Today, I am:
Working. Almost always an absorbing activity.
Noon-1:00. Pilates class.
Calling my senators to vote NO on Betsy DeVos.
Dinner and a show with my husband and friends to support the arts, now under fire.
Preparing to lead Circle of Peace meditation tomorrow.
#notanormalday
“Everybody can be great … because anybody can serve. You don’t have to have a college degree to serve. You don’t have to make your subject and verb agree to serve. You only need a heart full of grace. A soul generated by love.”
– Martin Luther King, Jr.
Many years ago, a new boss of mine insisted that we read Jim Collins’ From Good To Great. It was a collective exercise to encourage us all to think about leadership and to develop our own “Level 5” leadership qualities, as we worked to transform our organization from good to great. The main take-away that I remember from that book is that leaders are humble and put their own self-interest behind what is good for the company.
On this day – honoring Martin Luther King Jr and anticipating the inauguration of someone I think is the antithesis of a leader (let alone a Level 5 leader!) – I am reminded of this book and the path it set me on towards clarifying for me what makes a good leader.
As a yoga teacher, an executive, a mother, a human – I have thought long and hard about what makes people successful and how I can embody the qualities that I value. I marvel at the teachers and bosses and friends who elicit the best from all the people they touch.
These are the qualities of a good leader that inspire me and motivate me.
- They are teachers. They are patient and explain things well and have no judgment that you should already know something. They are learners, always curious.
- They are listeners, willing to consider opposing points of view and to grapple with reconciling opposing points of view.
- They have struggled and are not embarrassed by their struggles – because their hardships make them more approachable and more compassionate. More grateful.
- They care, passionately, about something. They work hard and will sacrifice at great cost for what they care about. They approach their passion with joy.
- They make mistakes and can laugh at themselves. They let you make mistakes and don’t make fun of your mistakes. Well, if they laugh at you, it is with affection and understanding.
- They make other people feel special. Asking questions, listening, and honoring each person as they are, right there right then.
- They are honest. They do the right thing. They tell the truth and say what needs to be said. Even if it is hard.
- They are optimistic, confident in their purpose. They foster a team environment and celebrate the holistic gestalt of the team. They are cheerleaders, inspiring and motivating you to be your best.
- They are inclusive. Every person counts and has a voice. Every one is invited.
- They are generous. They are kind.
Image Credit: Used with permission from Dave Bowman at Design Turnpike. Thank you!
Uttanasana
I am at peace with my not being at peace. This sums up how I feel this New Year’s.
Gradually, year over year over year, I have moved away from setting ambitious goals and resolutions and moved toward setting intentions – to choose to be more happy and open to love, to listen to my heart more than to my ego, to see what is good – not what is lacking.
Of course, I still want to have more money, achieve more success, eliminate meat and sugar, be a better citizen of the world, read more books, stop picking my cuticles, throw away stuff, get organized already, be a better mother, and so on. And on. And on.
I am familiar with these goals and make mild progress on them from time to time. Really though, it is exhausting. Bordering on boring.
But when you really stop and ask: what do we want from life? Isn’t it: To feel joy, experience love, reduce suffering.
Peace. Inner peace, if not world peace.
B.K.S. Iyengar says that Uttanasana is “a boon to people who get excited quickly, as it soothes the brain cells. After finishing the pose, one feels calm and cool, the eyes start to glow and the mind feels at peace.” Indeed.
When, at the height of my mid-life anxiety, I would do forward folds in yoga class, I would weep. Turning inward, calming down from my busy busy busy pursuit of not feeling, I would feel. My hamstrings. My breath. My sadness. Of time passing. Of rejections. Of goals not achieved. Yoga class was the only place I would let myself be still, still enough to feel.
Folding forward is private. You can be with your self. Feeling your body, your breath. Just feeling. Just being.
