MaudeRubyPearl

Pefect Pantry DEBUT

2011-10-09T14:12:00.000-07:00

Okay, so debut may be a little strong. But, I wanted to share that the lovely Lydia from The Perfect Pantry, posted a submission of mine this weekend. I contributed some pictures and memories of a sweet little market we visited in Cuba. Here's the link to the post: Market to Pantry # 22: Havana, Cuba .

Don't worry. Now that I'm famous, I won't forget "the little people." You big ones are screwed, though.

Just 'cause we need a giggle now and then...

2011-09-15T19:06:00.000-07:00

http://awkwardfamilyphotos.com/page/5/

There are so many details about this photo that just make me happy. Ahhhhhh... thank you weird picture people.

La Mañana Tras

2011-09-05T10:06:00.000-07:00

It is the morning after. I spent the weekend at my final yoga teacher training session. The entire weekend blew me away. At the start of it, I was tired and wishing I was already done because I'd really like to sleep in, and the dishes are piled high, and my turtles are giving me the cold shoulder, and the yard is looking like a jungle, and--I should, I should, I should....

Saturday day went by in a flash. As a group we all went to our favorite Indian hole-in-the-wall "New India Sweets," and gorged on naan, chai, rice, Palak Paneer, and lentils. It was lovely. It felt like we were in a cloud. In the backs of our minds we knew that our time together was coming to an end, but, in the cloud, the reality of it couldn't cut into the joyfulness of the moment.

Saturday night, we danced and sang and laughed at a kirtan our teacher hosted at the studio. It was magical and intoxicating--the energy of the music and everyone singing and dancing together left me... well... high.... It was soul-shaking beautiful. A dear friend of mine had also come back from Egypt. He swept in and out of town, and played with the kirtan band, and it just felt good to see him and hug him and be near such a beautiful, kindred spirit.

The boys from my new favorite band, Inner Prisms, played in the kirtan as well. They're these young humble fellas with amazing talent. They get it. They just get it. Enjoy the taste of their magic below and then go to their site, Inner Prisms, to download both of their albums for FREE. Thank you Inner Prisms (Gerald Penilla - Vocals/Guitar;Ruben Ruvalcaba - Bass/Vocals;Sam Marsey - Guitar/Vocals)!

Their song, "Just Like Life," totally suits this weekend.

Sunday morning, everyone was a little tired and worn and still vibrating from the evening before. It was hard to imagine anything topping the previous day. However, as Sunday progressed and we grew closer and closer to saying goodbye, the sharing and love intensified. At one point, everyone had shared something from their hearts, and we all were sniffling and wiping tears from our eyes, and one of the most courageous guys in the group says, "This moment will never come again."

In Sanskrit, the word Smriti, means "remembering." It refers to the idea of being present in the moment... "remembering" the present moment. Remembering that you are connected to All in each moment.

My friend's statement rang through the group like a bell: there was silence, as if we each were pulling a thread from the moment... just to hang on to it, to run our fingers over it. For the rest of the afternoon, I clung to those words and moved as if in a meditative trance. This moment will never come again... nor this one... nor this one... nor this one....

And so, it is now the morning after, and I am feeling full and loved and exhausted and, I'll be honest, a bit gloomy. This is the funny thing about yoga--you get to these great highs and experience true "reality," and then you get released back into "the world" to find your way through and try to hold on to what you know to be true. In the midst of this, the struggle becomes maintaining your joy and hope... riding the waves.

Today I am trying to be present in each moment... to be grateful for each moment... to practice smriti... to remember that I am connected to All in each moment, even those who I will not physically see for a while. Sometimes the spaces in which we practice smriti are lucid and easy to grab on to. And, sometimes, those moments are filled with sweet remembrance of the magic of sharing and opening our hearts to one another. I think that's okay. Just yield to it. It will not be again.

Simple Things

2011-08-16T07:47:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting in my classroom. I have about an hour before the kiddies arrive. The other day I went to this tiny, jam-packed, hole-in-the-wall thrift store. Spanish love songs wound their way through the store speakers and, in the back, you could hear volunteer workers gossiping and cackling as they folded piles of clothes. In this little treasure trove, I found a myriad of goodies: oneof them, an old coffee pot with an automatic timer. Yesterday, I gave her her place along the back wall of the classroom. I cleaned her off, filled her with water and fresh grounds, and then set the timer, fingers crossed for luck.

This morning, I woke early to teach my sunrise yoga class. When I arrived to school, I opened the door, and smelled... beautiful, wondrous, coffee! It worked! For six dollars, I don't know that I could ask for more.

So, now, I'm sitting at my desk, listening to my homie, Dean Martin (sing it Dino!), and sipping on some piping-hot coffee. The morning is sweet. No rush. Take it in. Breathe... smile....

Hallelujah. Amen. Good morning!

"Olé to you, nonetheless..."

2011-08-04T08:24:00.000-07:00

I just watched this incredibly powerful talk by Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray Love. It made me cry, in the heart-swelling way. She talks about the creative process and how, maybe, it is not we mortals who have to carry the burden of creating, but, rather, it is our role to show up for the job and collaborate with the creative force/energy/spirit, that is ever-present in the universe, looking for its next partner.

Olé!

Buenas Dias

2011-08-01T06:55:00.000-07:00

My honey is in the shower and I am enjoying coffee and the glow of the early morning. There's a fan whirring in the window--blowing in the fresh, cool, morning air. Nothing is busy yet. The sun is coming up behind some houses. Everything looks neon and extra alive in this light. The street is quiet. There is nothing to do in this moment but rub the sleep from my eyes and take it in.

These are the moments that dance past us--gone as quickly as the sun shifts from morning to day shine. These are the moments I tend to muddy with the worry of stuff to get done later in the day.

But, when I press fully into the moment... when I settle into it... join it... time stops. It is perfect.

When we stayed downtown in Havana, Cuba, the gentleness of the morning was accompanied by music playing through the streets. People were gliding across the cobblestone--preparing for a new day of work. Even in the early bustle, there was a sweet peacefulness to the new day. The hotel we stayed in was the place Hemingway used to camp out and write. I imagine him sitting in the morning, doors and windows open to the vibrancy of life, toes tapping to the music, his fingers dancing furiously over the paper.*

Good morning.

*I am resisting the urge to be sarcastic and make fun of his bent towards depression and drunkenness. The man did shoot himself in the noggin' for Pete's sake. His fingers may not have ever "danced" over anything. Ahh well... we'll pretend. It is my morning time, anyways.... I bet Steinbeck's fingers danced....

This Made Me Nervous

2011-07-28T14:58:00.000-07:00

I was adjusting my nose ring when I realized my fingers smelled like weed. When did I fondle some cannabis?
I fed my turtles. Their food smells like dried shrimp. Their food is dried shrimp. I scratched the rumps of both my dogs. Kalea does Crack and Furio gave up la mota long ago--made him lazy. Then I remembered that I had picked some tomatoes earlier.

Then I decided two things:
(1) I need to wash my hands.
(2) I have no fucking idea about what weed is supposed to smell like.

Now, I'm sad. I'm a little less gangsta.

Green Things and Angel Wings

2011-07-23T18:33:00.000-07:00

Even for summer time, life has been busy. In the clicking along of life and the heaviness of the summer heat, I have been longing for some quality, uninterrupted time in the dirt. My mama calls me her mud-flower. I like that. I am really happy in the dirt. I imagine my garden eventually becoming this overgrown, bug-buzzing, fragrant paradise. Right now, the fragrance is more akin to dog and chicken poop than gardenia, orange blossom and jasmine. Some garden boxes are packed with crowded plants. Others are sparse and scraggly. Ahhhh well... we'll get there.... It's important to maintain hope in matters such as these. Maybe even more important, because they're practice for the big stuff... the heavy stuff. Regardless of the state of my garden, and the dichotomy between my imagination and reality, I love green things. I love growing stuff.

A volunteer squash, a pepper plant, and a curious chicken.

Lemon Verbena--ohh it smells heavenly!


I can't remember what this one is. Monarch butterflies LOVE	this vine.

It's maniacal in its growth and has these gorgeous fuchsia flowers.

The leaves really do look like angel wings. I think the white speckles are so cool.

Angel Wings blossoms

When we moved into our home, my grandma gave me a plant that was her mother's favorite: Angel Wings. My grandma told me to keep it in the shade. Keep it watered. And, if anyone ever complimented me on it, I was to give them a cutting. Her mother liked to keep the plant spreading--to guarantee that it would live on. So the plant that I have is a cutting from my grandma's plant, which is a cutting from her mama's plant. It's beautiful, super easy to please, and even easier to propagate.

To propagate, simply cut off a 4-6 inch "branch," and sit it in a little water--just enough so the bottom of the stem is submerged. In several days you'll begin to see roots growing. Plant the new plant in quality soil. Keep it in the shade. Keep it watered. And, if anyone compliments you on it, give them a cutting.

Trace the Steps

2011-07-07T11:41:00.000-07:00

I had a funny memory this morning. I was thinking about teaching yoga and how interesting it is to watch people and to see, firsthand, how busy we make our lives... how complicated. Teaching yoga is amazing because you get to witness these cracks in the facade and the real human glow begins to peer through. People begin to discover things about themselves. It's scary and exciting. I was thinking about a conversation I had with a woman in my class yesterday and I could see glimmers coming through her cracks. Then I began thinking about all the things that make us forget who we are. Then I remembered a line from the Bible about it being easier for a camel to walk through the eye of a needle than it is for a wealthy man to enter the kingdom of heaven.

I can see why that may be so. I believe we have access to "heaven" always--at any time. Our tendency to complicate life with "stuff" and "to-do's" inhibits our ability to remember that we are of the divine... that we are connected to the source....

Anyways, I was mulling over that and then I had that funny memory pop into my head. I went to a private Christian college and, while I lived on campus, we had these meal plans. One day, a group of friends and I got it into our heads that we should take our campus meals in "to-go" boxes and then give them to the homeless. They were our meals. We had paid for them with our tuition. And, we had probably already eaten in our apartments. I remember the thrill of the first night and the frustration at not being able to find any homeless people. Where's a good homeless guy when you need him?! I think we did eventually find some folks to give the meals to, so we did it the next night... and the next. It must have been about two weeks before "the powers that be" in the college heard about what we were doing. So, do you know what they did? They stopped allowing us to take our meals "to-go." I'd have to look it up to be sure, but apparently, feeding the homeless with food that you've already paid for isn't in one of the school doctrines. It made me laugh this morning because it's so silly. Control... ahhh control--you are a beastly little demon, with tireless, piercing claws.

I know it's early, but you'll need time to plan...

2011-07-05T15:42:00.000-07:00

Dear Santa,

I have been a very good girl this year. That being said, I want these--all of them:

Don't worry... They only have to dance for me. I'll be good--well, at least outside my mind. Heh heh.

Or, if you can't fit them all in the sled, please give my husband a disease where he will make friends with other beautiful men and they will learn to dance like this. For me. And he won't leave me for them.

Thank you.

Love,
Diana

P.S. I think you owe me this one since you didn't get me the Transformers or Power Wheels when I was little. Just sayin'...

Gracie

2011-07-05T10:40:00.000-07:00

Growing up, there lived a woman across the street named Grace. Everybody called her Gracie. She was a tiny thing, with tight brown curls atop her head. Her walk was more of a shuffle and she seemed the same age of "old" from the time that I knew her to the time she passed away. She lived on the corner and she raised little yippy poodles. I remember being small and going on walks around the neighborhood. As we passed her house, my sisters and I would push our small fat fingers through the holes in the chain link fence and brush the tight curls of the baby poodles with our fingertips.

My dad says that Gracie used to sunbathe in the nude in her back yard. The neighbor to her left got in trouble with his wife when his wife noticed a hole in his garage wall that peered perfectly onto Gracie's sunbathing spot.

I remember her poodles and I remember her geraniums. She had huge geraniums growing all around her house, glowing in shades of pink and scarlet.

When Gracie passed away, they had an estate sale. It was odd to be walking through her sweet home--her gentle spirit still hugging the walls--and to hear people going through her things and discussing where they could put this or that and whether or not the people hosting the sale might settle for a lower price....

I bought one thing at the sale: a small struggling little geranium. It must have been a cutting from one of her larger plants. I brought it home, watered it and gave it new soil. It's sitting at the front of my house and, slowly, it's coming back. I think it misses Gracie. I like to think Gracie's happy someone is caring for one of the flowers she loved so much.

A few days after the sale, I visited my parents and they had each gotten me something more. My dad had picked up some of Gracie's records for me, and my mom had gotten me some canning jars and some of Gracie's cookbooks.

As I was flipping through one of the cookbooks, a bunch of little papers slipped out from the back pages. The papers had been tucked into a tithe envelope and had a hand-written recipe for Pineapple Banana Cake on them.

I think Gracie had written them out to give to folks who asked her for her recipe. Each one is just a little bit different.

Yesterday, I laid them all out and pieced together the instructions,and finally made Gracie's Pineapple Banana Cake. It is delicious, and even sweeter knowing whose recipe it is.

I took it to my parents' house for the 4th of July barbecue. My dad took my parents' neighbor, Marjorie, over a plate. He told her that the cake was Gracie's recipe. He said that Marjorie looked up at the sky and said, "Thank you Gracie." Yes, thank you Gracie. Thank you for perfect childhood memories of curly-haired poodles tickling our fingertips. Thank you for sunbathing nude--even if the neighbor got in trouble for peeking. Thank you for the huge pink and red geraniums you grew, their leaves fragrant and medicinal in the summer heat. Thank you for your dedication to your church--for attending, even when you could barely walk. Thank you for telling my Pa he has nice legs. He does! And thank you, for a bundle of hand-written recipes, stained and adorned in the lovely loops of your cursive. And thank you, thank you, thank you, for a delicious Pineapple Banana Cake. It will always be Gracie's cake.

Recipe:

Set the oven to 350 degrees. Grease and flour a bundt/tube pan.

Sift together:

3 cups flour
2 cups sugar
1tsp baking soda
1 1/2 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp salt

Add:

3 eggs, unbeaten
1 1/2 cups Canola oil (not kidding!)
1 - 8oz can crushed pineapple
1 1/2 tsp vanilla

Stir, don't beat.

