling humiliated and old and mourning the loss of my outward self that I had presented to the world all these years.  Athletic and trained as a ballet dancer in my teens, yoga became my refuge.  Some days, I just wanted to rest in child’s pose and breathe.  Other days, I wanted to work so hard I didn’t have enough breath to chant “om.”  And who was I to be chanting “om” anyway?  The only child of cerebral scientists, I jokingly referred to myself as a 3rd generation heathen.  Moreover, I was woefully disconnected from my body.  As a dancer, I had wonderful body discipline and body control, but I did not respect my body. 

I discovered Ashtanga yoga – the elixir for type A personalities that I proudly imagined myself to be.  I dutifully mastered the primary series and welcomed the intense assists, because it took a lot of pain for me to feel my body.  But then the neck pain became unbearable.  I had pushed myself too hard and was forced to feel my body.  I had to acknowledge that perhaps I had not mastered the primary series after all, at least not safely and wisely.  Perhaps my body had something to say to me.  I revisited trauma from my childhood and the resulting perfectionism, eating issues, difficulty with relationships, and more.  Back in talk therapy after a 20 year hiatus, I delved into meditation and slower forms of yoga, and began to awaken to ME.  I began to honor an intuitive understanding that I had to practice yoga and to share yoga.  It was helping me connect to my body and helping me to be honest, compassionate, and loving with my self and people I love.  All I know now is that loving my family and my deepening circle of friends is the only thing that matters to me, so I will listen to my yoga intuition and follow it. 

My yoga intuition brought me to the 108 at Kaia Yoga. 

What is a 108?

When you google it, you will get various explanations about why the number 108 is sacred.  I found I could not retain any of these explanations, other than Katherine’s:  “It’s a devotional meditation.”  Oh, and it’s a lot of sun salutations.  I was up for the physical challenge.  Was I up for the devotional meditation?

But first, what to wear?  When I have anxiety, it’s easy for me to fall back on a familiar neurosis – equating how I look with my worth.  I found myself madly – madly! – contemplating shopping for a new yoga outfit at the last minute the day before the event even though I spent the day at work and was hosting my best friend from my childhood for dinner that evening from out of town.  I talked myself out of the urgent but ridiculous desire to shop for and sport a new outfit.  (I succumbed to getting a haircut.)  For the record, I did choose comfortable leggings and a top that would require no undergarments.  The less clothing the better and who needs a t-shirt flopping over your head when you are upside down in Downward Dog a multiple of 108 times.

Next, what to eat?  I have food issues. (Remember, how I look equates with my self-worth, so I better look good which, for me, means being thin.)  Eating the right amount of food to give me sufficient energy but not digestive gas was important to me.  And, you know, maybe I’ll lose some weight – always a good thing.  Isn’t that why we do yoga?  The event started at 3:00, so I knew I had to eat something around noon.  I chose a concoction of quinoa, black bean salad, and feta cheese.  I was a little worried about the beans, but it worked out.  No gas, phew. 

I arrive and there is purposeful energy in the place.  It feels both calming and exciting just to be there.  I don’t know very many people, and there is much buzzing amongst the people who do know each other.  I could go to a place of feeling like I don’t belong, but hey, it’s a yoga studio.  By definition, it’s a welcoming place.  I feel like I can belong if I choose to.  I survey the studio and it’s crowded with people, primarily women.  (Where are the men?)  I place my mat on the outskirts.  I have never practiced yoga with this large a quantity of people.  It could be overwhelming, but I choose not to let it.  I spy an open space right in the middle.  That is where I want to be, right in it.  I move my mat.  I make friendly connecting eye contact with a few of my neighbors, but I know this is going to be an internal experience.  I settle into child’s pose and breathe. 

Because I have tried to move beyond my type A approach to yoga, I begin talking to myself.  You don’t have to do all 108.  You don’t have to jump back.  You don’t have to do Chaturanga.  You don’t have to prove anything.  Just be here now. 