Now, on the other side of my mid-life anxiety, Uttanasana is a pause. A transition. A comforting place to breathe and reflect. Kind of like New Year’s. When I look back on the last year (or years), I see a woman who is happier, more open, more grateful, more able to laugh, more loving.
Instead of focusing on what we don’t have, can we focus on what we do have? What is good, not what is bad.
As this year has ended with great uncertainty about what our world will be like under President-elect Trump, I have to fight against anxiety, anger, panic, despair. It is easy to succumb to the swirl of anxiety.
I will not contribute to negative energy. I resolve to be a force for love, compassion, and positive change.
I will choose peace.
Eggplant, Tomato and Chickpea Casserole
Every year, I eat less meat. I find it increasingly difficult to stomach the thought of eating animals. Moreover, the positive impact of eating less meat on the environment is staggering.
My vegan daughter inspires me. When she is home, it is fun to find new recipes that we will enjoy and the meat-eaters will tolerate.
For our extended family dinner on Christmas, I made this dish from Martha Rose Shulman. It doubles easily. Make it one day ahead as it improves with time.
Eggplant, Tomato and Chickpea Casserole (by Martha Rose Shulman)
- 1 Eggplant (1 ½ pounds), peeled, sliced length-wise, then in ¼” slices
- Olive Oil
- Salt
- 1 red onion, sliced thin across the grain
- 2-4 garlic cloves, minced
- 1 28 oz can crushed tomatoes
- 2 Tablespoons tomato paste
- 1/8 teaspoon cinnamon
- 1/2 teaspoon salt
- 1 15 oz can chickpeas
- Fresh Basil and Fresh Parsley
Preheat the oven to 450 degrees.
Line a baking sheet with aluminum foil, and drizzle the foil with olive oil. Place the eggplant slices on the foil, sprinkle with salt and drizzle lightly with oil. Place in the oven for 15 minutes or until lightly browned. Remove from the heat, and carefully fold the foil in half over the eggplant. Crimp the edges together, so that the eggplant is sealed inside the foil and will continue to steam and soften. Leave for at least 15 minutes.
Meanwhile, make the tomato sauce. Heat 2 tablespoons olive oil in a large, heavy skillet over medium heat. Add the onion. Cook, stirring often, until tender and golden brown, about 5-10 minutes, and add the garlic and a generous pinch of salt. Cook, stirring, until the garlic is fragrant, about a minute. Add the tomatoes, tomato paste, and cinnamon, to taste. Bring to a simmer, and simmer uncovered, until the sauce is thick and fragrant. Stir in the drained chickpeas. Mix in the eggplant slices.
Reduce the oven temperature to 350 degrees. Oil a 2-quart baking dish or gratin. Spoon eggplant, tomato and chickpea mixture into the prepared baking dish.
Bake 30 minutes, until bubbling. Remove from the heat, and allow to cool for at least 10 to 15 minutes. Or for a full day ahead. Sprinkle on the basil and parsley before serving.
Serves 6-8. Delicious with bread, naan, rice, or even over pasta.
Image: Very bad photo taken by me at the Christmas buffet table. I was rushing because of the hungry and impatient people behind me – it doesn’t do the dish justice!
Sacred Duty
This is me. At around 7:45 on the morning of November 8th. Exhilarated! I was so thrilled to have voted for Hillary Clinton, the woman I was so sure was going to be President that I insisted on documenting the historic event with a photo. I am wearing my most patriotic Clinton-esque red pantsuit jacket.
Quaint, eh? About as quaint as the Clinton-Kaine pin my daughter gave me to commemorate the occasion. I carry it around as a talisman, but I worry that it’s just a kitschy souvenir.
My hand is on my heart – pledging allegiance – and showing off the ring I am wearing. My mother’s ring. She was with me that day.
It is from my mother that I got my political grounding.
My mother was a Democrat. On Election Day, she would take me with her into the voting booth and show me how it worked. I felt very grown up, very excited, and very proud. It was a sacred privilege, voting.