Add:

2 cups diced bananas

Fold in.

Bake at 350 degrees in tube or bundt pan.

*Gracie's recipe said to bake for about an hour and 20 minutes but it took me about an hour and 45 minutes. Shoot for Gracie's time and then check regularly with toothpicks.

*Allow to cool for 5-10 minutes on a wire rack and then flip onto a serving platter.
*Be sure to cook and eat with love.

A Good Way to Die

2011-05-09T11:55:00.000-07:00

I've heard that if you have a certain fascination/love/affinity for a place, you may have lived there in a previous life. I like this idea. If it's true, I'm quite cultured. I am certain that in one of my lives, I was Hawaiian. Probably a Hawaiian princess. Well... just being honest.

And I was probably surrounded by hoards of Hawaiian man warriors who danced like this:

Supposedly, the little chicken-wing move they do with their legs was a move to intimidate the enemy. They used to crush coconuts between their thighs to show how strong they were. Then, on the battlefield, they'd crush human heads that way. (Who knows if it's true--don't quote me on it.) I'm more interested in the wavy hip move. I could watch that again and again. Maybe that's what they did to distract the enemy. "Look at me. I'm gorgeous and strong and can move my hips like--" bam! Head crunched like a coconut. I can think of worse ways to die.

Reliving My Childhood

2011-04-13T11:48:00.000-07:00

This young fellow reminds me of myself as a child. Except he's a boy. And, my instruments of choice were the recorder and ocarina. But, I promise you, my music moved people to tears. While, tragically, I don't have a video of my child-prodigy self playing, I do have his video. We sound pretty much the same. Now you know me even that much better.

Timshel

2011-04-13T10:51:00.000-07:00

I don't know what my deal is lately. I think I've just been extra moved by music. It's the stuff of dreams, you know?

I love Mumford and Sons. I really really love this cover of Timshel by Kinna Granis and her sisters. Beautiful and haunting. I could probably sing it better but I'm really busy so... here you go:

Sous le dôme épais

2011-04-09T08:20:00.000-07:00

Turn up the volume.

Push play.

Close your eyes.

Lean back, and let it wash over you like a wave.

I'll admit it, it makes me cry.

My Recent Addiction

2011-03-11T23:56:00.000-08:00

I have a habit of playing songs I love over and over and over and over again. It drives my husband bonkers. Ahh well... he's tough. Below are the lyrics to "Sometime Around Midnight" by The Airborne Toxic Event. I can't get enough of it. Here's the video:

Enjoy!

The Airborne Toxic Event – Sometime Around Midnight Lyrics
And it starts, sometime around midnight.
Or at least that’s when you lose yourself
for a minute or two.
As you stand, under the bar lights.
And the band plays some song
about forgetting yourself for a while.
And the piano’s this melancholy soundtrack to her smile.
And that white dress she’s wearing
you haven’t seen her for a while.
But you know, that she’s watching.
She’s laughing, she’s turning.
She’s holding her tonic like a cross.
The room’s suddenly spinning.
She walks up and asks how you are.
So you can smell her perfume.
You can see her lying naked in your arms.
And so there’s a change, in your emotions.
And all these memories come rushing
like feral waves to your mind.
Of the curl of your bodies,
like two perfect circles entwined.
And you feel hopeless and homeless
and lost in the haze of the wine.
Then she leaves, with someone you don’t know.
But she makes sure you saw her.
She looks right at you and bolts.
As she walks out the door,
your blood boiling
your stomach in ropes.
Oh and when your friends say,
“What is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Then you walk, under the streetlights.
And you’re too drunk to notice,
that everyone is staring at you.
You just don’t care what you look like,
the world is falling around you.
You just have to see her.
You just have to see her.
You just have to see her.
You just have to see her.
You just have to see her.
You know that she’ll break you in two.

Good golly--there's just something so perfect about love-sick longing. I can't get enough.

Resistance

2011-02-08T06:10:00.000-08:00

I just finished some morning yoga and am sitting here, looking over some of my favorite blogs before I get ready for work.

Reading these great, creative blogs I'm thinking, "I need to post something. It's been way too long since the last post. I don't have anything interesting to say right now."

And then... a train whistle blows in the distance. I love that sound.

In the next room, my husband is working out. He's doing this program... thing... and the guy on the video is is friend. Really. So it sounds like his friend's over and they're working out first thing in the morning.

The dogs are still sleeping. I need to start getting ready for work. I don't want to go to work. Yesterday, I got really mad at work.

But... today may be better. And, even if it's not, the train will whistle again and I'll get to kiss my sweet husband and the end of it, and my stinky dogs will wag their tails and slime me, and the green things in the garden will still reach upward... and... it'll be ok.

How to Become a Bahama Mama

2011-01-05T11:44:00.000-08:00

On our way into Cuba, we spent one night in the Bahamas. The ocean was just yards from our hotel--we stayed in one of those beach resorts. While I don't see myself as a "resort" kind of girl, this place had its benefits: a huge swimming pool with a swim-up bar, a hot tub, and a bar on a little pier-type structure where free Bahama Mamas were served at 5:00. The ocean water was crystal blue--exactly what you'd expect from the Bahamas. We ordered sandwiches and beers--it wasn't 5:00 yet--and ate and reveled in the fact that we had officially begun vacation. Our meal was good, but not at all worth the $125.00 we spent on it (for four people--ouch!). It wasn't anything you couldn't get at a cafe anywhere.

Heading to Bahama Mama Hour

When Bahama-Mama hour arrived, we indulged: we had to soothe our lighter wallets, our irked egos, and, we were on vacation gosh-darn-it! We hung out in the spa, went back to our room, and the men began the cigar smoking. After a couple more beers, Jenn and I went for a walk. We wandered through the hotel, out by the pool, and back to the hot tub. By this time, a breeze had kicked up and it was getting chilly. The sun had set and no one was around. We seemed to be on the same track. We scanned the territory--it was quiet. It was dark and all we could really see were the lights of the hotel. We quickly stripped down and hopped into the hot tub. We felt scandalous and gloriously free. Every girl needs a good skinny dip now and again.

Now, while I do consider myself a free spirit, I am not the type of girl who usually shows my girlie parts to just any old Joe. I feel the need to establish that because this is where the story takes a funny little turn. At the start of the skinny-dipping adventure, there was no one out. Really. NO ONE. And then... about two minutes into our soak, the hotel came alive again. Employees were walking toward us. A couple, taking a romantic stroll, came into view. A small group of ladies began heading straight for us. I wouldn't have been surprised if an impromptu Congo line danced by.

I responded with a deer-in-the-headlights look. My quick-thinking friend, Jenn, at least had a plan: don't look, duck down--if they don't see us they'll go away. So, there we were: two girls in a huge hot tub, huddled together with our faces turned into the concrete wall, giggling like we're about to be spied in hide-and-seek, and--ahh yes--naked. The hotel employees made a turn right before they got to us. They didn't see us. So far, one point to Jenn's plan. Next, the romantic couple: they did walk by us but they were so involved with each other they didn't even notice. Two points for Jenn's plan. The gang of girls were still heading toward us. We heard one whisper, "Oh. My. God." Another one whispered an inaudible reply. They paused. Then, they approached. They laid their things on a lounge chair and they began to enter the hot tub. Jenn and I realized the ignore tactic wasn't going to work with this group--they were committed. I resumed my deer-in-the-headlights stance. We were both hugging our legs up to our chins, feet crossed across--well, you know. Jenn laughed and apologized. She explained why we're there naked. The girls laughed awkwardly and one of them, bless her, told us that they were concerned they were walking in on a lesbian couple enjoying some romantic time. We laughed, one, because this obviously wasn't true and , two, we were happy they were cool enough to join two naked chicks in the hot tub (God bless Canada--that's where they were from), and, three, our husbands joke that if they were to die, Jenn and I would be quite content living together, getting into mischief, and raising cats.

Anyways, the girls ended up being really friendly. We stayed for a while and chatted. We all talked about the lame super-model-looking chicks who were parading around the resort, wearing next to nothing (the nerve!), and participating in some dumb beauty pageant... It was the sort of female talk that lasting friendships are built upon.

After a while, Jenn and I realized our husbands might be wondering where we're at. Well, that, and we didn't want anyone else to join in the hot tub while we were sans suits. We let the girls know we were going to get out of the tub. Upon notice, they immediately averted their eyes. They didn't have to. But, it was nice that they did--we had established respect. We ran to a little corner with our towels and clothes, and snort-laughed as we tried to dry off while our towels, whipped by the wind, careened away from our bare bodies. We managed to dress, give the hot tub girls a wave, and head back to the men.

Our men were not at all surprised. We felt pretty proud of ourselves. There was that awkwardness the next morning, though, while walking through the hotel: between scowling at those damn, shameless, scantily-clad supermodel chicks, we would both search the faces of the more "normal" looking girls trying to recall the faces across from us in the hot tub the previous night. Was she one of them? Was she? Was she? If we did pass one of the girls, she was kind enough not to betray anything by her expression.

Freedom!

Holding On

2010-12-12T17:31:00.000-08:00

Two days ago we returned from our adventure in Cuba. Yesterday felt like a blur... going through the motions... still high from the trip and the vibe of the little island. Today is the let-down... the sigh... the loneliness for the place that changed you in ways you don't yet have the words for.

I'm listening to a c.d. we bought from one of the bands we heard playing in Habana Vieja, Old Havana. It's these old men, singing like brass horns... their shoulders jumping and swinging; their hips, swaying fault lines above their legs... their faces brown and creased by their smiles.... The c.d. skips in our computer--it's got a gritty sound and, I imagine, it's because the guys probably recorded their album themselves. Even so, it's just like Havana: gritty... colorful... sweet... warm....

I can't write too much now... I want to hold it inside me like a palm around a jewel, uncovered in the sand....

It's good to be home. Good to be back near the people, critters and routines that make up "my life." But... when I run over the grooves our adventure creased into my memory, I feel my throat start to tighten up. My eyes widen as moisture swells into them... my chest stretches above the force of a deep inhale... I want to be back in that little restaurant, laughing and gyrating to their beats and happy voices above the din of the city... I want to be swathed in the energy of a people who are so spiritually and emotionally rich in the midst of such physical desperation and poverty... to drink in the pulsing beats of life, plowing forward proudly...

and, even as I sit here nostalgic and unable to unpack (yet) the twists and turns of our latest adventure, my hips dance in the seat, my shoulders bounce, and I know those men are doing the same.

Loving Kindness

2010-11-22T10:56:00.000-08:00

It's a beautiful day and I'm enjoying some peaceful quiet. The cuckoo clock is tick-tocking dutifully. Many happy sparrows are chirping in chorus outside. The sky is so blue it looks heavy. I just finished some yoga and now my lungs are expanded like a full accordion.

I came across a beautiful quote: All that we are is a result of what we have thought. If a man speaks or acts with a pure thought, happiness follows him, like a shadow that never leaves him. --The Buddha.

This is my recent challenge--I have taken on the battle of the chattering mind. I am realizing that, while an incredible tool, my mind tells a lot of stories that aren't necessarily true. I am working to combat years of a finely honed skill--allowing my mind to run wild. Imagination is beautiful. Let that run free. But, if it creates negative trails that your emotions follow, shut it down. Don't invite darkness inside--it's a beast to sweep out.

There's a beautiful meditation on forgiveness at this link (scroll down to find it--it's free): Forgiveness Meditation He offers several mantras to repeat to yourself. Three of the most powerful for me were, "For whatever harm I have caused others, may they forgive me. For whatever harm others have caused me, may I forgive them. For whatever harm, I have caused myself, I forgive myself." I love that it starts with asking for forgiveness. A lot of my chatter centers around the wrongs that have come my way. It becomes a feeding frenzy. I also love that it ends with forgiving yourself. It is a powerful thing to be able to move towards. The meditation guide explains that forgiveness is not excusing or condoning a wrong. It is the process of letting someone back into your heart. Beautiful. And so stinking hard when you've already suffered hurt.

He ends with reciting the Metta Sutta, a poem by The Buddha on Loving Kindness:

This is what should be done
By one who is skilled in goodness,
And who knows the path of peace:
Let them be able and upright,
Straightforward and gentle in speech.
Humble and not conceited,
Contented and easily satisfied.
Unburdened with duties and frugal in their ways.
Peaceful and calm, and wise and skillful,
Not proud and demanding in nature.
Let them not do the slightest thing
That the wise would later reprove.
Wishing: In gladness and in safety,
May all beings be at ease.
Whatever living beings there may be;
Whether they are weak or strong, omitting none,
The great or the mighty, medium, short or small,
The seen and the unseen,
Those living near and far away,
Those born and to-be-born,
May all beings be at ease!

Let none deceive another,
Or despise any being in any state.
Let none through anger or ill-will
Wish harm upon another.
Even as a mother protects with her life
Her child, her only child,
So with a boundless heart
Should one cherish all living beings:
Radiating kindness over the entire world
Spreading upwards to the skies,
And downwards to the depths;
Outwards and unbounded,
Freed from hatred and ill-will.
Whether standing or walking, seated or lying down
Free from drowsiness,
One should sustain this recollection.
This is said to be the sublime abiding.
By not holding to fixed views,
The pure-hearted one, having clarity of vision,
Being freed from all sense desires,
Is not born again into this world.

Breathe. Forgive. Tink Happy Tawts.

The Dog Days Are Over

2010-10-29T17:07:00.000-07:00

Florence + The Machine, "Dog Days Are Over" <----- Click Here!!

I am addicted to this song. When I sing, in my mind, I sound like this. Don't worry--I'm not delusional--my ears keep me firmly planted in reality. But... if I were to converse with God--straight up, human to deity--I'd inform him that this is what my voice really sounds like and, perhaps, he switched my vocal chords with someone else.

This song makes me want to dance and sing and laugh and tear up with joy all at the same time. Bless you Florence + the Machine.