Stan is our leader for the 108.  There is a collective anticipation as we prepare to begin.  We chant the traditional opening Ashtanga prayer.  I hear my Ashtanga teacher Constanza’s voice and notice that Stan’s pronunciation is different.  The difference throws me off.  Even though I know the chant, I forget it in the excitement and decide to let it wash over me, joining in the opening and closing “om’s.”  The vibration of the om from all those people is intense.  It feels like we are going to take off!  I LOVE IT. 

We begin. 

Stan sets our intention for the first 10.  The purpose of yoga is to end suffering.  Yep, no problem.  No suffering for me!  The first 10 are easy for me.  Yay for me!  I shake out my jitters.  And then I remember that I do suffer.  A lot.  And then I remember it’s not about me anyway.  Stan calls to my mind the suffering of the veterans we are honoring and the global suffering of our world.  We are all together in this. 

Gratitude for the next 10.  We are so lucky to be in this beautiful place all together.  I am deeply grateful.  (When I remember to be grateful.)   

Peace for the next 10.  My mind begins to swirl and is anything but peaceful.  How does he keep count?  Did I step back with my left foot last time?  Should I step back with my right foot this time?  Wow, we’re at 20 – there are a lot more to go.  This is going to be boring.  How about that, my shoulders are more sore than I expected.  This is going to be hard.  I wonder what kind of food will be at the celebration tonight?  What if I am too shy to introduce myself to all these people tonight?  I am missing my daughter’s Spanish Honor Society induction ceremony tonight.  I am selfish and self-absorbed, a terrible mother. 

Unity for the next 10.  We are doing this together in unity, but now my pride separates me from being one with the group.  Look at ME!  (Too bad I don’t have a new outfit.)  I am better than everyone else.  Look, she’s sitting.  Look she’s standing.  I jump back to Chaturanga this time.  Oh yea, I’m good at yoga!  Oops, I am not as good at her.  Uh oh.

Clarity for the next 10.  $#@! Who cares. 

And then, the shift happens.  I stop thinking. 

The next four groups of ten are a blur.  I take one decade “off” – resting in child’s pose and breathing.  I rejoin the movement, feeling a sense of peace and determination.  The room has gotten very quiet; it is just Stan’s quiet leadership and our collective breathing.  A devotional meditation it is. 

The ninth decade is Family.  I love my family.  I will do anything for them.  They are the source of joy and meaning in my life.  I give each sun salutation special attention and a special prayer for Thom, Kiera, and Aidan.

Last, we devote our selves to Love.  What else is there?  Yoga is love. 

108 Sun Salutations later, we rest in Savasana together.  Unity, clarity, peace, gratitude, love.

1 Comment
October 12, 2012

Finding Joy in (Not) Apple-Picking

Green Applesauce

I became an expert at pureeing different foods when I had babies.  Because, of course, I made my own babyfood (while breastfeeding and pumping for as long as a working mother possibly could).  Providing them the healthiest homemade food was a manifestation of my love for them.  Even if it meant I spent more time preparing their food than actually interacting with them.  The freezer was full of ice-cube-sized morsels of carefully prepared pureed fruits and vegetables.  (Aren’t I the best mom ever?!)

When they were in pre-school, each child had to bring in Snack for the class on a scheduled basis.  This got to be really arduous for a working mother when we were supposed to make the Snack coincide with whatever color they were learning at the time.  You know:  Orange Carrots;  Yellow Bananas;  Beige Twinkies.  Well, Twinkies weren’t encouraged and I certainly would not have been the mom to bring in Twinkies.  Sorry kids.  [Full disclosure:  I loved Twinkies as a child and became quite nostalgic for them when I heard about Hostess declaring bankruptcy – I am such a hypocrite!  For Hostess lovers, there is a new report that they have a plan to reorganize and emerge from bankruptcy.] 