My mother was the first feminist I knew. She was a charter subscriber to Ms. Magazine. Literally. She got every issue of the magazine as long as it existed. It’s one of many many magazines that I grew up with in a household where words mattered. No wonder I made a career in magazines.
My mother believed that women were equal to men (actually, I think she believed that women were better than men) and that I could be anything. ANYTHING! She encouraged me to go to Bryn Mawr College so that I would be with other intelligent and serious women who wanted to make a difference. We women wanted to matter. I wanted to matter. To make a difference. To contribute something important to the world.
Sometimes I feel like Hillary must feel. Hard-working, over-prepared, focused on the details, only to be bested by some guy who shoots from the hip. Haven’t we women all been there? When will it stop?
This election was the first election my mother was not alive and did not vote. It seemed fitting that it was the first election in which my daughter could and did vote. Continuing the democratic lineage. Excited and proud.
It is a sacred privilege, voting. Have we forgotten how fortunate we are to live in a democracy? Did we take voting for granted? Our vote does matter, doesn’t it?
Doesn’t it?
The shock that such a selfish and cavalier man could beat such an experienced and intelligent woman has left me with no words.
In the five weeks since, I have reflected on how I want to handle this mind-boggling reality. I alternate between outrage, fear, disbelief, and attempts at patience and optimism. A Democrat, like my mom, I tend to be pragmatic and centrist, always a diplomat, never particularly active. Careful to try to understand both sides and all points of view. Too conflict avoidant to be provocative.
When I am optimistic, I wonder if the outcome of this election is just what we needed to shake us all up. To create a constructive political movement that will lead to positive change.
The week of the election, the Dalai Lama appeared in my dream. He counseled me to distinguish between being concerned and being caring. It’s all about caring, he told me.
Wise words, don’t you think? Being concerned is intellectual and kind of negative and judgmental. Being caring is active and personal and hands on. Caring is positive. I think of that every day. How can I be positive, constructive and caring in an impactful way? What kind of example do I want to set for my children? What political legacy will I leave them?
For now, I have decided to choose and focus on a few issues that are meaningful to me and that honor my mother and her political legacy to me.
- Women’s Rights. Particularly reproductive freedom. I am Pro Choice.
- Freedom of the Press. I never thought I would feel the need to fight for the First Amendment.
- The Environment. After all, if we destroy our world, then it doesn’t really matter who is President, does it?
I don’t quite know all the ways I will act to support these issues. I am not used to feeling that it is imperative that I act. I do know that I will keep caring, peace, and kindness top of mind – like the Dalai Lama.
And, I will not take our democracy for granted. Believing in democracy is not quaint. Voting is a sacred privilege. It is our sacred duty to protect our democracy, our right to vote.
A Vegan-Friendly Thanksgiving
My daughter is a committed vegan, unable to stomach eating animals and dismayed by the injurious practices towards animals of big agriculture. I am proud of her and support her, but must admit that I don’t need any more food rules in my life. So, while I don’t eat much meat, I am not rigid about it.
This was her first Thanksgiving out as a vegan. (I think she was a closet vegan last year.) I reflected on how to balance the food traditions and family favorites of the holiday, while honoring her food wishes and offering her some tasty options. Roasted green beans, beyond easy. Stuffing made with vegetable broth, so tasty. Then what? We swapped the too-sweet marshmallow yams for Lentil and Sweet Potato Stew. I made it the day before – which was a good thing, because it gets better and better every day. We’ve been eating it for lunch every day since!
Sweet Potato and Lentil Stew with Chipotles
- Olive Oil
- 1 medium onion, chopped
- 2 garlic cloves, minced
- 2 medium carrots, diced
- 6 cups water
- 1 1/2 cups green lentils
- 2 1/2 pounds sweet potatoes, peeled and cubed
- 1 teaspoons salt
- 2 teaspoons ground cumin
- 2 chipotles in adobo, chopped
- 2 tablespoons tomato paste
- 1-2 bay leaves
In a heavy soup pot or Dutch oven, heat olive oil and sauté the onion until translucent. Add the garlic and carrots. Sauté until onions begin to turn toasty brown. Be patient, this can take 10-15 minutes – the browning adds flavor.
