float

2008-01-31T20:47:00.000-05:00

Come Visit My New Spot

I think I'm going to start posting more at my new blog, La Dolce Vita. Come on by.

But keep float in your RSS feed, because I am a fickle dame.

xo,
Style

2008-01-30T20:24:00.000-05:00

Becoming Italian

Last week, my friend/astrologer asked me what my gift to myself would be for my birthday, like a birthday resolution. I wasn't sure what she meant, so I asked her what hers was (she's an early Aquarius; I'm a late one). She said she was going to allow herself to be free of assumptions. "When I'm talking to people, I'm not going to assume I know where they're coming from, and I'm going to let myself ask questions. Like that mug"--she said, indicating my hand--"I didn't assume it was yours."

"It is," I replied. "I like it because it has sheep on it."

"It's a great mug," she agreed.

So I thought about it some more. My New Year's Resolution ("more time, more money, lighten up") didn't seem quite right for a birthday idea. After some contemplation, some watching PBS, and hearing tales from G. about "The Italians" in his department (there are lots, and they love their espresso) I've decided to be more Italian.

What does that mean for me? It means seeking pleasure in the little details of life. It means being more open and expressive. It means being warm and welcoming--I can be a chilly New Englander sometimes, not meaning to, but it's ingrained in all us Yanks. It means drinking a little more wine, and a little more espresso, and not worrying about it. It means having friends over for dinner more often. It means cooking up a storm, kicking up my heels, spending some money on looking sharp (which I've been doing well with already), and enjoying. It means defining myself first as myself and not as a worker or doer.

And it means not hiding. Ever since I began working, I've been cramming myself into a little cubicle-shaped mold and trying to be inconspicuous. If you are conspicuous, you get more work dumped on you. If you are conspicuous, you might be seen as being showy, having to little to do, and being a bad worker bee. I've decided to be conspicuous again. I've shrunken myself enough.

2008-01-25T22:21:00.001-05:00

Out of Hand

Social networking sites: Please stop!

2008-01-25T09:49:00.001-05:00

Turning Over Stones

Even while applying for jobs, I'm taking a few steps back and reevaluating everything: interests, career options, personality assessments. Why not? Maybe I'm missing something obvious.

Taking the Strong Interests Inventory this morning, I realized (again) how much I miss having the arts in my life. Not the healing arts--the arts. Of course, the immediate rebound thought is: There's no way to make a living in the arts. And maybe that's true.

Here's a funny story. I went to college planning to major in theater. But once I got there, I found the theater department to be pretentious and so so postmodern. In the bad way.

I couldn't decide on a major. Then one day, thumbing through the course catalog, I realized that I wanted to take every single class printed on 3 consecutive pages. What department is this? I asked myself. It was Classical Civilization (CCIV), the study of the Greeks and Romans.

Now, I had heard my mom talking on the phone to her friends, saying: "K. wants to me a theater major. We're hoping she meets some handsome econ major and he changes her mind." So I knew that my parents would really be quite happy if I abandoned my theater dreams.

I came home over break, excited to break the news. "I've decided not to major in theater!" I announced. My folks burst into wide grins. Their eyes lit up. "What will you study?" they asked. "Classical Civilization!" I proudly announced.

Their faces fell. This is not what they had in mind. A pause, then a single question: "What's that?"

2008-01-22T21:35:00.000-05:00

The Endangered Word List

Sadly, today I must add another word to the EWL. I'm giving it "threatened" status, in the hopes that with education and awareness we can turn its fate around before it becomes officially endangered. Here is the word with its proper definition (as written by moi).

Simplistic--adj.--overly simple, usually used pejoratively.

Simplistic does not mean "simple" or "very simple". It means that something is simple to the point that important detail is lost. Wiktionary also notes that the phrase "overly simplistic" is a tautology.

I have no idea how this innocent word has wound up so used and abused, as it would seem to be a rather unusual target for mass manhandling. It is with sorrow in my heart that I place it with its brethren "literally" (recently removed from "Endangered" status, but still "Threatened") and "unique " (which has been beaten within a tautology of its life).

2008-01-20T09:52:00.001-05:00

Surprising

I've been doing a fair amount of self-analysis and fact-finding in order to determine what sort of career would suit me--and make some money.