It was our turn to bring Snack and the color was Green.  Hmmm.  Green Beans?  Yuck was the reaction.  Celery with peanut butter?  No peanut butter allowed.  And then I hit upon it.  I will make my homemade applesauce and use food coloring to make it green!  I was very excited – this was going to be fun!  My daughter was skeptical but too good a girl to fight me on this.  I dove headlong into my project.  I cooked the apples.  I pureed the apples.  I turned them green.  (Yuck mom, it doesn’t look like it tastes good.)  I carefully spooned them into individual containers.  I proudly transported them and my daughter to school the next day.  I couldn’t wait to hear how the class thought that my green applesauce was the best Snack ever!  So?  How was it?  I eagerly asked.  (Aren’t I the best mom ever?!)  Oh Mom, nobody wanted to eat green applesauce.  They were afraid it wouldn’t taste good.  Sigh.  Lesson learned.  It’s about them.  It’s not about me.  Listen.

The applesauce recipe has gotten a lot of use over the years.  It is easy to make and easy to improvise.  I would go to it in the Fall to make use of all the apples from our annual apple-picking outing.  Our annual apple-picking outing petered out a few years ago.  The orchards were a zoo.  (When did apple-picking become trendy?)  The families we went with were growing up and busy with activities and schoolwork.  And who had time to make homemade applesauce when there was perfectly good “storemade” applesauce at the neighborhood produce place I go to every weekend.  My daughter wanted to resurrect apple-picking this year.  She is the most joyful and determined holiday celebrator I know.  She has enthusiastically gotten out her cozy Fall sweaters and has already made Pumpkin Muffins and can’t wait for Thanksgiving.  My son is in the wings with Halloween decorations ready to go, eagerly following her lead.  Sadly, I tend to focus on the work involved with the holidays.  Besides, they were not really joyful occasions for me as a child.  But it’s about them, not about me.  Listen.  Maybe there is joy to be had. 

We jumped in the car and headed up the Merritt to Easton’s Silverman’s Farm.  It was a zoo.  Literally.  They had a petting zoo where a bunch of chickens were pecking the life out of the runt.  And the hayride had no hay.  The pumpkins were small and blemished.  And, unbelievably, there were no apples!  Apple-picking was over.  What?  It’s only the first weekend in October!  We bought some apples and some donuts and drove to a restaurant and had a lovely lunch out.  A very grown up outing with our very grown up children.  We had a great time, but I am wistful – watching them hang onto their dreams of what the holidays should be…and are.  They both have a deep desire to celebrate that I don’t want to joylessly crush.  Perhaps we will make applesauce this weekend.  Together.  (Aren’t they the best kids ever?!)

Applesauce

3 pounds of fruit:  approximately 8-10 tart apples or a combination of 6 apples and 3 pears, peeled and cut into pieces

2/3 cup of water

½ cup sugar

1 cup of dried apricots, cut (use a scissors) into small pieces – adds tang and appealing, natural color

or

1 cup of fresh cranberries.  Add them later in the cooking process – they don’t need to cook as long as the apples/pears.

Combine all ingredients in large saucepan.  Simmer over low heat for 30 minutes.  Mash, blend, or process to desired consistency.  I like it lumpy.  Chill.

7 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

1 Comment
September 27, 2012

What Would Happen If I Didn’t Eat Breakfast?

The Most Important Meal

It is ingrained in me that breakfast is the most important meal of the day.  I can recite the reasons touted in all the women’s magazines that I have read (voraciously) and worked for (diligently) all my life. 

  • Breakfast fuels your body, revving metabolism and allowing you to focus.
  • Willpower is high in the morning, allowing for healthy food choices and optimal nutrition at breakfast, while minimizing less healthy choices throughout the day.
  • Taking time for breakfast allows for a mindful approach to your day.

Besides, there are some days when the only reason I get out of bed is to have that cup of coffee and to eat.