Add water, lentils, sweet potatoes, salt, cumin, chipotles, tomato paste, and bay leaves. Bring to a boil. Then, lower temperature and simmer for an hour. Or more. You really can’t overcook this dish – it just keeps getting thicker and stewier and more flavorful.
You can serve the same day, but it is better the next day and the next day and the next day.
Serves many vegans and omnivores. Probably about 8 servings. For the non-vegans, a dollop of plain greek yogurt on top is delicious, adding tang and creaminess.
Humble Warrior
Patanjali’s Yoga Sutra 1.33
By cultivating an attitude of friendship toward those who are happy, compassion toward those in distress, joy toward those who are virtuous, and equanimity toward those who are not virtuous, lucidity arises in the mind.
Like most, I am beyond troubled by the aggressive and hostile extremes of this election season. I am repulsed by Donald Trump. I hate how he looks: a fat, self-satisfied, narcissistic bully. I despise what he stands for: closed-minded racism, misogyny, bigotry. I fear what could happen if he were to be elected: a pendulum swing to the right with a reversal of our rights.
I have struggled with the righteous posturing, the lack of listening, and a disturbing move away from rational centrist humane compassion, frankly, by all of us. When my feelings of anger and revulsion are active and intense, I wonder how to reconcile this with my yoga practice. Is it yogic to hate Donald Trump?
One of the yoga sutras, 1.33, suggests that we cultivate equanimity when faced with nonvirtuous people and their wickedness. This is difficult. How do we deal with bullies, rapists, dictators, killers, kidnappers, terrorists … with equanimity? Torture them, go to war with them, destroy them? Tempting isn’t it? I understand that point of view. Certainly, we must take a stand for what is right. We must. But there must be something other than violence and divisiveness…if our world is going to survive.
Saddled with this dilemma, what to do with my rage and anxiety while being true to my desire to be a compassionate and peaceful human being, I started wondering how yoga could impact Donald Trump. (I do believe people can change.)
What would I do if Donald Trump walked into my yoga class?
I would welcome him. After all, anyone who comes to a yoga class has some curiosity and interest in becoming healthy. Whole.
We would have a brief seated centering. I don’t think he can sit still for very long. I’d have him center his head (it’s always tilted uncomfortably to his right) and rest his hands on his thighs, in stillness. (Those hands always pointing so aggressively!) I’m not sure he can tolerate closing his eyes, but I’d have him gaze softly and pay attention to his breath. Smooth out his dramatic sniffing. Breathe in. Pause. Breathe out. Pause. I’d like to think the pauses would show him how to pause before he speaks.
After a brief warm-up, we’d move into vigorous (for him) sun salutations. I think he needs to be really worn out, wrung out, by a very physical yoga practice. I’d get him breathing and sweating, so much that he couldn’t think about anything else other than surviving another sun sal.
I’d suggest that he dedicate his practice to someone he loves. (Does he love anyone?) We’d pause in Warrior 1. And bow down to Humble Warrior. Peaceful Warrior. Devotional Warrior. Breathe in. Pause. Breathe out. Pause. Surely the combination of meditating on a loved one and bowing down to them would have an impact?
Next, a heart-opening sequence. Donald has an overactive third chakra (thus, his ridiculous overconfidence). He needs to develop his sense of compassion. Cobra, Sphinx, and Locust.
Then Headstand. Yes. He needs to spend some time upside down. Feeling the confusion of not knowing what’s really up and what’s really down. Seeing a different perspective. Getting connected with his crown chakra. A little spirituality Donald?
And Shoulder Stand. Placing the chin in Jalandhara Bandha, to work on balancing his throat chakra. Pause before you speak. Breathe in. Pause. Breathe out. Pause.