Peace

2010-10-12T21:38:00.000-07:00

Tonight there's crickets outside, chirping in a happy chorus. When I got home from work, I went out and sat on our deck and let the beauty of the early evening wash over me. I needed a good cleanse. The sky was still blue and growing pink at the fringes. There was a kind breeze wandering around. I let our chickens out and watched the dogs be tormented by wanting to eat the feathered critters but wanting to please their humans more. After being indoors all day, the sun on my skin felt like heaven.

The grass under my toes was green and silky... my dogs smelled like sunshine and clean dirt... the baby vegetables in their boxes looked neon--so young and vibrant... the whole world seemed to be swinging in a hammock... and for all the frustrations we all face every day, there is so much more beauty to be found...

My aunt told me once that my grandma used to say that you should always replace one negative thought with two positive ones. These are some thoughts that have me smiling and ready for happy sleep tonight. Thank you grandma....

There is always the dark, and then the light....

Sweating it Out

2010-10-11T19:38:00.000-07:00

I'm sweating and it feels good. gOOOOd. On my way home from work today I had this agitated feeling bumbling around inside me. I was mullin' over work and how some parts of it are pretty neat but most of it I just don't fit into. And I know this is probably selfish, silly-girl thinking in an economy that's struggling so... and I do feel grateful to have a steady job and all that rot... but I don't love it. I don't quite fit in all the way in that space. I don't think...

Anyways, I was mullin' it over and trying not to think about it and I almost got hit by two different cars just about ten minutes from each other. I had to use my horn both times! And, both times I had that happening-really-fast-but-it's-in-slow-motion feeling. The first guy swerved into my lane without looking. I honked, swerved, and then he swerved, sped up, and cut me off. Then, he moved over to the next lane and, when I passed him, he didn't even have the giblies to look at me. In fact, he craned his neck and pretended to be looking at the hills out his passenger side window. Really wanted to see that section of the hills, huh? Uh huh. Punk. Then, when I exited the freeway, I was the first in line at the red light. I waited. I listened to NPR and chuckled at the dry jokes. My light turned green. I started to go. Then I saw this huge Chevy barreling at me. Again, I honked, I swerved, I got the slow motion feeling where everything gets really clear, and the guy screeched to a stop inches from my driver's side door. I stopped, glared at him and threw my hands up. He had this lady with a dumb-cow stare in the passenger seat--I don't think she even realized she was going somewhere in a moving vehicle, and he looked at me and waved me through the intersection. Well thanks, asshole. May I? Yes, I'm angry, and not writing very nice, because I'm just a little person and I have a lot of stuff to do still and I don't know what it is yet but I can feel it's a lot and I don't intend to go before I get a good start on it and I don't appreciate having it nearly cut short because some yahoos who think they're more important than everybody else didn't care to watch the road. Sons-a-bitches!

Whew. I feel better. Kind of like how I felt just after I did yoga and started writing about my drive home. Ooommmmmm... Oooommmmm... Oooommmm....

On a brighter note, I found this lamp collecting dust in a little shop. My lover and I repainted it bright yellow. It reminds me of a bird cage. It makes me happy. Happy little lamp!

Ooommmmmm... Ooommmmm... Ooommmmm...

This little light of mine... I'm gonna let it shine...

I Was Duped

2010-09-18T09:56:00.000-07:00

I had been waiting... and waiting... and waiting... for the perfect moment to let it play... to fill my house and my ears and my heart with the dreamy masculine tones of my beloved Perry Como. I found it at an estate sale--it was tucked in a crate of other dusty old records. The record is titled "Dream Along With Me," after one of his famous ballads. I was ready Perry. I was ready to dream along with you. The husband had left to the Bermuda Triangle of husbands--Home Depot. The dogs were outside. The sun was shining. There was a cool breeze still lingering and passing through the dusty screens of the windows. It was just me and Perry. And then, the unthinkable happened.

I held up the record jacket. Perry's in front of a mint green background. He's wearing a Mr. Rogers-style cardigan and a orange button up shirt with little prints of shields with horses. He's got a gold pinkie ring and is leaning sideways in his chair. He's smiling. I could already hear the songs playing in my mind... More than you know, more than you know, girl of my heart I love you soooo... I slid the record out. I put the glistening circle on the player and looked to see which song would make me swoon first: "In the Jailhouse Now." "In the Jailhouse Now"? Perry Como didn't sing that. Did he? I scan the label for the next song: "Waiting for a Train." My Perry's voice certainly conveys the lonely heart-sick longing of a train whistle in the distance but no, sir, he never sung about waiting for a train. Then, with my heart sinking into my stomach, I see the title of the record that was lurking within the beautiful cover of my sweet Perry Como. Hits From the Country Hall of Fame. What. The. Hell.

I played it anyways. I had waited for something special. It's terrible and now I'm wondering if somewhere, someone else believes he has purchased Hits From the Country Hall of Fame. Is he waiting for the perfect moment to play it--when his wife has gone for the day? He slides the record out from its jacket. He puts it on the player. He walks away, waiting for the plinky tones of "In the Jailhouse Now" and then, it comes out over the speakers--more beautiful than he could have imagined-- Come to me my melancholy baaaaybyyyy. Cuddle up and don't be shyyyyy.... He's got the luck of the gods on his side. And, at my house, it sounds like a lame spaghetti western. Stupid Country Hall of Fame record. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

Shoulda-Woulda-Coulda

2010-08-09T10:42:00.000-07:00

My goddaughter and dearest friend just left and I'm sitting in that swirl of emotion: feeling thrilled and high from having quality time with such beauty, and sadness at their new absence. It's lonely and quiet after so much laughter and joy.

My friend is such a great mama: patient, thoughtful, peaceful.... In one of the stories she was sharing, she mentioned how she doesn't like to have the word "no" used toward her daughter. I had never even thought about that... about the words we choose to use with youth because they're easier and quick. And then, I remember how frustrating it was to be little and have people say "no" to you without taking the time to explain why... to teach you and be in the moment with you. She does that--and it's inspiring!

Her little bugaboo, my goddaughter, really took to my husband. She clung onto him like a little monkey and he was so natural with her. It made me hope my kids like me someday. I don't have that natural motherly vibe. I am awkward and think too much about it. And then I look around our place, watching as she pulls down lighters, glass jars--whatever is within reach and I think, "Oh my goodness... could our place be any less kid-friendly?"

Then I think about all the stuff I should have done: my beautiful friend was so great about taking pictures. I didn't even think about pulling out the camera.... Hello godmother! I should have had a little toy or something for her. My godparents were always so incredible... always present in my life and giving me little things to remind me of their presence.... I should have, I should have, I should have....

I put this pressure on myself that, to be a good mom someday, I'll have to change this and this and this and this.... But, I imagine it is like any new adventure. It will teach you as you go. It will force you to look hard at yourself and adapt. And, in the end, you have to be kind to yourself and breathe and say, you did the best you could in that moment. It's all ok.

After they left this morning, I came back inside and walked around, putting things away and feeling glum. That's when I started thinking of all the things I should have done for my little goddaughter. I didn't even take her picture! And then, I passed by the mirror and saw her little hand in it. It is safe to say that spot won't be cleaned for a little while. It's just too precious and sweet. Thank you little babe, for leaving a bit of your sweetness behind.

Happy Morning to You

2010-08-06T08:58:00.000-07:00

It's cool out this morning. The sun has yet to burn through the haze. There's a mist that hugs your ankles as you walk through the grass and the grass, wet and flimsy, sticks to your toes like cupcake sprinkles. My little hummingbird friend keeps flitting back and forth between the large tree near the window and the hummingbird feeder, chirping all the while. He'll swoop down, pause and stare through the window, his little wings whipping the air, and then plunge his beak down into the feeder. Sometimes when I'm outside watering or trimming plants, I'll hear him come down behind me, his wings mimicking the sound of helicopter blades. I don't even turn around. I smile and know he's dropped in to check out what the weird human lady is doing. We're buddies.

The street sweeper is driving through the neighborhood awkwardly, the huge truck leaning and shaking as it turns corners. The motor and brushes combined sound like a teenager learning to drive stick--rrrrawrr--rrrawrr--rrrawrr--rrrawrr.... There's a guy in a Prius behind him with lights flashing on top of the car. He's a city worker and I think his job is to make sure people don't run into the sweeper but also to give tickets to the poor souls who forgot not to park on the street last night. What a boring job. Maybe the second half of his job is really exciting. Maybe, once he gets done following the sweeper, he gets to play with all the traffic lights from a big computer.

The chickens are already clucking and making noise from their little house. The dogs are laying down outside and, every so often, one will jerk up its head to some sound in the distance. I'd love to see what they'd be like if we lived in the country.

A crow is cawing as it passes overhead. It's a sound that reminds me of Fall. This morning reminds me of Fall and, even though we've just slid in to August, I can feel my old friend coming. She'll be here before we know it. And the mornings will turn cooler, and the leaves will begin to fall and scuttle across the ground in the wind, and we'll turn our hearts and minds to embracing crisp air. We'll huddle in.

As I write this I become more and more aware of the time. Between typing, taking distracted breaks to go outside and trim some plants while the temperature is still gentle, petting the dogs and just taking it all in, the morning has already begun to slip away. She's elusive, isn't she?

Watermelons and Pumpkins and Chickens, Oh My!

2010-07-19T09:31:00.000-07:00

When we first moved into our house, there was a lot of lawn to maintain. The flowerbeds along the front of the house had Japanese boxwood in them and that was about it. Our 90+ year old semi-racist neighbor, "Edie," has told us several times about how the place went to crap when the Mexican family moved in. Before them, there was one other owner--a Jewish family. Edie contends that when the Jewish family lived there, there were over eighty rose bushes lining the property and a beautiful iron fence. When the Mexican family moved in, they tore out all of the rose bushes and cut down the iron fence. As she explains, she spits a little bit and, even though she is the original owner of her house and has lived in Southern California in that house for over fifty years, her New York accent gets really thick--it really bunches her undies. I wonder what race she thinks I am--Italian? Korean? Either way, a discussion on race and racism and just how much cute old wrinkly folks are allowed to get away with is an entirely different blog entry.

Since we moved in, we have made some big changes and it makes me very happy. At first, we nurtured the lawn and tried to keep it green in the extreme heat of Southern California. After that first summer, I convinced my husband to cut out part of the lawn and put in a drought-tolerant flower garden. We went to the nursery and bought a bunch of the little pint-sized plants because that was all we could afford. We spaced them out and hoped they would spread out because, when we first put them in they looked like a bunch of folks waiting at the DMV: all captive in the same space but unwilling to make eye contact or converse. This Spring, they exploded and have filled in wonderfully. This makes me think of one of the things I absolutely love about gardening--it keeps me in constant amazement of nature. What wants to live will fight to live. What wants to grow will damn-well grow. Give it a little love and watch out!

After the drought-tolerant flower garden, our lawn has become smaller and smaller. We've added two garden boxes along the property line of us and our neighbors. In those boxes we have tomatoes, onions, squash and kale. This summer, our neighbor put in his own square garden box in his front yard--he's growing melons! On the other side of the front lawn, we put in an apple tree, a nectarine tree, and yesterday, two more garden boxes. These boxes will be home to watermelons and pumpkins. I want to make fresh pumpkin pies and my husband wants to try his hand at pumpkin ale. And watermelons... well... I could live on watermelon.

I guess I share all of this because I never really imagined us doing all of this to our space. Our back yard houses three renegade chickens who, when the dogs are in the house, wander freely clucking, scratching, eating bugs and pooping like crazy. They eat a lot of the weeds, keep the bases of many plants and trees free from grass and their manure fertilizes the lawn and plants.

We have three garden boxes that are growing more tomatoes, peppers (bell, jalapeno, Anaheim, floral gem, poblano, pepperoncini), banana melon, butternut squash, Swiss chard, cucumber, summer squash, lettuce and broccoli. We have a passion fruit vine, an apricot tree (here when we moved in), an avocado tree, two lemon trees (one in the ground and a Meyer in a little pot), a lime tree (was here when we moved in but near-death), and two orange trees (one in the ground and a blood-orange in a pot on the deck)... what I'm trying to express is that it's become an addiction. It is so rewarding to be able to go outside and pick something from the garden for that evening's meal and to know, exactly, all that has gone in to each plant (no pesticides! lots of organic matter). Right now, I have three surly butternut squashes waiting for their turn to be used in some bread or soup or just as a healthy side to a meal. When I cook, I can go out my front door and pick fresh rosemary, parsley, oregano or mint to use in my dishes. A lot of herbs will grow well in even just a hanging basket (our rosemary is very happy in hers!) It sounds like a lot but our property isn't anything unusual in terms of size. It's just a little house on a little space in a little suburban '50s community.

In October, we will have been here for two years. It has gone so quickly but when I look at all we've done in that small span of time, I am amazed and excited to see how the landscape continues to change as we learn more and as our plants continue to fill in. It is an addiction that has its fair share of lessons too: there's only so much you can do and then nature has to do her thing--let go; take a chance and just do it--the results may surprise you; nature is pretty forgiving--if something isn't working, move it; everything has its place.

"How You Get Unstuck"

2010-07-18T09:35:00.000-07:00

I cannot even do this justice by describing it. You just have to read it yourself. You have to. And then tell me what you think.

DEAR SUGAR, The Rumpus Advice Column # 44: How You Get Unstuck...

Shaktipata

2010-07-15T09:56:00.000-07:00

"When I write, I feel like an armless, legless man with a crayon in his mouth." This is one of my favorite quotes about writing. It's by the great satirist, Kurt Vonnegut. I love it because, number one, that's exactly how I feel when writing and it's nice to know someone so brilliant would describe the process so humbly, and two, it's also how I feel about navigating life.

I just read a post by fellow blogger Sofia Sandoval (http://agirlnamedeve.blogspot.com/). In "Peeling Back the Layers," her latest post, she writes about forgiveness... how in the messiness of relationships and living life we end up with scars and it takes the humble process of peeling back the layers, and letting go, to move past those old wounds. One of my favorite spirit words to ponder on is grace. If I'm honest with myself, I feel that I'm usually pretty quick to forgive. It's the grace part that trips me up. To put it simply, grace, to me, is the mercy or gentleness we offer each other. It's the part after forgiveness where you choose to continue to walk alongside someone, even when they've given you scars.