The upshot is, I have a more mature understanding of careers, myself, and job description lingo than I did when I was last intently job-searching; therefore, I'm becoming terribly excited about job descriptions that would have sounded completely dull to me six years ago.

I'm swooning over phrases such as: "to work collaboratively [work collaboratively!--dreamy sigh] with colleagues to develop projects"; "develop systems and processes"; "collaboratively develop content for and implement short courses"; "marketing of fund-raising initiatives"; "write and integrate"; "plan, organize, and implement".

See, at Day Job, I have no say. Here are the specs--make a book according to them! I like organizing stuff, but it looses all its juice when I have no voice and no creative control. I need to be allowed to innovate, collaborate, and integrate. My colleagues in my department are wonderful craftspeople of books. They enjoy the process of molding a project to its specifications, making it well. I am a different species, and I admire their work, but I will never love doing it myself.

2008-01-17T22:25:00.000-05:00

What I Bought

I will be 30 a month from today, and I need a real wardrobe. A wardrobe that looks professional. I made a big dent in that today, with one massive shopping excursion. It was tiring, yes, but there are some good sales (even lower than the Internet sale prices). And now I am well on my way to my goal of a good set of clothes based on taupe and grey neutrals with pink, cream, and purple accent colors.

Here's what came home in the bags (color shown on link may not match the color I purchased):

grey blazer, brown blazer, pink sweater, purple sweater, classic white shirt, dressy-hippie cream-colored shirt, casual pink shirt, cute socks, and supportive bras.

And, on order: camel herringbone pants, to go with the brown blazer.

The bras were ludicrously expensive, but they did make the sweaters look better. A good bra can give the illusion of losing 10 pounds instantly.

2008-01-16T21:07:00.000-05:00

Two Perfect Meals

breakfast: slightly sweet and chewy homemade bread one friend gave me, toasted and enjoyed with butter, a hint of salt, and homemade apricot chutney another friend gave me. The bread and chutney were meant to be, and I am so grateful that they found each other and me.

dinner: pressure-cooker lamb and white bean stew, a la Jacques Pepin. I have never seen lamb fall apart at the lightest touch of a spoon before. Amazing. And, only one pot to clean. J'adore Jacques!

2008-01-15T21:51:00.000-05:00

ack, clothes

I'm not a great clothing shopper. Clothes shopping awakens the inner 6-year-old me being dragged through the store by my mom.

...Can't we go to the bookstore now? Or spend that money on a vacation?

I used to rely on Grandma's annual clothing infusions at Christmas, but now she is older and just sends money. I have about 3 outfits, and they are all the same uniform: slacks, long sleeve tee, ancient pilled sweater that has outlasted its proper TJ Maxx lifespan, Earth shoes. (At least the shoes are snazzy.)

But suddenly I am faced with clothes shopping. I have all these talks lined up with alumni from my alma mater who rank high in their nonprofit organizations. I'm visiting their offices, and I don't want to look like I'm still in college.

I've figured out that I should find a dressy-but-not-formal outfit, such as white shirt, slacks, blazer. An outfit that says, "I am professional and put-together, and although I know and respect that this is not a job interview, it could be one in the near future, at which point I will be astute enough to wear a dark suit, but not before then."

But, damn!, professional clothing is expensive. It's no wonder I don't have any.

2008-01-14T18:49:00.000-05:00

New Years Resolutions

(with a nod to Ann)

I keep them simple. I always forget what they were, anyway. This year, I have crafted something resembling a Resolution Haiku:

More Time
More Money
Lighten Up

2008-01-14T08:41:00.001-05:00

Too Much Snow.

Enough is enough, already.

2008-01-12T11:06:00.000-05:00

A few things I like

mild January days
paperweights
The Waltz of the Flowers
free museum passes from the library
saag paneer
essential oils

2008-01-10T22:08:00.000-05:00

And now, a pause for the Heart Sutra

(I encourage you just to read through and enjoy a few times, allowing the meaning to settle in your heart, before following the links.)

as translated in Chanting from the Heart by Thich Nhat Hanh and the Monks and Nuns of Plum Village

The Heart of Understanding

The Bodhisattva Avalokita,
while moving in the deep course of Perfect Understanding,
shed light on the Five Skandhas and found them equally empty.
After this penetration, he overcame ill-being.