Savasana. I’m pretty sure he’d be exhausted by now and ready to collapse in a heap.
For the closing meditation, I’d encourage him to think of the person he loves and imagine the dissolving of barriers. Dissolve the barrier between the outer body and the inner body. Dissolve the barrier between the physical body and the soul. Dissolve the barrier between his soul and his loved one’s soul. Dissolve the barriers between all souls. There is no barrier, no separation.
Finally, OM. Filling the space with universal sound. Feeling the reverberation until it dissolves.
Imagine if Donald Trump did yoga.
Breathe in. Pause. Breathe out. Pause. We are all one.
OM. Shanti. Peace.
Image Credit: Humble Warrior by Mike Villegas
Homework
I am in the middle of a yoga training with Colleen Saidman Yee. She has designed thought-full and specific sequences of poses to enhance or mitigate significant emotions and life transitions. All with a goal of achieving peace and confidence in ourselves, in order to be able to say: I Am Enough.
Our assignment this week, among other things, was to look in the mirror, see ourselves, our souls, and say I Love You. When I looked in the mirror, I felt so silly. Who says that?
Why not? Why don’t we give ourselves permission to love ourselves?
It brings up a long buried memory. I am at the wedding of our neighbor. My first wedding. I am about 8, perhaps. I am wearing a fancy dress and my mother did my hair in her favorite way, pulled back into a top-knot. I feel excited and grown up. At the wedding we are chit-chatting with another neighbor who remarks how pretty I look. Feeling confident and pleased, I respond, “I know!” My parents are embarrassed and scold me. One should be modest and humble, not braggy and conceited. The neighbor smiles indulgently and defends me. But the damage is done. A lifelong struggle with how to be in this world begins. Pretty? Smart? Assertive? Confident? Bossy? Slutty? Ambitious? Bitchy? NICE?
It is more socially acceptable to commiserate: I am so busy. I am so tired. I have so many problems. Or to be self-deprecating: I’m too heavy. I’m too thin. I’m too old. I hate my hair. When was the last time someone asked you “How are you?” and you answered: “I am beautiful, healthy, and strong. I like my job. My kids amaze me. My husband loves me.” Well, dammit, that’s how I am. I’m tired of complaining.
Don’t get me wrong. I could complain! My beauty is one of a middle-aged woman now. My wrinkles, age-spots, thinning eyebrows, and jowls (wtf?) shock me. SHOCK! I am not passionate about my job, but it’s interesting. I wish I had more time for yoga, both practicing and teaching. I’ve been hurt. Badly. A lot. I worry about everything. But… I am who I am and I am enough.
What is beauty anyway? We women are encouraged to meet an impossible external standard. Tall, thin, fit, young. Those of us who come close work very hard to get closer to the standard and feel like failures when we don’t. Those of us who don’t come close work very hard to get closer to the standard and feel like failures when we don’t. Or, we give up. As we get older, perhaps we find more peace with who we are and how we look, but our fading looks are a bittersweet reminder of the fleeting impermanence of youth and of life.
We look in the mirror and see our soul shining through our eyes. The same soul from 50 years ago, from 40 years ago, from 30 years ago, from 20 years ago, from 10 years ago. Real beauty is self-acceptance. Self-confidence. Pride. No more wishing to be someone else. No more wishing to be richer, thinner, smarter, nicer, more successful, more popular, more badass, more happy. We are enough.
Besides, it’s not about me anymore. I want my daughter to be happy and to love herself and to know – really know – her value. If I can’t model that kind of love and confidence for me, what makes me think she can do it for her? If my love for myself is a bit tentative and embarrassed and filled with buts and what-if’s, my love for her is fierce.
Dear girl, you are enough.
Before What Is Next
Well. Here we are. Already. August. End of Summer. End of his childhood. The pause after the exhale before the inhale. Before September, the new school year. 12th grade. Before he begins whatever he will be beginning a year from now. Because we don’t know.