In "Guru and Divine Grace," from Sacred Journey: Living Purposefully and Dying Gracefully, by Swami Rama (http://www.swamij.com/swami-rama-guru-grace.htm) the relationship between guru and disciple is described. According to Swami Rama, guru is not anything in the physical form. Guru is an energy--a guide that helps to shape us into greater spiritual beings... that leads us to the tap of the Divine Spirit. Swami Rama also explains the Sanskrit word for grace: shaktipata. "Shakti means energy, and pata means bestowing. Shaktipata means 'bestowing the energy' or lighting the lamp. Sometimes shaktipata is translated as 'descent of power.' A power comes from above, of its own, to a vessel that is cleaned, purified, and is prepared to receive it."

Shaktipata is what the guru offers us. "Lighting the lamp," as a definition for "shaktipata" or grace is really powerful because it provides an image for what grace really does. Grace is that moment after wounding (sometimes long after wounding) when we choose to acknowledge that this person who has hurt us acted in the only way he or she knew how in that instant. Furthermore, his or her action was meant to teach us... to move us closer to our true selves.

One of the philosophies in yoga (and Buddhism!) that is very difficult for me to process is an non attachment to things and people. How do you unattach? It sounds ghostly to me--like you're involved in an experience but you're removed and not really participating. But, when I think of non attachment in the context of grace, it makes a little more sense. The challenge is not to attach (to fixate) to the wounding or the scarring or the person who "caused it" but to have the grace to turn on "the lamp" to see that he or she is suffering too... that it is because we have expectations that we are disappointed... and, maybe most importantly, that we needed that injury to move us further spiritually. In life, the experiences we encounter, as well as the people who cross our paths and walk alongside us on them, are our gurus. We need grace to remember that and to learn what we're supposed to learn. And, we need to offer grace and be humble with those who continue to hurt us. We need to continue to ask what we're supposed to be learning. What may be most profound is acknowledging that we cause our own share of scars in peoples' lives... that we're being used to mold others too and that we are in need of grace--even from those who drive us bonkers!

My uncle told me that my grandma (Grandma Songbird) used to say that you should never be afraid of a new adventure. Those emotional and mental scars we carry are evidence of our adventures--of the moments in our lives when we took the chance to let someone in, to try something new, to extend the love, insight, compassion, creativity we have to give. They are evidence of our growth and our challenges. Another one of my favorite things to think on is the idea that we chose all of our struggles before we enlisted on this earthly adventure--we signed up for this! In this case, we are our own gurus. It is all within us--we need each other, however complicated, to access the spiritual wisdom that leads us back home.

Could it Be?

2010-07-12T10:40:00.000-07:00

We have had the most mild summer here in Southern California. It is mid-July and we have yet to turn on our air conditioner. We try not to run it much at all but normally it is a must during summer nights. And yet, the nights are still cool--my hubby and I still play tug-of-war with the blankets during our sleep.

The days are warm--into the high 80s. The fruits and veggies in our garden are becoming ripe. Two days ago I pulled out the remainder of our beets--a few of them were HUGE. We suffer from elephantiasis of the beets. Our summer squash is steady, as are the butternut squash. Our tomatoes are turning red on the vine and I am anxious to pluck them and can some salsa.

My husband and I have frequent conversations about what's next after he finishes his schooling. I told him the other night that I am not tied to this house... that I love it but if life took us elsewhere, that would be ok. And then we both sat quiet for a minute and I said, "Although, it would be really hard to leave our garden and our trees." He surprised me when he said, "I think that would be hardest for me to leave." There is something magical about the relationship between hard work and its tangible rewards, especially in something like a garden. You put in plants and trees and design beds and boxes with a hope that it's all going to work together. And then, when things do bloom and fruit and start looking really pretty--start changing the landscape--it is shocking and breathtaking and exhilarating all together. I've created LIFE!

Whenever I go to my grandma's house, I like to look at the little jars she keeps clustered around her kitchen sink. They're full of new little cuttings from the garden that she's trying to root. I have acquired this hobby and it drives my neat, linear, clean lines, clean spaces husband CRAZY. Most of the things I try to get to root turn into moldy-ended brown sticks floating in water. But, every so often, I get one and then I have a new plant to put in and the pride of knowing it grew from what was already thriving.

About a month ago a friend of mine gave me a lovely bouquet from her garden. In the bouquet were some gorgeous calla lilies. They were mostly green on the outside and then had soft white tips. When the rest of the bouquet began to fade these dearies still looked beautiful. So, I turned them into an experiment. They are sitting in their own little glass jar with just a smidgen of water at the bottom. To me, it looks like they're actually beginning to sprout little roots from the bottom. I did some searching around in my gardening books and on the Internet and nowhere could I find information about being able to start Calla lilies from cuttings. It is almost better that way though... for now, it is truly a mystery and, for now, I have hope that my science experiment may be successful. Be roots! BE ROOTS!

In Love

2010-07-09T20:41:00.000-07:00

Oh my goodness, I'm in love with Colliers Cyclopedia of Social and Commercial Information! Ok, I just stumbled upon this poem titled "Little Breeches," by John Hay (1838-1905). I had to share it:

"Little Breeches"

I don't go much on religion,
I never ain't had no show;
But I've got a middlin' tight grip, sir,
On the handful o' things I know.
I don't pan out on the prophets
And free-will, and that sort of thing,
But I b'lieve in God and the angels,
Ever sence one night last spring.

I come into town with some turnips,
And my little Gabe come along,
No four-year-old in the county
Could beat him for pretty and strong,
Peart and chipper and sassy,
Always ready to swear and fight,
And I'd larnt him to chaw terbacker
Jest to keep his milk-teeth white.

The snow come down like a blanket
As I passed by Taggart's store;
I went in for a jug of molasses
And left the team at the door.
They scared at something and started,
I heard one little squall,
And hell-to-split over the prairie
Went team, Little Breeches, and all.

Hell-to-split over the prairie!
I was almost froze with skeer;
But we rousted up some torches,
And sarched for 'em far and near.
At last we struck hosses and wagon,
Snowed under a soft white mound,
Upsot, dead beat, but of little Gabe
No hide nor hair was found.

And here all hope soured on me,
Of my fellow-critter's aid,
I jest flopped down on my marrow-bones,
Crotch-deep in the snow, and prayed.

By this, the torches was played out,
And me and Isrul Parr
Went off for some wood to a sheepfold
That he said was somewhar thar.

We found it at last, and a little shed
Whar they shut up the lambs at night.
We looked in and seen them huddled thar,
So warm and sleepy and white;
And thar sot Little Breeches and chirped,
As peart as ever you see,
"I want a chaw of terbacker,
And that's what's the matter of me."

How did he git thar? Angels--
He could never have walked in that storm--
They jest scooped down and toted him
To whar it was safe and warm.
And I think that saving a little child,
And bringing him to his own,
Is a derned sight better business
Than loafing around the Throne.

How Do You Like It?

2010-07-09T15:30:00.000-07:00

Sounds naughty, doesn't it? I found this game called "How Do You Like It?" in a book titled Colliers Cyclopedia of Social and Commercial Information, published in 1882! Within the book are several pressed flowers and a receipt from August 14, 1899. The receipt is for the Knights of Pythias Wabash Lodge--a membership receipt. A Mr. J. E. Schofield payed $150.00 for his membership from July 1, 1899 to October 18--. It makes me wonder how old the flowers are. This little book will be a source of great fun for me. I'm sure I will have many a post regarding the insights and knowledge contained in these yellowed pages. For now, I will share with you the rules of the game for "How Do You Like It?", also known--according to the book--as, "How Do You Like It, When Do You Like It, and Where Do You Like It?" Sounds like a different kind of game to me....

Rules of play, as stated in Colliers... :

One player goes out of the room while the others fix upon a word. He then returns and puts to them severally in turn the question, "How do you like it?" and then, having completed the circle, "When do you like it?" and thirdly, in like manner, "Where do you like it?" To each of which questions the other players are bound to return a satisfactory reply.

At the end of these questions, or at any time in the game, the questioner may make a guess at the word, being allowed three guesses in all. If he succeed in guessing rightly, he points out the player from whose answer he got the right clue, who therefore pays a forfeit and takes his place, and the game goes on as before. If he do not succeed in guessing rightly, he himself pays a forfeit and goes out again.

The great secret of the game is to select words that, though pronounced alike (spelling does not matter), have two or more meanings.

For instance, Z goes out, and the word "bow" is chosen. He asks of each, "How do you like it?" A answers "In a good temper" (beau); B, "With long ends" (a bow tied in a ribbon); C, "Very strong" (an archer's bow); and so on, ringing the changes upon three different sorts of bow.

In the next round the players are not bound to adhere to the same meaning they selected before, but may take any meaning they think most likely to puzzle the questioner.

Thus, to the question "When do you like it?" the answers may quite legitimately be as follows: A, "When I am dressing;" B, "When I want exercise;" C, "When I am going to a party." And to the last question, "Where do you like it?" A answers, "Under my chin;" B, "At my feet;" C, "Outside on the lawn."

If there be only thee to be questioned, this would prove hard enough to find out, though "Under the chin" might perhaps give a clue. Z's chance lies in the number of answers that have to be given to the same question and in the short time each has to prepare a satisfactory answer--one that shall satisfy all conditions and yet give no clue to the word.

The whole fun in this game depends entirely upon the wit and spirit of the players. To be seen at its very best it should be played by a part of really clever grown-up people. The contest of wit is then, as Mr. Cyrus Bantam would say, "to say the least of it, re-markable."

Below will be found a few words, taken almost at random, suitable for this game: air-heir, ant-aunt, bow-bough, bow-beau, flour-flower, bale-bail, band, aisle-isle, bar, bill, ball, buoy-boy, bowl, cell-sell, chord-cord, chest, club, corn, drop, gum, draft-draught, knight-night, hair-hare, mail-male, main-mane, pear-pair, fair-fare, sail-sale, rain-rein, tale-tail, note, poll, roll, stole, box, game, etc.

I would actually play this. I think it could lead to many laughs--especially if your friends are like mine and often have their minds in the gutter. Happy parlor-game playing!

Some Enchanted Evening

2010-07-03T16:11:00.000-07:00

I went to an estate sale this morning and found this totally ugly old stereo system... thing. It plays records, 8-tracks and has a little radio. It is easily the ugliest thing in my house. BUT, it works! And, the sound is awesome. One of the 8-tracks I bought with it is the South Pacific (original) soundtrack. My mama raised us on musicals. My sisters and I spent countless afternoons, watching, singing along and performing many a musical. South Pacific has to be one of my favorites. Whenever I see any live theater performance, as soon as the curtain goes up, my heart pounds and my eyes fill with tears. It's an automatic response. (I realize I am, once again, exposing my dorkdom--the well is deep, my friends.) When I even just listen to the soundtrack from South Pacific, the story and characters come to life in my brain. I am one of them. I am dancing and singing and falling in love on this island paradise and washing that man right out of my hair!

When I got the stereo into my house--thanks for the use of your muscles Pa!--I dusted it off and played one of the records I had picked up. I organized the records and 8-tracks in the order that I'd like to listen to them, saving South Pacific for the last. I didn't make it. I knew where it was in the queue, but I couldn't wait. I played two records before I greedily dug the 8-track of my desires out of the pile, popped it in the 8-track slot, and sat back in ecstasy as the show's theme came through the speakers. I tried to make myself busy: I picked up my notebook to get some writing done, but I couldn't concentrate. The show had begun. When one of my favorite songs, Bali Hai, began to play, my eyes filled with tears (again). Damn automatic response! Things like this are always a danger because I have within me a severe escapist mentality. It takes conscious effort to keep my feet pinned in reality. I start thinking about all that my life is not. I do not live in a tree house. I live in a 50s track home in suburbia. My husband doesn't sing to me and look dreamily into my eyes. He's a gargantuan giant, a six foot five man's man who can only take so much of Frank Sinatra or Perry Como or Dean Martin before he starts convulsing. I cannot step out my door and run out for a swim in the warm ocean. I can, however, step out into browning grass and hot mounds of dog poop. This is what my brain does. It is totally irrational and negative and ungrateful. I know. But, thankfully, there are things in Diana's life that always manage to slap her across the face and bring her back down. By now, as I'm following the poor-me thoughts in my mind and wondering why life can't be like a musical (can you imagine the D.M.V.?!) the sickeningly romantic song (which I also love, by the way--surprise, surprise) "Some Enchanted Evening" begins to play. I'm back on stage. This beautiful man is singing to me. And, as if on cue, my big 145 pound dog, Furio, comes tearing around the corner in search of me. For those of you who are well-acquainted with Furio, you know the poor fellow never wants for saliva. In the chance encounters you have when you don't get slobbered, you know it is only a matter of time before the slime finds you.

Furio races around the corner, he sees me, my eyes full of tears. He runs at me like a freight train with failed brakes. His mouth smashes into my face. He licks from the tip of my chin to the top of my forehead and lays down in front of me, relaxed and content. My face is glistening from his stinky saliva, my eyes are still teary but more from the stench of his breath, and a laugh is vibrating in my throat.

So my life isn't a musical. There's still those enchanted moments. Thanks Furio. Next scene, less slobber.

Some enchanted evening, when you find your true love, when you feel her call you across a crowded room, then fly to her side and make her your own, or all through your life you may dream all alone....

Pictured: Kalea, a born music lover and Furio, practicing his dreamy eyes.

I Will Not Touch Your Pee Pee

2010-07-02T11:53:00.000-07:00

Last night I was inspired by an "Art Walk" downtown. My dear friends and I meandered through hallways of old buildings, the walls painted with such vibrant colors it felt as if they were breathing--like we were walking through the lungs of some giant. Artists' studios were crammed with stereos, paints, bottles of wine, and their work. I want a studio.

The night began with an amazing performance by a pair of dancers from the Collage Dance Theatre. This group performs dances all over and incorporates the location and architecture into their performances. This couple started out in their own little window boxes in front of the new arts center. Their dance seemed to tell a love story--attraction, connection, separation, reunion... it was beautiful and mesmerizing and the female dancer had the most gorgeous little legs and butt. It made me think I should have kept dancing. Ohh if we could go back and erase our twelve-year-old fickleness....