It was my mother, not magazines, who instilled the breakfast habit in me.  Or rather, an extreme fear of not eating breakfast.  As a girl, I would get headaches.  Lie-in-the-dark, too-nauseous-to-eat migraines.  My mother would anxiously hover over me.  She would massage my temples, read to me, spend time with me.  In retrospect, these headaches had many components:  family dysfunction, school stress, perfectionism, anxiety, dehydration, less than optimal nutrition, less than optimal physical fitness, hormonal changes.  I certainly learned that a good way to let people know that the world was too much for me was to shut down with a headache.  My mother worriedly enabled this behavior.  “It’s too much.  Stay home.  Rest.”  She dragged me to many doctors – because doctors knew best.  I was medicated for migraines with Cafergot – you had to anticipate when a migraine was coming on so that you could nip it in the bud with the medication.  (Starbucks wasn’t on every street corner then.)  I was also diagnosed as having hypoglycemic tendencies.  (Don’t we all get irritable and shaky when we are hungry?)  Thus began my fear of not eating enough.  I had to have just the right quantity of food and combination of nutrients to feel good and prevent a headache.  Balance the fear of not eating enough with the fear of eating too much and imagine the anxiety that resulted!  Not to mention a complete disconnect between feeling hunger and satisfying that hunger appropriately.  And now, add in my daughter who cannot and will not eat breakfast … truly karmic.  May we all learn our own bodies and find our own way.  My way is not her way. 

After many (many) years of experimenting with breakfast – food choices, quantity and timing – my personal favorite breakfast that makes me feel good all the way until lunch is some kind of whole grain cereal or bread with protein, fruit, strong coffee, and – most importantly – some time to enjoy it (and digest it). 

Granola

I am ALWAYS disappointed with store-bought granola.  Bear Naked – blech!  The only store-bought that is worth its price and its calories is Early Bird Granola.  Even better, is making a batch of your own homemade granola.  It is not difficult and it is so delicious!  Here is my favorite recipe, adapted from a recipe by Melissa Clark in the New York Times:

  • 3 cups old-fashioned rolled oats
  • 1 ½ cups raw pistachios, hulled
  • 1 cup raw pumpkin seeds, hulled
  • 1 cup coconut chips or coconut flakes
  • ½ cup honey
  • ½ cup olive oil
  • ½ teaspoon cinnamon
  • ½ teaspoon cardamom

Preheat oven to 300 degrees.  In a large bowl, combine all ingredients.  Spread mixture on a rimmed baking sheet in an even layer and bake for 45 minutes, stirring every 10 minutes, until lightly golden and toasted.  Don’t overcook.   Granola keeps in an airtight container for 2 weeks. 

How I eat it:

  • 6 oz of yogurt (I mix 50-50: half Vanilla with half Greek Nonfat Plain)
  • ½ cup of Granola
  • Fresh berries

or

  • 2/3 cup of All Bran Cereal  (you get your fiber with this option!)
  • 1/3 cup of Granola
  • Vanilla Soy Milk (I prefer Silk, not the light version.  Vanilla soy milk has more flavor than cow’s milk when combined with cereal and prevents any digestive discomfort related to lactose first thing in the morning.)
  • Fresh berries

Oatmeal

My version is not very sweet, but extremely satisfying.  I make it while doing other things in the kitchen so it has time to simmer.  The only annoying thing about oatmeal is cleaning the gloppy pot afterwards. 

  • 1 ½ cups of Vanilla Soy Milk
  • 2/3 cup of Old Fashioned Oats (not quick, not instant, not steel-cut)
  • 1-2 Tablespoons of sugar (to your taste.  I find that as I eat less and less sugar that I don’t like things that are too sweet.  A virtuous circle.)
  • 3-4 Tablespoons of dried fruit (I prefer golden raisins or dried apricots or dried tart cherries)
  • A sprinkle of cinnamon

Bring soy milk to a simmer.  Add oats, sugar, dried fruit, and cinnamon.  Simmer 5 minutes.  Watch that the milk doesn’t boil too hard and overflow the pot.  A mess.  Turn off heat and let sit for 5-10 minutes, absorbing the liquid.  Stir occasionally.  Play with timing to get the right consistency to your liking.  I like it thick and creamy, not too liquid-y.

Serves:

1 large serving or 2 normal servings

Raisin Toast

Cinnamon Raisin Bread is so decadent it should be considered dessert.  My favorite kind from the Vermont Bread Company is as healthy as it gets.  I toast it and spread it with almond butter and then sometimes top this concoction with a bit of pumpkin butter.  This makes for an unbelievable sandwich for lunch as well!