Our vacation this summer was a quiet week in Vermont, just the three of us. I missed my daughter, but it felt important to have this time with him. It was sweet to be away from our routine and entwined together, synchronizing our lives to be focused on each other, if only for the week. We listened to music together, impressed that he had such eclectic taste and appreciation for “our” music of the 1970’s. (Thank you, Guardians of the Galaxy.) We adventured together, zip lining down Mt Mansfield and rock climbing a wall. We walked in the woods, read by the pool, and found restaurants with wings for him, pasta for my husband, and vegetables for me. It was a delicious, restorative break, nothing fancy, and I am trying not to be too sad that it is over.
17 years. Over.
I stare at him. Often. He hates it. He thinks I am judging or noticing something he wished I wouldn’t notice. He is self-conscious. Embarrassed. My gaze is really more about wanting to connect. Wanting him to know, to really know deep down in his soul, that I love him and want him to be happy and to know that he is enough just as he is. I want him to know that I am sorry for all the times I do judge and nag and wish for something to be other than it is.
I spend a lot of time judging and nagging and wishing for something to be other than it is. Like the end of August. The end of summer, the end of vacation, the end of childhood. I don’t want it to be over! Hell, I’m just figuring out how to do it … and it’s over?
So. Instead of clinging and resisting, I am trying – trying! – to be patient with the pause. Open to possibility. Open to change. With not knowing what is next. With not rushing to the inhale, but fully and completely exhaling all the air out and pausing. Appreciating the breath. Appreciating the boy who is becoming a man. Gazing at his graceful shape, searching for eye contact with his soul that is embarrassed to be seen. Trying not to be frantic about the college application process. Trying not to grieve for the time that is gone. Trying not to regret all that I could have done differently. Trying not to regret that I’m not a different mother, but to accept that I am the mother I am. Just as he is enough, I am enough.
We are here. Abiding in the pause. Open to what is next. Because we don’t know. Now is enough. We are enough.
Finding Love Right Where We Are
Monday, instead of walking across town in my usual commuter bubble to catch my train home, I decided to take the subway. It was hazy, hot, and humid and the sky had turned ominously black while all our cellphones were sirening the alarm that a storm was near. I’ve been caught in that 5:30 pm summer downpour. Not today.
I headed down the tunnel below ground and just missed a shuttle. In my bubble, I headed toward the next train. Everyone was standing, crowded in the entry way, even though there were plenty of seats in the middle. I made my way through the crowd to sit by myself in my bubble. When the train started moving, the beautiful woman next to me started singing. Well, at least I think she was beautiful because she gave off a beautiful vibe. Beautiful energy. I didn’t actually look at her. I didn’t actually make eye contact with her. After all, I was in my bubble in the city where I was taught not to make eye contact with strangers. Somehow connecting with others was threatening and could incite danger. This was understandable advice to the young single woman I was many many years ago, but it doesn’t really serve me that well any more. I am capable and savvy, unlikely to be accosted by strangers, and far more inclined now to make a warm connection with someone who could use a smile (and usually that someone is me).
I was startled out of my bubble. Listening. She started out tentatively, a little out of tune. It was a hard song, Ed Sheeran’s Thinking Out Loud. I certainly couldn’t sing it. I certainly wouldn’t have the nerve to burst into song in the subway. I don’t even sing at home if anyone else is around. I just listened. She gained confidence and strength. I suppose she does this all day long and this was just another iteration for her, but it was magical for me. It is such an intimate song. Her timing was impeccable, singing the climax “We found love right where we are,” just as we pulled into Grand Central. One of the more exuberant souls on the train exclaimed “Beautiful!” And it was. She was.
I went back today to the same shuttle train to see if she would be there again. Of course she was not there. That anonymous, ephemeral, magical moment could not be repeated. Imagine, finding love, all around, on the subway – in this stormy time.
I Hide My Chocolate 