After the performance we went into the museum of photography and investigated the new exhibit. As we were leaving that, a group of young dudes sitting on the ground near the door asked us how the photo exhibit was. "It's pretty cool," I replied. Then one of them said, "Your picture should be in it." This still makes me smile. Someday, when I'm old and wrinkled and wearing clothes that don't match (I write it like my clothes match now), I'll miss hearing silly flirtations like that. My ego jumps up, alert, "What? What's that you say? You think I'm... pretty? Naw... stop... How pretty?" I said something silly to deflect the young lad's flirtation and we went on our way. This got me thinking though; where in us is that desire to flirt? My girlfriends and I have had several conversations about guys who catcall or whistle. What do they think will happen? Somewhere, deep down, do they hope their lives will turn into a porno plot? We will have never heard such fine, desirable whistling, our panties will fall about our ankles and we'll run to them, desperate to be had? As fun as it can be to pick on the opposite sex, I don't think that's it. Girls do it too. We all flirt. Is it done with a hope something will result from it, or is it more about how we feel when someone flirts back? Is it more about knowing we could have it if we really wanted?

I did a quick search on the Internet on flirting rituals. I wanted to know how flirting differs across cultures. What came up were a lot of articles about how to flirt. This amused me even more. What about those people who don't know how to flirt? Is it something we learn or is it something we're born with? Is flirting a talent? A skill? Is there a gene for it? I remember when I was working at a kids camp one summer. I was about twenty-two and we were leading a pack of kids up Diamond Head on Oahu. It's a steady uphill walk but certainly not treacherous. One of the twelve year olds said something like, "Hey Miss Diana, will you hold my hand, I'm scared." When I looked back at him his eyes were glittering and he had the most accomplished smile spread across his face. His buddies were staring and him and at me, in awe of his gravitas. I was thinking, Where in the hell did he pick that up? Did he see dad flirt? Does the kids watch too much MTV? Or is it just in us?

It, in my opinion, all comes down to this: girls want to be set apart. We want to know we're special... that someone has picked us out from the crowd... no one compares with us. Guys, on the other hand, want us to touch their pee pee. I'm not picking on anybody here. I think it's just that simple. Girls want a story. Guys want an experience.

The dance performance from the art walk ended with the guy running over to the girl's window box. He coaxes her out, and lifts her up and places her, gently, on top of the window box. She is looking out over the world, taking in the scene, and the audience can tell that she is struggling internally to understand it all. Who is she in the context of this story and this place? The guy goes back inside the box and places his hands up to the "ceiling" as if holding her up. His eyes are turned upward. The girl gets her story. The music ends before we get to see if he gets what he wants. If I hold her up long enough, she will eventually touch my pee pee.

The Twilight Zone

2010-05-16T15:30:00.001-07:00

"Efficient" is probably one of the last adjectives I'd use to describe myself. In fact, one may consider my penchant for passing time meandering an art.

Side note--this family of maybe six just passed on the sidewalk and my first thought was, Who are all those white people? Isn't that an odd first thought?

Today, however, was one of those freak days, where I get a million things that I love to do done, and I still have ample daylight left to play. We woke up early--well, for me and for a weekend--this morning because one of our chickens was having a fit, clucking and cawing and making all sorts of raucous. I have no idea what her problem was but, as soon as I got out of bed and opened the door to the back, she stopped. I couldn't fall asleep again so I got up, put on the coffee and began making some orange bread muffins. Sometimes I just have to make stuff--food, embroidery...thingies, floral arrangements, blankets for one-legged homeless circus performers-- and this weekend was one of those weekends. Yesterday I made a batch of loquat jam. Today, after the orange bread muffins I went on to make lemon spelt bread and then beet hummus. I mowed the lawn, tended the garden, cleaned out the chicken coop, refilled the bird feeders. It's only about half-past three and I still have time for yoga and to make dinner. Before that, I might go lay out in the sun and read. I love it, but what the heck?! How is it possible I got all that fun stuff done? I feel weird, like I'm going to hear Rod Serling's voice any minute: "Diana thought she had actually figured out how to manage her time. What she didn't know was that she had entered another dimension...."

Ahhh, well... I'll take what I can get.

Life Places

2010-05-09T19:18:00.000-07:00

Last night my hubby and I went out to dinner a few towns away. As we headed out of our city I could feel myself breathing easier--sometimes you just need to get away and feel the curve of different streets.

When we got to the restaurant, we were seated in this narrow little corner--they had stuck two small tables right into it. We were there for a little while, enjoying a drink and chatting, when another couple was seated right next to us. We were so close, it was awkward to pretend not to hear each other's conversations. As my husband and I pretended not to be listening to their date, we found ourselves making eye contact and stifling smiles. You could tell from their conversations about their respective families and which desserts were their favorites that they were early on in their dating relationship. It was cute. What made it cuter was that they were totally nerdy. I think they were both grad students and the young fellow was going into great detail explaining his last project and how he filled five moving boxes with samples in preparation for the new project coming up. She was interested and "oohing" and "uh-huhing" at all the right spots... I felt old. My honey and I are coming up on five years of marriage. I remember those early conversations of getting to know each other and finding out about each other's interests and dreams and families and favorite desserts.

I wondered if they were listening to our conversation and, if they were (which really, a person would have to be near-deaf to not hear, we were that close) what they thought about us, the married couple next to them. Were they thinking we were cute and they couldn't wait to be there someday? Were they wondering if they were going to end up married to each other? Or, were they thinking what I was thinking when a group of young couples were seated across the room from us, big strollers and diaper bags in tow, dark circles cupping the undersides of their eyes: I am so not ready for that.

Happy Mother's Day to the mamas in my life. I am in awe of you.

Murder

2010-04-28T20:34:00.000-07:00

So it's been a little while... I've needed thinking and pondering space and haven't known what to say. My brain power has been devoted to the many thoughts wiggling around in my noggin. This may not be profound or represent all the things I've been thinking about, but I have to get it off my chest: I can't kill anything. I guess most folks would consider this a positive quality. I know my husband rests easier at night. But, for me, it can be torture.

A couple of weekends ago, my grandmother divided some of her beautiful Irises for me so that I could plant some in my garden. This was so special and exciting for me because I adore my grandma and now I have more plants that came from her plants. Anyways, as I was unloading my Irises I found three snails that had crept in between the spikes of green stalks. I pulled them off, set them out on the concrete and went about my business. I put them on the concrete hoping some smart birds would see them and nab them and then I could rest easy knowing that they contributed to the circle of life and, for the most part, I had nothing to do with it. Unfortunately, they didn't get nabbed and they were heading toward my garden boxes. The other day, I witnessed my friend pull a huge--HUGE--white glisteny grub from her garden box. She laid it out on the ground and, with a mighty stomp, splattered its black guts across the earth. It looked like elves had set off a grenade, there was so much carnage. She commented on how juicy they are and how their... juice... is black because they eat mostly the rotting goop off of the roots of plants and then she went back to her box. I watched her with envy and awe. I could not have killed that little bugger. When I find them, I--again--throw them out onto the grass for nature (the birds) to do what they will. This brings me back to the snails. I couldn't just let them get into my garden boxes because I have all these neat baby plants in them that I and my husband want to eat. But, they are snails and they like to eat neat baby plants. So, I decided to do the next best thing: feed them to my chickens. I picked one snail up, walked him over to the coop, and set him on a cinder block so the girls could see him. My brave, bold, leader-of-the-pack hen eye-balled him for a second and then plunged her beak through his shell. Victory! I walked back to get the second snail and, when I grabbed him I realized that the third had already escaped--he was no where to be found. Oh well, I thought, he'll turn up again. I dutifully walked snail number two over to the coop, laid him on the cinder block and watched as the other two (less bold) chickens watched him. One pecked at him but instead of killing him, she knocked him into the open space in the cinder block. Now he was protected by a narrow concrete fortress. Oh man... that's not cool... now I have set him up for torture. He's going to find his way out and then find death. Damn....

So, this morning, I'm out feeding the dogs, letting the chickens out to roam and I spy a little snail gliding across the concrete. Is it the renegade runaway snail? Or is it the cinder block escapee? I pick him up and notice he has a hole in his shell. It could be the cinder block fugitive but maybe the birds got to the Houdini snail and now he's roaming around again. I walk him toward the coop and as I walk him, his little head and cute little antennae wiggle around and I swear I can hear him saying, "Hey, why are you doing this? I'm just a cute little baby snail--I don't want to die!" I feel the good ol' Catholic guilt begin to gurgle in my stomach. I start to rationalize: He's just a snail Diana. The chickens will love it. It's nature's way. Yeah. Nature's way. Right. I breathe through the guilt. I can't just let the snail have free reign of the yard. What will the other snails think? I'm not running a snail sanctuary here for God's sake. I put him on the cinder block. I watch. And... he falls in the hole! Oh. My. God. If this is the Houdini snail I feel a little bad, but if this is the cinder block escapee from the other day I feel really really bad. Is he looking at his life and thinking, "How did I get here again?" Is he confused because that big crazy human lady keeps trying to kill him? Did he land on his back and now he'll never get out and starve (which seems more miserable than I can fathom)? Did he slime his way all the way to the top only to be attacked by a hungry chicken beast? All day, I felt badly about the treatment I gave the damn snail. I'm sorry snail.

It's not just snails I can't kill. I can't kill spiders--they make those amazing webs--even the poisonous black widows! The other day, a kid in my class noticed a spider on our wall. He pointed it out and some kids squealed and before I could even move or yell "Don't kill it!" this ninja of a girl took her shoe off, flew across the room--as ninjas tend to do--and slammed the sole of her shoe against the wall. Happy trials spider. I can't kill moths or bees or even cockroaches (I hate them will all my might but I can't stand the crunch). I can kill flies but, I mean, c'mon they eat poop. That's just really gross. When I pass roadkill I genuinely feel sad for whatever little creature that had once been. It was a living thing! It was a breathing, eating, shitting, sleeping, warm (or cold-blooded yet therefore desiring warmth) living thing. Sometimes I believe that maybe there really truly is reincarnation. For some reason, this brings me comfort because then that little spider or snail or roadkill will be reborn, hopefully, into a better life. But a lot of the time, I don't have solid confidence in what may be after death. And, even if there is reincarnation, I sure don't want to die... not ever, really. I guess I don't like how fast we move. Things are born and things die but the space between those two significant journey changers should be brilliant. Sometimes, when I open myself to believing there's a god, I imagine him crouched down over the little creatures. He picks up a little shell-cracked snail and runs his thumb over it. The shell heals and he whispers, "I'm sorry you had to go through that. You were a grand snail."

Yes, They're Real, and Yes, You Can Touch Them

2010-04-10T10:33:00.001-07:00

Yesterday I went to the hospital to pick my husband up from work and, as I was walking up toward the entrance there was an older gentleman (early sixties) sitting on a bench talking on his cell. Before he saw me approach he was saying, "And she had this titty (how do you even spell titty? Tittie? Tittee?) shirt on that said--". Then he saw me and started stuttering on the phone, "Uh... uh... uh... it said, uh...". This is the point in the story where my husband asks me, "Oh, did he stop because he was checking you out?" Bless you dear, but no. He was clearly embarrassed and didn't want me to hear his dirty-old-man conversation because, after I had passed, his voice got lower and he finished his description, "... the shirt said, 'Yes they're real and yes, you can touch them,'" and then he giggled like a sad little man who needs to get laid. God bless America. We all have to get our thrills, I guess.

That leads me to our trip to a bar following the hospital. We went to this nice pizza-sports bar place and there was this group of about four guys in their mid-thirties, with one older guy in his seventies maybe. The big front windows of the place are covered with a mesh type of fabric that, we later realized, the patrons inside could see out of but the people on the walkway outside could not see in. The guys had their positions and, whenever a girl walked by, they would all turn and stare and drool. One woman, in particular, had their undivided interest because she had a very low cut tank top and was fairly top-heavy. The men could not control themselves, grandpa included--they were like dogs panting and crawling over each other to get a better look. I haven't seen a more laughable display of male hormones at work since junior high gym class. It made me grateful to be married and have my titty shirts packed away safely until I reach my cougar years. Listen guys, have a little self respect.

This, oddly, brings me to my garden. Yesterday I spent some time with my grandma, a genuine master gardener. Gardening is in her blood. Her flowers are going crazy and her roses have always been incredible. When I got to her house she had arranged some roses in a vase on her dining room table. There were these huge red ones that were so dark and vibrant, they looked like those big fake velvet roses you can get at a liquor store around Valentines day. Someday, in many ways I hope, I will be like my grandma. This morning I went out and surveyed my own fledgling garden. My roses, though not as impressive as grandma's, are also in bloom. My close friends who love to garden are much more into vegetables because they serve a practical purpose. I can understand that and I grow my own edibles as well, but my heart really beats for the blooms. Unfortunately, I am not much of a photographer. However, I think you can still see they're purty. Yes, they're real.

Trying to Find It

2010-04-08T18:00:00.000-07:00

I just returned from an adventure-filled escape with my dear friend. We intended to visit a place called the Homestead Museum which is about twenty minutes from us. We had high hopes for the ol' Homestead but, I think we both became distracted by good conversation and intimate silence sharing, and we ended up in Los Angeles (only about an hour beyond our intended destination). So, we weren't where we had planned--it was a beautiful sunny 80+ degree day, blue blue blue blue blue sky, thanks to the Santa Ana winds, and we had all the time in the world to just play. We drove around L.A. for a little while, just taking in the scenery: little markets of all cultures and colors, warehouses and ice cream peddlers, people walking along the street with their babbling kids.... It was a day to be out and soaking up life!

We eventually made our way back to the freeway and into Claremont to check out a botanical garden. Even though I had vowed to be a more diligent navigator, we managed to pass that up too. Luckily, we didn't get too far off course and, on our re-routing, we found two awesome little trailer parks. I don't know what it is about them that fascinates me, but they call to me. I think it is the simplicity of those little communities, tucked away. When I see them there's a little voice within that says, "I could live there." Now, I also think it comes down to choice. If I were forced to live there I would probably not feel or hear that sweet little voice. But, if at some point I chose to live simpler, I think I could do so in one of those little parks.