Whole Wheat Bagels or English Muffins

Thanks to my friend Judy, I now top my whole wheat bagel or my whole wheat English muffin with goat cheese and a bit of orange marmalade or tart cherry jam.  I eat this on the weekends when I give myself permission to splurge on a bagel.

Shredded Wheat

My easy go-to breakfast is Shredded Wheat ‘n Bran (65 mini squares;  Yes – I count them), Vanilla soy milk, and sliced bananas.  Healthy, quick, tasty.  

Coffee

Scoop coffee into French Press.  Bring water to boil.  Pour water over coffee.  Stir gently.  Steep 4-5 minutes.

Serves 2 large mugs

4 Comments
September 13, 2012

The Mirror in the Studio

The Ballet Studio

I returned to the ballet studio eight years ago at the age of 42 following a 17-year hiatus, and one year after dispatching my daughter into ballet class.  (She wisely extricated herself from the ballet world five years later when she was 12.)    My first plié felt like no time had passed.  Tears gently oozed with the familiar music as my body felt the emotion and the memory of my dancing. 

And then there was the mirror.  My familiar companion.  Judgment.

Not bad for 42.  Me in a leotard.  And a skirt to disguise the hips and belly.

But I could look better.  BE better.

I was sucked into the obsession.  Immediately. 

  • Where should I stand at the barre to get the best view (of me)?
  • Do I look thinner today?
  • Am I thinner than her?
  • Is my stomach flat?
  • How high is my leg in developpé?
  • Is it higher than hers?
  • Is the teacher watching me?
  • Does HE like my dancing?

Wait, I am 42 and myopic.  I can barely see myself in the mirror!    And so went the next few years as I re-explored ballet from a new perspective.  Can I simply enjoy it without the ambition, without the judgment?  My muscle memory came back quickly.  I still struggled with double pirouettes and piqué turns to the left.  I still danced adagio sections in the center beautifully, maybe more beautifully with years of living coloring my dancing.  And I loved jumping!  Flying through the air.  Joy!  As I strained to revisit my ballerina dreams in this weekly Saturday adult class filled with other beautiful and accomplished “mature” dancers, I nursed agonizing muscle cramps every Saturday evening and my chronic stiff neck. 

I was obsessed.  I lost weight.  A new ballerina friend remarked enthusiastically a year later – “Oh! You have your ballet body back!”  My ballerina body.  Thin.  In pain.  Grasping at those double pirouettes.  Crying with joy at every plié and grand jeté.  Trying to explain to my husband why I did this every Saturday even though it led to excruciating night cramps where I yelped around on one leg.  I thought I loved it.  But my body told me otherwise.  I stopped.  Yes, it was different at 42 than at 14, but the memories stored in my body were still there and would not let me embody the joy of dance without the pain.

The Yoga Studio 

And then I walked into the yoga studio.  There were no mirrors, no judgment, no right and wrong.  I closed my eyes.  I breathed.  I felt my body.  I felt safe.  At peace (at least sometimes).  Don’t get me wrong.  I still judged myself.  I still compared myself to everyone.  Ha!  I can touch my head to my knee and she can’t!  Look at me doing headstand at the wall!  Uh oh, look at her doing headstand without the wall!  I slowly have begun to absorb the truth:  there is no perfect pose to achieve.  Gradually, there are more moments of peace and fewer moments of judgment.  Fewer moments of obsessive chasing after the perfect chaturanga … And, with my neck, I have sworn off headstand (for now).  But I am thrilled with handstand.  (Thank you Jill.  I hear your voice every time I go flying up through the air, heels over head, to become upside down.)

I was surprised when I saw the mirror in the new studio.  I felt betrayed.  How could you put a mirror in the yoga studio?  Intellectually, I get it.  The mirror is a good teaching tool.  It provides good feedback.  You’re not getting the shape of Trikonasana?  Let’s go over to the mirror and find it.  You can’t see your back body?  Let’s go over to the mirror and find it.  Angry at the mirror, I purposefully arrived early at classes so that I could find my own space, aggressively away from the mirror.  For me, the point of yoga was to feel the poses and my body in the poses and get away from “right” and “wrong.”  I love to close my eyes and remove the onslaught of visual stimuli and move inside.   Hide inside.