We drove through at about two miles per hour and saw smile-smeared boys jumping and screaming at the little community pool. Most of the homes, honestly, had nicer "yards" than mine: bougainvillea vines, purple and clamoring up the sides of double-wides. Several of the homes had beautiful little bird cages with Cockatiels and Parakeets in them. There were roses and jasmine and geranium and herb-filled pots, hanging and tucked around the doorways. One young girl emerged from one of the mobile homes and she smiled at us and I can say that the look on her face was one of contentment. It's one of those things that when you start looking for it, you see it everywhere. Like, when you buy a new car--even if it's used but new to you--you start to notice those car brothers and sisters on the road everywhere. I'm looking for contentment, and her smile was unmistakable.

After the trailer parks we made it to the botanical gardens and walked, a lot of the time in silent awe, at the beauty of the day. We were surrounded by ancient, deep breathing trees, heavenly waves of sage on the breeze and the chirping of bright happy birds. Squirrels and lizards scurried around near our feet as we passed. We even crossed paths with a black shiny snake. (I'll admit it, I squealed like a friggin' wiener.) We sat underneath a huge oak tree, it's branches gnarled and stretching like it was reaching for the edges of the world. Little tiny caterpillars glided down as we sat and snacked and we watched, transfixed, as they tried to make their way up again on invisible threads.

It was a gorgeous, peaceful day. It was such a welcome contrast to the discomfort I feel sitting in my own skin lately. I know it is a transition thing, but I'm getting real tired of it. Contentment, like peace and love and, I imagine, the meaning of life, all have to be pretty simple. I have a feeling we're missing the forest for the trees. At the end of it all, we're going to look back and smack ourselves in the forehead and say, "That was it? It was there all the time!" I'm praying I see it before I get to the end of it all.

Fat Man Sunbathing

2010-03-30T11:38:00.001-07:00

This just makes me happy so I have to share. The other day I dug into Julia Child's cookbook (feels cliche with the Julia and Julia movie but I can't just avoid the master) and cooked a roast chicken. Julia and her love of butter is no joke! I buttered the inside of the chicken, buttered the outside of the chicken, buttered the pan to brown the skin, re buttered the pan to soften some carrots and onions and then put more butter in the baking dish to baste the chicken with. However, the chicken was the best chicken I have ever, ever, ever had. It was flavorful and tender and--damn girl!--good. As I was browning the chicken I took this picture. It made me laugh because--you're a bad person Diana!--to me, the chicken looked like a fat man sunbathing. Who's with me?

I Think Einstein and I Would Have Been Great Friends

2010-03-22T10:59:00.000-07:00

Here's a quote from my pal Albert: "Everybody is a genius. But, if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will spend its whole life believing that it is stupid."

This gives me hope.

The Journey

2010-03-21T13:53:00.001-07:00

I am finally feeling better. I went for a quick jog this morning and, while my body felt heavy and even off-kilter--like I was apart from it--it felt good to work up some heat and fall into the rhythm of my footsteps. It's interesting how aware you are of your health when it's not up to par. All the other days, you just take it as normal. I am grateful for a body that, most of the time, is pretty darn healthy.

This week I had the opportunity to interview a woman who has had a hell of a ride in life. As a young person, she witnessed the murder of her mother. She was passed around from foster family to foster family until finally, at the age of seventeen, her foster mom abandoned the family--just took off. Considering all of that, she did pretty well until after the birth of her fourth child, when she became addicted to speed. She ended up losing everything, including her four children, and found herself at a community homeless shelter. She said, "There is this sinking feeling when you arrive at the shelter. It's humiliating. It's like--how did I get here?" She said that if she could say anything to people who are judgemental of homelessness and drug addiction she would tell them to be more open minded. She smiled and said, "I used to be one of those people! And if I can do all this... if this can happen to little me, it can happen to anyone."

I don't doubt her. Since meeting with her, her words and story have been on my mind. How do I judge other people? What do those moments, when I put myself above someone else, look like in my life? Why do we judge? I just keep thinking about her and her humility and beautiful smile and courage. She ended up kicking her drug addiction--I cannot even fathom how difficult that must have been-- getting her own little place, and, finally, getting her children back. Even through these amazing accomplishments, she still faces hardship. In December, her electricity got shut off because she was short on money. Also in December, just before Christmas, her--now--fiancee and the father of her youngest two children was picked up just outside of her house and then deported. Her van that helped her get to her two jobs (one with the school district and the other a graveyard shift for the nonprofit that runs the shelter) got wrecked and she was back to taking the bus. I would like to think I would handle the same journey with such humility and grace. I suspect, however, you'd find me most afternoons screaming and banging my head against the wall.

As she was telling me all of this, she read the shock in my face and smiled. She said, "You know, I believe that everything that happens to me is because I need to learn something."

I have this philosophy about life: we're like ants. Sometimes ants get stepped on and I imagine they look at their smooshed comrades and point to the sky and cry, "Why God? They were good ants. Why them?" And, I think maybe it's not a god or something dictating who gets squashed. There's maybe just bigger spiritual and physical forces at work that are so large, our systems cannot even detect them. When I think about the amazing woman I got to speak with this week, I want to be like the ants in my philosophy and point to the sky and shout, "Why God? Why such a hard life for her? She's so beautiful!" But, then I wonder if maybe it is the journey that has made her so beautiful. Maybe the point is to be grateful for the journey, whatever the rocks in the road may be.

T.M.I.?

2010-03-15T20:42:00.001-07:00

Just wrapped up yoga and used my little neti pot and, for the first time in a few days, I can breathe without having to blow my nose first. I still have my little cold and my nostrils are raw from constantly wiping my nose. I feel a bit tired but, other than that, I am feeling tough! I love the neti pot. Last time I used it the water was too cold and it felt like my old swimming days when water shoots up your nose. My heart rate even got faster and I had to consciously calm myself. You're not drowning Diana. You're choosing to pour water through your sinuses. You'll heat the water longer next time. It's such an odd sensation--you can feel the water gliding through one side to the other. A few months ago we redid our main bathroom. My husband is a behemoth of a man so he made the sink higher than "normal." To comfortably use it I have to stand on my toes a little bit. It's not freakishly tall--it's just noticeably high for a short person. When I use my neti pot I want to watch myself anyways because it's kind of fascinating to watch what comes out. It's got a similar satisfaction to popping a deep, well-cooked zit. Sometimes it's clear and sometimes weird stuff comes out. However, when I am in the new bathroom and I try to watch the mirror is higher up too so I inadvertently tilt my head too far back and water goes down my throat. I've learned to neti blind. Now my sinuses don't feel so raw and I can suck in oxygen so much easier. I'm hoping I'm nearing the "healed" point. Being sick is lame lame lame!

P.S. The picture is of my neti pot. I like to call her Velma--she's a beast! Excuse the crumbs on the counter and the less-than-white grout. I'm just a little person.

Delight

2010-03-12T16:14:00.000-08:00

What is it about reggae that just makes ya smile? Whenever I hear reggae, my pulse slows, I begin to sway, and I can almost totally release myself into my imagination: I’m under the hot sun, on the beach somewhere tropical. There’s a cold sweaty beer in my hand and I’m dancing and smiling and not worried about a thing. In fact, “worry” may not even be in my vocabulary.

I’m sitting here with my throat sore and scratchy, my eyes red and itchy, my nose runny and congested at the same time, and I’m swaying to “Going Downtown,” by Gregory Isaacs. Thank you reggae, for the smile I’m wearing right now.

I’m hoping I’m experiencing these symptoms of illness because my body is detoxing. The other morning—when I had my discipline day—I did a lot of twists and detoxifying asanas. I felt great throughout the day but the next morning, all the symptoms had hit in one fell swoop—didn’t even see it coming!

I’m still at work and going to be here until around nine. My students are putting on a poetry reading/battle of the bands show and I am the faculty advisor for their club, the Literary Magazine Club. I know, I’ve always been one of the cool kids. It’s right up there with the Anime Club. Actually, I love these kids. They’re all the cool artsy emotional deep thinkers. I wish I would have known where kids like them hung out when I was in high school. I didn’t feel like I fit in with anybody and I didn’t meet folks that seemed “like me” until college.

Last year when the kids put on a show, one of the girls got up and dedicated her performance to her ex-boyfriend, another student in the crowd. The ex-boyfriend’s parents were also in the crowd and I remember looking over at them as she was giving her shout-out and dad said, “Oh shit,” and turned off the video camera. What followed was one of the most desperate exhibits of teenage heartache that I have ever, ever, EVER witnessed. She sang, a cappella, U2’s “With or Without You.” Girlfriend was feeling it but, oh lord, singing was NOT her dharma—bless her broken heart. While she was screeching through the song, her little sister—who had raced in from cheer practice to help with the performance—provided an interpretive dance in the background. It was composed of many leaps, time spent rolling on the floor, and head grabbing. When big sister got to the lyrics, “And you give yourself away…,” little sister would thrust her arms from her chest and reach out to an invisible person while leaning and looking longingly to the side of the stage. The end of the number was met with awkward claps. Little sister walked off the stage oblivious and totally pleased with her performance. Big sister was met with hugs from her friends and they left in a jaded-girl clump. Alas, I was the only other adult besides the parents of ex-boyfriend. I could share my delighted horror with no one.

Needless to say, I’m curious to see what tonight brings. Until then, I’ll be swaying to my reggae, wiping my nose, and embracing my imagined place beside the sea.

Good Morning!

2010-03-10T05:46:00.000-08:00

Just finished yoga this morning and the coffee's brewing! After last night's post I thought why not actually try out what you envision as a disciplined day? So, I set my alarm for four a.m. I woke up at about ten minutes before the alarm was supposed to sound and lay there, looking out at the dark blue of the sky, allowing my body to embrace the idea of getting out of the warm bed. But, once I got up, I felt pretty darn good. Yoga was invigorating but peaceful in the quiet of the early morning. Now, I'm going to go feed the dogs, make some breakfast and a juice, and get ready for work. When I think about what the busyness of the day will bring, my heart sinks a little bit and my mind starts to chatter with worry. Why worry, right? Who knows what the day will bring? You only have right now Diana and right now is lovely. Live here.

Breathe.

Good morning!

Discipline

2010-03-09T19:30:00.001-08:00

How does nearly a week go by between posts? Good golly time is slick! The other day I escaped to the beach with a dear friend of mine. There is something about the music of the sea that is spiritually calming and reassuring. It makes me feel like I am a part of something beyond imagination and not some lost little crazy person. It was a beautiful, perfect escape and I couldn't have been more grateful for the fine company, conversation and sharing of silence throughout the day.

Just finished yoga for the evening and thought to myself, "Why don't I do this every single day?" It is so good for me. When I envision true discipline for myself I imagine waking up early--maybe at four in the morning, doing my yoga, making a great breakfast and enjoying some coffee--perhaps getting some writing in, and then getting ready for work. When I get home from work, I go for a run, get some more writing in, cook and enjoy dinner and then read for a little while before bed. Unfortunately, that is nowhere near my current daily routine.

My alarm goes off and I hit it, exhausted, squeezing in a few more minutes of sleep. I get up, get the coffee started, feed and pet the dogs, come in and pour coffee in my travel mug and then take a shower. I'm sleepy and can't find anything that goes together for an outfit (even though I have plenty of clothes--they just happened to be "organized" on the floor). When I finally find something I'm starting to run on the late side of time so I rush back to the bathroom, throw on some make-up, pull my hair back into a ponytail, run to the kitchen, throw a hodgepodge of things together for a lunch--fruit, maybe a peanut butter and jelly sandwich-- refill the coffee, grab a protein shake and then jet out the door. Coffee becomes breakfast although sometimes I'll actually drink the protein shake. As it now stands, I have a few of them collected on my desk. When I get home, if there's enough sunlight I'll go for a run. Otherwise, I roll out the yoga mat. Often, neither happens and I just start making dinner--however, I don't want to diminish dinner making. I really enjoy cooking. It is meditative for me. I maybe pour a little wine, put on some music, and get to chopping and slicing and stirring and smelling the elements of the meal swirl together in a dance above the pot. After a late dinner, we usually read together or watch some television and hang out with the dogs. Then I write or read as I'm heading to bed and end up laying in bed, my eyes growing heavy and my head jolting up as I fight sleep to just squeeze in a little more....

It's just a cycle I need to commit to breaking. But when I really think of waking up at four in the morning... I don't wanna! Damn. Damn.

P.S. You know you're a nerd when you click the spell-check button and it says "no misspellings found," and you sit up a little taller and look around the room, a smirk on your face, wondering if anyone else saw that. No one is here right now and I did it anyways. I might as well get it out in the open. I love Star Trek too. Damn.

Uh... Abraham

2010-03-02T20:00:00.000-08:00

A musician must make music, an artist must paint, a poet must write, if he is to be ultimately at peace with himself. What one can be, one must be.-- Abraham Maslow

Having trouble with this tonight. My buddy Abraham makes it sound so simple, doesn't he?

So Much Bigger

2010-03-01T19:24:00.000-08:00

Did some challenging balancing poses for yoga tonight while trying to maintain a meditative mindset. There are several phases I seem to go through whenever doing anything truly challenging. First, my mind gets busy with the chatter of the day: things I should have done, things I have to do still, what I'll cook for dinner, I need to start some laundry.... It goes and goes and interspersed with those thoughts is my own voice saying, "Be quiet brain--gosh!" Second phase is the whining. "This is really hard. Breathe. She's going to make us do this again, isn't she? Damn. Why everything twice? Three times? You've got to be kidding! OK--breathe. Focus. Again?!?!" Then, finally, when I really let go into my breathing my mind gradually becomes more quiet. I feel pain and my muscles are shaking but I'm focused on my breathing so the pain feels distant. The repetition of a challenging pose goes from being annoying to an exciting challenge. "Good! Let's see if I can get to that place again!" The most beautiful part is the end in shavasana. Mind is quiet, body is electrified and somewhere deep within is that little voice that's growing louder, stronger and more confident every day: "See? You're so much bigger than all of this."

Live Unafraid

2010-03-01T08:22:00.000-08:00

What is this chasing dreams thing? Steven Pressfield’s The War of Art contends that it is the thing we’re most afraid of that we’re called to do. I was talking to my sister this weekend and she poses nude for an art studio. She said that there’s a new sculptor there, a middle-aged woman, who has just started attending. She said that this woman told her, “I finally feel like I found what I’m supposed to be doing…. When I come here I stay at a nice bed and breakfast but, I’d sleep in my car to do this.” Hearing that made my heart swell. God I want to feel that way about something. Stories like that rejuvenate my hope that it can be real. I think I would sleep in my car to garden or cook, but I don’t know if they’re my calling. No matter where I’m at I’ll do that stuff but it doesn’t require enough of me. When I read really good writing, it makes my heart pound and ache at the same time. It steals my breath. I love writing. I love the art of it. And, I am so flipping scared of it. This is why, when I look at schools to become a naturopathic doctor or look into the salaries of careers in agriculture, somewhere deep inside of me there’s a little voice urging, this isn’t it! You know what you should be doing. Quit stalling!!! Ohhhh chasing dreams. A friend of mine sent me a link to an article from The Guardian, “Ten Rules for Writing Fiction.” In his email he said, “Print it out, put it on the walls of your house. Look at it daily. Live unafraid, my friend!” Live unafraid. Maybe that is the real dream.

Honey Gingernuts

2010-02-27T19:49:00.000-08:00

Today was rainy and gray but beautiful. Woke up and the sun was out, shining through the rain, and there was this huge rainbow in the distance. Whenever I see a rainbow I think of two things: beautiful blessed Hawaii--the land of rainbows-- and the story of Noah's Ark. I remember first discussing it with my devout Catholic Mama. My mom always seemed to like that story. She seemed moved by God's promise never to drown the shit out of humanity again. I always felt a little queasy--like when a relative gets too drunk at a party, acts stupid and apologizes for it later. You might forgive him or her, but when he or she picks up a fourth beer at the next family function, your stomach does a flip. I think that's when a fear the big man in the sky began to creep in.

The day turned into a perfectly lazy day. I stayed in and baked cookies and... I don't know what else I did. Where did the day go? I did some embroidery--I'm working on some little curtains for the kitchen. But, other than baking and embroidery, I don't know where my day went. While baking I did finally dig into one of my old cookbooks. I have this fascination with old cookbooks. The best are any from before the 1950s. They are such a wonderful slice of culture in their respective time periods. For example, today I was using The American Woman's Cookbook, from 1940. Toward the beginning it has a picture of this young woman with perfectly curled hair, dark lipstick, and a beautiful dress with ruffles and slightly puffed sleeves. She's using a Sunbeam Mixmaster and pouring in some flour or sugar while the "Mixmaster" does the hard work. The caption for the picture says, "The machine beats time as well as batter while you supply the brain that makes the cake." It has a section on table setting and service with a sub-section devoted to monogramming. "The pattern or design of the cloth and napkins and the type, design, and size of the monograms embroidered on them should make a perfect unity. For table-cloths, the size of the monogram should be from two and one-half to five inches. For dinner napkins from one to two inches. For luncheon and breakfast napkins and doilies, from three-quarters of an inch to an inch an a half." Are you paying attention? I don't know about you, but I am officially ashamed at the lack of professional monogramming on my table linens. There's more on the subject, but I'll leave you wondering.

I have started a humble collection of these cookbooks but haven't had much time to dig through them and just play. Today, I finally had some time and the weather was perfect for cooking so I found a cookie recipe for "Honey Gingernuts." (Go ahead--I snicker when I read the name too.)The dough actually tasted really good, but when it came to baking them, it didn't work out so well. I realized that our modern cookbooks really hold our hands. The directions for the recipe are as follows:

Mix honey, sugar, melted shortening and beaten egg. Add chopped nuts, then baking-powder and ginger sifted with one cup of flour. Add more flour to make a batter of the right consistency to drop from a spoon on to a greased pan. Bake in a moderate oven (375-400 degrees F).

That's it. How long do you bake it for? What do you mean, add more flour to make a batter of the right consistency...? The first batch I made turned into a solid gooey mass on the cookie sheet that was burned all around the edges. The second batch was better, but the cookies were still a gooey mess and nearly touching. With each batch I added more and more flour. In the end, I ended up with about a dozen cookies that are still probably too gooey and chewy, but they managed not to burn and not to turn into amoebas on the pan. How did women do it back then? I needed more direction. On the flip side, however, it was probably really good for me. So they didn't turn out perfectly. If that's the low point in my day (which it really wasn't because I was having a blast experimenting) I'm pretty damn lucky.

So, here's to rainbows and emotionally unstable gods, and vague old cookbooks!

The Gospel of Leon

2010-02-18T18:52:00.000-08:00

So I had to write one more time today because I couldn't leave it on a negative. Something that kept reverberating in my mind this afternoon, as I was thinking about my ticket and whatever else ambled in and out of my mind, was Ahimsa. I started wondering what Ahimsa looks like in a situation like this. There is nothing I can do about the ticket. But it felt really great to let off some steam about it. Is this violence because I'm releasing negative thoughts/frustrations/anger? I used to just try and bury things because I think, my deeper wisdom knew it didn't create any more good in the world to go punch a wall or tell someone off or whatever. But, that wasn't a healthy balance because then I got walked on a lot and felt even more resentment and, in reality, it wasn't anyone else's fault but my own. I should have been better at honoring myself. So, how do you deal with the negative stuff without just burying it and pretending "it's no big deal"?

I'm reading this amazing little book by Steven Pressfield called The War of Art. It is convicting and inspiring and engrossing--I am grateful for having stumbled upon it. He talks about the power of resistance and how it is an energy that works against us in our pursuit of the things we're supposed to do. I guess maybe you could say it works in direct opposition to your dharma (your life calling--I just learned that today so I'm going to use it like a good yogi and pretend I've known all along. Thanks for humoring me). One of his passages reads as follows: "Like a magnetized needle floating on a surface of oil, Resistance will unfailingly point to true North--meaning that calling or action it most wants to stop us from doing. We can use this. We can use it as a compass. We can navigate by Resistance, letting it guide us to that calling or action that we must follow before all others. Rule of thumb: The more important a call or action is to our soul's evolution, the more Resistance we will feel toward pursuing it" (12).

So, as I was thinking about Ahimsa and Dharma and Resistance and Negative and Positive Energy, I was also trying to apply what I know to what's going on in my life. I have been very negative in the past few months--not chronically, but more than my personality normally allows. I have felt hopeless and fearful that I will never find my dharma (Ha! Used it again!). I have been beastly to my husband in trying to release this frustration because he loves me no matter what and, at the end of it, will always wrap his big arms around me and kiss my tears and tell me it's all going to be ok. I got a ticket today. I am trying to plan a damn high school reunion and it's going to shit. We can't find a place. Then we find a place. We don't have money. Then we get money. We can't book a proper date at the place. Do we get a new place or settle for a Friday instead of a Saturday? As I type this, I know that my problems are pretty petty--small potatoes. But, I allow them to weigh me down. Like the reunion, for example. I don't care to go. I probably wouldn't go if I weren't in charge of planning the dang thing. (I managed to become class president because no one else ran against me. They had to vote for me... or not vote at all. Either way, I won the post. My classmates are determined to hold me to it.) High school was... ok. I was so miserably shy and insecure and I was overwhelmed by the constant drama. Flash forward to reunion planning. We set up a Facebook site to help with contacting all of our old classmates. People have been downright mean. They are frustrated because it's not getting done fast enough I guess. One girl commented something like "That's what we get for voting for a bunch of cheerleaders with sticks up their butts." Now, for the record, I was never a cheerleader. I was a swimming and theater geek. Furthermore, I try to make it a practice never to stick anything up my backside--especially sharp pointy objects. What prompted this girl to type this? I haven't seen her since we graduated. I don't think I was mean to anybody--I was too shy. What the heck?

So, I will try to tie it all together. Am I creating my own negativity? Is negativity coming my way or manifesting itself in these silly, frustrating scenarios because of my own choices? Or, like my sister told some creepy guy who was commenting on her negative energy, have I just paid too close attention to The Secret? (I love you Pea). OR, am I supposed to move forward, regardless of resistance (mean cops, mean high school people, mean self worried about life) and get my stuff done and be proud of that--or not because then I'd be attaching value to an accomplishment that really doesn't have anything to do with my self worth? Or, am I supposed to take the blows and figure out a way to deal with them so that I'm not absorbing negativity and contributing more and be hopeful that there is good to come from all of this? And then how does that (hope) balance in with taking charge of your own destiny? Good lord, I'm thinking maybe I should just have a beer.

Yoga's focus today was trying to achieve balance. We did various poses that required strength or "holding on" as well as letting go and abandonment. What's the balance in life? What stuff do you hold yourself responsible for and what stuff do you throw your hands up at and say, "Eh..."?

This makes me think of one of my issues with religion. Maybe my dharma (and another one!) is archaeology. I will unearth an ancient scroll in which Jesus or Buddha or whomever is sitting with a guy at the local tavern and says, "For the last time fuckhead, just listen. I'll say it one more time. The secret to life is...". It'll be the gospel of Leon. When I think of taverns, I think of guys named Leon.

F'ing Carpool

2010-02-18T07:47:00.000-08:00

I am so nutted up right now and I'm breathing and trying to remind myself that, in the scheme of things, this doesn't really matter. But, when you and your husband are sliding by on one income, anything unforeseen is super stressful. I got pulled over this morning. I was exiting the carpool lane and crossed over the double-yellow. Seconds later, there was a CHP officer right behind me, lights flashing. FUCK! The best part is that I was taking a colleague to work. He's a very unique fellow: good heart, extremely opinionated, hippy guy who's probably indulged in too much of la mota, but for the most part, a decent fellow. The copper comes up to my window and says, "Would you like to tell me why you pulled out of the carpool lane?"
I say, "Yes. I had to get on the 15 (the next freeway)."
Brent (carpool buddy) says, "She had plenty of time."
Copper says, "Yes," and walks away to write my ticket.
I was in such shock that my carpool mate said anything. In thinking about it, he didn't mean any harm. He seriously loves critical thinking and debate. I really believe he just couldn't help himself. However, it didn't help my chances any.
Can I just rant, for a second, about the stupidity of California carpool lanes? There are these little windows of opportunity--yards of white dotted lines-- to get in and out. If you cross over the yellow lines (non-window) then you're breaking the law. I have been to other towns that trust you're an adult and, as long as you have more than one person in your car, you're good to come and go as needed. Why aren't ours like that?

It doesn't really matter Diana. It doesn't really matter. What can you do? Let it go.

Shitfuckpoopdamnmotherfuck. Oh yes... and Namaste.

Everyday's a Gift

2010-02-17T19:07:00.000-08:00

This past weekend was a beauteous 80 degrees. Sun! Glorious sun!! I spent all, Saturday, Sunday and Monday outside. It was just magical. I was working outside in my garden, hands and nails full of dirt, the sun baking my winter-white skin. I realized, as the scent rose off of me, that sunscreen is one of my favorite smells. Not all of them smell great, but there is a distinctive sunscreen smell that screams of summer: swimming in the ocean, running across hot pavement, drinking from the hose, eating pounds of watermelon, staying up late and listening to the crazy birds singing all night--God I love it! It also made me think of my days as a swimmer. I am a recovering college athlete and, for the first time--maybe since I graduated (several years now)--I missed it. I missed jumping into the pool, pulling my goggles over my eyes, and escaping into the rhythmic schwep, schwep, schwep, of my arms entering the water, the crash of my legs hitting the surface and bubbles flying past me as I flip a turn and push off the wall. And, I missed the moments between me and the sun as she was rising and setting--a gift of early morning and early evening practices. They were quiet, meditative slivers of time and, in those moments, no matter what was going on outside of the pool, I felt connected and secure.

This weekend as I was turning the compost piles, pulling out weeds, spreading compost and planting seeds, I experienced that same connectedness and it felt like a deep itch being scratched. As I was raking a pile of leaves together my neighbor, Larry, passed by on his daily walk to the gym. He is a survivor of cancer and was declared "in remission" just a few months ago. Our exchanges are always friendly but different each time. Some days he likes to stop and chat. Others, he'll say hello and just stand with you awhile, sharing silence and space. On Saturday, he walked past me, smiled, and said, "Hi!"

"Hi Larry!" I said, gathering leaves into my wheelbarrow, "How are you?"

"I'm great," he said, "Every day's a gift."

Amen Larry. Everyday is a gift. Sometimes it takes a little a change in the weather and the smell of sunscreen to remind you of that.

Ahimsa

2010-02-06T19:16:00.001-08:00

Just finished yoga for today. The focus or intention was Ahimsa. Ahimsa is the Sanskrit word for non violence. Throughout the practice the instructor repeated over and over, "Remember Ahimsa. Remember your intention." This was a reminder to literally, not be violent to yourself by pushing yourself too far in a pose, but also an invitation to think about how Ahimsa might manifest itself in your daily life.

At one point, the instructor said, "Be kind to yourself. Be compassionate to yourself. If you are to practice Ahimsa with others you must take care of yourself." I started thinking of the ways I am violent to myself. I listen to those self-doubting voices. I listen to the fear. I have this huge fear that I'm going to die before I really live and do all the things I want to do. I need to stop even entertaining that idea. Violence is a state of mind. I'm thinking those dark thoughts and fears are a reflection of the violence that I use toward myself. I inhibit myself.

I don't know if the instructor said this or if it was something beautiful that just came to me through the practice, but while I was thinking about all of this, I kept hearing, "Just let go." Let go of the fear. Let go of the doubts. Let go of the worry. Just let go.

I've written the word ahimsa on my left forearm in blue permanent marker. I know it'll last only until tomorrow's shower--maybe I'll end up rewriting it to remind me--but, for the rest of this evening, I want to be kind to myself and banish all of that negative thinking I've become so accustomed (or even addicted) to listening to. I want to just let go. I can do this.