Proprioception is your ability to know where your body is in space.  It is a crucial “6th” sense and vitally important for balance and increasingly valuable as we get older.  Dancers have tremendous body discipline but can be reliant on the mirror for feedback.  When dancers move from the mirrored studio to the mirrorless stage, they can be disoriented, unable to perform if they are not performing for the mirror.  Yogis tune in to their bodies, developing nuanced body awareness, balance, strength and flexibility – learning to distinguish between up and down even when they are upside down and without a mirror. 

One amazing use of the mirror took place in a Feldenkrais workshop offered at Yoga Haven led by Kim Plumridge several years ago.  She gave us all a hand mirror and asked us to look at our faces.   Indeed, she commanded us to REALLY LOOK AT OUR FACES. 

  • Notice the asymmetry of each half of your face. 
  • What color are your eyes? 
  • What is the color and texture of your skin?
  • How deep are your dark circles? 
  • What happens when you smile?  Enjoy how you feel when you smile. 
  • Look into your own eyes and see your Self.  Honor your Self. 
  • Like what you see in the mirror. 

Astonishing!  The mirror transcends self-absorption and facilitates self-acceptance, allowing the heart and soul to shine out with love for me … and for you.  Perhaps it is time to open my eyes and make peace with the mirror in the studio, and my Self.  Namaste.

3 Comments
August 30, 2012

Escarole and Beans

Invite People In To Your Food Weirdness

People with disordered eating patterns, like me, are prone to eating alone, secretly.  Eating alone makes me feel sneaky, a guilty pleasure.  I can eat as weirdly as I want.  When I was at the height of my eating weirdness I would eat an entire large honeydew melon in one sitting.  It was sweet and filled me up but had almost no calories.  And it was huge!  So it took a long time.  I liked stringing out my meals.  It was a way to avoid feeling empty.

I still look forward to meals alone when I can eat my weird meals:  secretly, silently, selfishly.  However, it has recently occurred to me that my weird meals are not so weird and that maybe it would be nice to share my weird meals with other people and not worry that they think I am weird.  One of my favorite dinners when someone in my family is out and I don’t have to make a more formal family meal  is a large plate of escarole and beans.  It satisfies my desire for a large quantity of food.  It is tasty and healthy and very satisfying.  No one else in my family is interested in eating this dish with me.  My family is used to my odd food choices, but other people are not.  Now when a child’s friend or a niece or sister-in-law want to stop by on “Escarole and Bean Night,” instead of coming up with an excuse about why they can’t come over I invite them in.  They don’t necessarily share my meal – but I share with them some of my eating issues.  I can laugh at myself and share more of myself, which deepens my relationships.  On a recent night, instead of setting up my son and his friend at a separate table with their pizza, the three of us ate together.  Them with their pizza and me with my escarole and beans.  And we talked about God.  And what we hope and believe about God.  (I believe that holiness is the love between people.)  Amazing things happen when you invite people in.   

Escarole and Beans

1 large bunch of escarole (1 lb or more), leaves washed and spun dry

2 cloves of garlic, sliced thin

3-4 T olive oil

1 jar of cannellini beans, imported from Italy preferred, approximately 12 oz

Sautee garlic and escarole in olive oil.  Take your time with this process.  The more you sautee the escarole the richer the flavor.  I do it on low heat and let it cook for about 30 minutes, while I do other things in the kitchen.

Add beans and their liquid.  Sautee the beans with the escarole for another 10-15 minutes.

The desired consistency, for me, is not too much liquid.  This is different than the more traditional Italian version which is much soupier.  The escarole exudes water.  You want to cook off the liquid and almost brown the escarole and beans in the olive oil. 

Experiment with cooking times, temperatures, and escarole:bean ratio!

 Serves:

1 very large serving, or

2-4 normal servings, with bread to soak it all up

4 Comments