Dirty D

2010-02-04T16:12:00.000-08:00

Last night I got my unds in a bundle and was faced with two options of dealing: calm down and do some yoga or go to the bar and have a few beers and feel sorry for myself. I would love to report that I rolled out my mat, did some deep breathing, practiced yoga and calmed the hell down. Alas, I chose the bar--'cause nothin' screams rational thought like a couple of cold brews.

I couldn't see straight, I was so nutted up, and I definitely could not picture myself being able to focus on yoga. So, I changed by clothes, grabbed the keys, and headed to the local hole. I ordered a beer--the big one--and sat and wrote and did some people watching. A few minutes after my first gulps a little old man grabbed a seat next to me. He had silvery hair, slicked back like a greaser, a big bumpy nose and perfect long ears. He smiled at me and lifted his hairy eyebrows and said "Hello!" I said hello back and thus began our conversation about the town, his life, and his surprise ties to the mob. He was delightful and, for a while, I felt justified in heading to the bar. I thought to myself, "See? If you hadn't have come here you never would have met old Jack."

I'm grateful for meeting Jack because he made me laugh and smile and breathe. He said he'd always wanted to go to Italy and see where his family is from but that he hadn't gotten the chance to go. When I asked him if he'd go now his eyes lit up and he said, "Ohhhh... I'd LOVE to go now. But, with my wife sick she can't leave the house so...". I finished his sentence: "So... probably... not." He smiled and waved his hand in front of his face and said, "Yeah, but I've had a great life..." I could see in his eyes he was still imagining Italy as he brushed it off to me, the stranger next to him. I wanted to cry and hug him.

When Jack and I parted ways--he had to get back to his wife--I sat for a little longer, did some writing, and then finally headed home. It was time to face reality and it wasn't pretty. Today I feel hung over but not from the alcohol. I'm hung over from the emotional exchange that ensued once I got home last night. I keep thinking that the stuff that was said probably needed to be said, but I can't help wondering if it'd come out differently if I had done yoga instead. Would I still feel beat up and sheepish and... blech?

I grew up being an athlete but never made the connection between mind body and heart. I mean, I knew they were connected because I would get so nervous before a race my shoulder muscles would cramp before I even touched the water. But I never really understood how much physical activity could teach you about your mind and heart. I went to the bar last night because I didn't want to face myself. I just wanted to feel numb. And now, the next day, I still have to face myself and I like myself even less.

My yoga mat is out and I still have about an hour with the house to myself. I'm going to kick my ass with some yoga, squeeze out all the emotional and mental goo, pick through it and, hopefully, rearrange some things.

Did I lose me or did I really never know me?

Detox

2010-02-02T10:10:00.000-08:00

For my birthday I got a heavy duty juicer from my husband. While the gift doesn't traditionally scream "romance," I was thrilled. I love to cook and juicing is another ritual to bring into the kitchen--and, it's healthy! My Mama-in-law turned us on to it through her own green earthy concoctions and we've had a blast experimenting with different fruits and vegetables. Yesterday evening I got home from work with a little sunlight left for a jog. I had a nice quick run but when I got back my stomach started churning. I had no idea what was going on.

I made dinner but couldn't eat much of it so I went to bed to read. I was reading a book on juicing and came upon a passage that explained that sometimes, when you incorporate more fruits and greens into your diet you can go through these waves of flu-like symptoms. But, it isn't the flu--in fact, your body is just detoxing. It's ridding itself of the toxins from processed foods, churning out all the gunk. I ended up calling in sick last night because my stomach would just not calm down. This morning, after some good sleep, I felt great. I got up, enjoyed another juice (this one was apples, parsley and broccoli--weird sounding mix but delicious!) and went for a long jog.

As a life-long swimmer, I have never been very coordinated on land. I'm the girl who trips on invisible rocks and runs into walls that, I swear, move. I seem to always have bruises somewhere on my body. Therefore, I am always grateful when I can fall into a good rhythm while running. Most of the time, my body feels heavy and gangly. I feel like Mowgli ambling through the jungle, except I'd probably kill myself if I tried to climb a tree. Anyways, as I was running and enjoying the patpatpat of my shoes on the pavement and the cool morning breeze, I thought about two things: one, today I'm one of those people I pass on my way to work and wonder, "What the heck do they do for work? How are they able to go for a light jog at nine in the morning?!" Two, "What is this process of detoxification?"

Detoxification is most often referred to the body clearing itself out... becoming more healthy, high functioning, vibrant. But, I think it also extends to life outside the body. For the past week I've been having these really vivid dreams of people from my past... well, one in particular. The women in my family have this thing where someone will come into one of our minds and hang around like cobwebs for a while, and then one of us will run into or see this person. Maybe it's woman intuition or a little psychic energy or just a testament to the interconnectedness of we living things. For a long time I'd wondered if, when this happens it's a sign to pray for this person--to send good energy their way.

The dreams I've been having are the kind that follow you into the next day or even days. I half-expect to run into this person at any moment. But now, as I think about the mind and detoxification, I am wondering if it is my subconscious trying to clear things out. This year has turned into one of soul-searching for me. I desperately want to figure out what really makes me tick--what fulfills me. I have a tendency to be a clinger--I hold onto things for fear there won't be better on the horizon. I don't want to lose anything. And yet, one of my favorite scenes from any movie is from Harold and Maude. Harold gives Maude jewelry with the words "Harold loves Maude" engraved in it. She sighs, holds it close to her, and then throws it off of a dock. She turns to him and says, "Now I'll always know where it is"--or something like that. But me, I'm the girl who saves everything: cards, letters, pictures, dried flowers. I'm thinking that maybe it's time to clear things out so that there's space for new goodness. Maybe I need to identify less with the good and loving things people have said about me or how they have loved me in the past and fight for the courage to understand how to value myself based on me being me--whoever that is. Detox...detox...detox....

Imagination and the Body

2010-01-29T08:52:00.000-08:00

I don't remember now where I read this, but I learned recently that our bodies cannot distinguish reality from imagination. For example, if we're watching an action film and the suspense is building, our hearts will pound and our adrenaline will rush as if we're actually experiencing the situation in front of us. I suppose one's physical reaction to a film or book is in proportion to how deeply a person allows him/herself to be sucked into a plot line but, regardless, our bodies are sent into physical responses to what we imagine, see, and think about.

I have put this to the test and am trying to be more purposeful about using this power. Every so often I experience this urgent need to escape. I become irritable and feel almost claustrophobic because of this urgency. When I was in college I'd jump in the car and just drive. Sometimes I'd end up in the mountains. Sometimes I'd find myself driving up the coast and, eventually, sitting on a cool beach, staring at the emerging stars, listening to the powerful waves, and thinking about how much water was between where I was sitting and the next piece of land.... Escaping is healing because it reminds you that you have some control over your life and your choices--that outside your own world of problems and frustrations, there is a huge world moving and pulsing around you. Life vibrates.

I never realized how truly powerful imagination is. Your body is built to respond to whatever your mind takes in or, in this case, creates. Lately, I have felt my old friend, escapism, tapping me on the shoulder. His call is in the background but unmistakable, like the hammering of a woodpecker on a telephone pole. Unfortunately, I just don't have the time to jump in the car and take off right now. But, I can close my eyes, call up the memories of cool salty breezes on my face, hot sunny rays on my skin, and the sound of pounding waves in my ears. I feel my shoulders relax away from my ears, my heart rate slow, and a smile begin to creep on my face. We are more powerful than we realize.

Celebrate!

2010-01-25T18:13:00.000-08:00

Finally made some time for some yoga--it helps that the hubby is out for a few hours. For a while I attended regularly at a local yoga studio and I loved it--there's something truly other-worldly about breathing together with a bunch of strangers. Sometimes there's music. Sometimes incense. Often both. And then there's those glorious moments when the instructor comes around and stretches you further or massages your tight shoulders and you feel all the stress of the day melt off of you.

About a year ago we bought our first house and my man went back to school so we began to cut costs. Bye bye yoga studio. I purchased several books on yoga and looked at is as an opportunity to do some practice on my own--to become an independent student. But, alas, like the clothes I mean to hang up at the end of the day, the books ended up along the side of my bed.

In December I admitted defeat and subscribed to YogaToday.com. I pay ten bucks a month and can access all their classes. It's so convenient--I don't even have to leave the house! I could do yoga naked if I wanted! (No, I don't--yet--still no curtains.) Therein also lies its weakness. While at home, so many other things call to me that it is a challenge in itself to push the furniture aside and get into it. If I actually do practice, I have to make it a challenge not to run the mouse over the bottom of the screen to see how much time is left. When I reach the end of class, because there's no one who would notice if I got up, I cannot seem to get myself to indulge in the five-plus minutes of Shavasana (corpse pose). Hmmm... dare I say I have a problem in remaining present?

This brings me to today's practice: I sat on my mat as Neesha, the instructor began class. I don't know what she was saying as I was totally engrossed in pulling the lint out of my toes. I caught myself and thought, "There's no way I'd be pulling lint out of my toes if I were at an actual yoga studio." When I finally broke away from the toe situation and started moving, she said something that got me thinking. We were in a lunge and she said, "Celebrate this pose because no one can do it like you can in this moment." It struck me because I am fixated on being different... on being memorable. My bouts of melancholy usually swirl around my fears that a person can never truly be original, so what's the point? It's usually in those moments that my husband walks by, smacks my butt and says, "You need to do some yoga." (A funny thought just occurred to me--I always thought he smacked my butt and suggested yoga to pull me out of my funk... maybe it's because my butt feels like jelly as he smacks it... I'm going to have to investigate.) Neesha's words made me smile because it's true. Many people can lunge and, if we all lined up and lunged together, we'd all look pretty similar. But if you leaned in close and took true inventory, you'd notice the varying rhythms of each person's breaths, the way some faces crinkle and redden and the way others soften like a white moon. Some are flexible and strong and some quiver as they struggle to hold the pose. And, as I think about those struggling in a pose, quivering, faces hot with blood and effort, I feel peace because there's something beautiful and unique in that struggle. There are things going on in there and next time that same person may ease into a lunge and have a soft moon face, but regardless of ability or growth, those individual moments created by individual people are imprinted in the universe... in time... in energy.

So, I celebrate having legs to do a lunge, even if they quiver and argue above the voice of my effort. I celebrate having breath to share and having time to remember it. I celebrate my two crazy dogs who watch me and whine while I ignore them to do yoga and write my little blog. I celebrate having a husband who loves me enough to jolt me out of my funk and remind me to return to a practice that grounds me. I celebrate ....

Brutal Weather

2010-01-11T21:03:00.000-08:00

Came home this afternoon and enjoyed a glass of wine while watching the sun go down from the back yard. It was in the mid-seventies today and, for the past several days it has felt like Spring. Sitting outside was the perfect end to a busy day--light grayish blue sky with deep orange at the horizon and not a cloud in sight.

During the holidays my husband and I traveled up north to Vancouver, WA to visit his family. A couple days after Christmas we were out in Beaverton, OR when a major snowstorm hit. It was totally unexpected--even the meterologists missed it--and it caused some major complications on the roadway. People called into the radio stations saying they'd been stuck on the roads for 5, 6, 7 hours. We pulled off, had some dinner and caught a movie before we decided to brave the roads again, but as we headed home we saw cars lined up on the sides, abandoned. It was surreal, and a little amusing. It reminded me of home: the beautiful Southern California. Where I live, at the first sight of a raindrop, the news reporters declare it "Stormwatch!" and there are endless reports of accidents, roads flooding and poor shivering news rookies out in the streets donning rain coats and hats. We freak out. People stop remembering how to drive. We bundle up and dig out the umbrellas and watch the news, hopeful for a respite from the "storm."

When my uncle served in the military it was a couple of years after Vietnam and they stationed him in Honolulu, HI. My dad was stationed in Germany which he loved but he endured some brutal winters. My uncle would send him letters from Hawaii that read, "It was really tough today. I was out, laying on the beach in the sun and a pretty girl in a bikini ran by and I got sand in my eye."

In the winter time, I kind of feel like my uncle in Hawaii. One of my dearest friends in the world got snowed in for close to a week in Iowa. Today, when I was sitting on the deck outside, sipping wine and watching the sun set behind the palm trees, I had to put on a sweatshirt. The breeze was cooling. It was awful.

Maude, Ruby, Pearl and poor Lloyd

2010-01-10T18:09:00.000-08:00

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That line is thanks to my loving husband who has walked by twenty times as I sat here, staring at the blank square. He grabbed my hands, slammed them on the keys and yelled, "Just start typing!" I'm scared and itching inside because, along with many other things, I want to be a writer. Bad. Dear friends and family have encouraged me 'till they're blue in the face, but this demon (my own scared self) is one I'm gonna have to conquer alone--no one can do it for me.

My blog's called MaudeRubyPearl because I love those names. They're old-lady names but, when I think of them, I imagine these women who are worn but glowing from the wild lives they've lived. They're sort of my muses--muses for writing and muses for life.

My big goldfish, Lloyd, died today. He was one of those fancy goldfish, with the big fan-like tails. He had these cool gold-flecked gills and loved to swim up toward the surface, then dive down and skim along the bottom in a happy flurry. He was HUGE and, poor fish, when I went to pull him out of the tank, he didn't even fit in the little net. I had to balance him on top and hold a paper booklet underneath it in case he fell off. He didn't fall. I dug a little grave for him outside. I know--I know. He's just a fish. A journey down the pipes would have been sufficient. But, I couldn't do it. On a practical level, he was so big he could very well have clogged up the pipes. If I'm being really honest though, I thought it irreverent. He's just a fish, yes, but he was my fish and he was a happy little living thing. So, I put him underneath the lime tree in the back yard because his body will break down and feed the lime tree and be used for more good. Thanks for the staring contests Lloyd. You were a good fish.

I'm starting this blog as a way to, as my father-in-law says, move in the general direction of my dreams. Maybe I'm just paying closer attention but, lately, I've been surrounded by folks saying things like, "I wouldn't choose to do anything else...". I want to be a person who says that one day. I want to really feel that way. I want to know if it's a true, plausible place to be in or if it's just a myth. And, if it is just a myth, I'll be content in knowing I at least went looking for it.