Listen, Shariputra,
form is emptiness, and emptiness is form.
Form is not other than emptiness, emptiness is not other than form.
The same is true with feelings, perceptions, mental formations, and consciousness.

Listen, Shariputra,
all dharmas are marked with emptiness.
They are neither produced nor destroyed,
neither defiled nor immaculate,
neither increasing or decreasing.
Therefore in emptiness there is neither form, nor feelings, nor perceptions,
nor mental formations, nor consciousness.
No eye, or ear, or nose, or tongue, or body, or mind.
No form, no sound, no smell, no taste, no touch, no object of mind.
No realms of elements (from eyes to mind consciousness),
no interdependent origins and no extinction of them
(from ignorance to death and decay).
No ill-being, no cause of ill-being, no end of ill-being, and no path.
No understanding and no attainment.

Because there is no attainment,
the Bodhisattvas, grounded in Perfect Understanding,
find no obstacles to their minds.
Having no obstacles, they overcome fear,
liberating themselves forever from illusion, realizing perfect nirvana.
All Buddhas in the past, present, and future,
thanks to this Perfect Understanding,
arrive at full, right, and universal enlightenment.

Therefore one should know
that Perfect Understanding is the highest mantra, the unequaled mantra,
the destroyer of ill-being, the incorruptible truth.
A mantra of Prajnaparamita should therefore be proclaimed:

Gate gate paragate parasamgate bodhi svaha
Gate gate paragate parasamgate bodhi svaha
Gate gate paragate parasamgate bodhi svaha

2008-01-05T19:07:00.000-05:00

Sea Change

I quit the spa. I couldn't take the lack of free time. But I appointed my successor, and I offered to train her. I've quit in the noblest possible way.

In truth, I'm contemplating closing up shiatsu shop and moving to an entirely different field. I love the business end--the strategizing, writing the marketing, vision statements and mission statements--but I'm tired of doing the actual shiatsu. But we'll see.

I'm lining up fact-finding missions: talking to people in nonprofit management to see what it's like and how one gets there. Two out of three contacts I found through my alumni network have already responded, happy to have coffee and tell me about their work. And a friend of my father is the CEO of a large nonprofit; my dad will call him to ask if I may talk to him, too.

What am I missing? I realized, thanks to working with a fabulous life coach (we trade), that I need to be more intellectually stimulated.There's a limit to my right-brained-ness. I'm incredibly analytical and need to use that part of myself. And I need to learn new things, whereas now I'm merely practicing things I've already learned. Practice is good, it lets one get into depth, but I feel I've probed pretty deep into shiatsu and book production, and I'm bored.

I also want time again. Time to devote to being wildly creative. I always had the creative arts in my life until I forsaked them for the healing arts. For the last 5 years, all my spare time, energy, and money has been in pursuit of shiatsu (and tai chi/yoga classes to support the shiatsu). And I'm sick of it, really. I want to learn ceramics or brush calligraphy, to dance as much as possible, and to accept that I've healed whatever I wanted to heal in myself, and helped heal a few others, and that's good. Good enough.

2007-12-23T11:27:00.000-05:00

Bye for Now

We take off for a holiday East Coast roadtrip tomorrow: Hartford for Christmas, DC for New Year's, Philly and NYC on the way back.

Happy Merry Jolly Yule to all! And a prosperous New Year!

2007-12-21T11:13:00.000-05:00

My First Paid Singing Gig

At the office Christmas party (which really was quite nice), after speeches and eating and pass-the-present, the Emcee/HR director announced we would be doing something different this year. She offered cash to the first 10 people who got up to sing a verse of seasonal song in front of everyone. Naturally, I was first up to the podium. It was my first paid singing gig, $50 for a bit of "White Christmas." I was grateful for my high school musical theater days. Only 5 people sang for their suppers! Fifty smackers each, people! I wondered briefly if they would shell out if I got up again and did a few bars of "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas", but I decided to stop while I was ahead.

I have a musical theater voice: alto, not always totally precise with the notes, but I can sing with character and decent tone and phrasing. I am often forgiven a little liberty with hitting the "center" of the notes because of my other vocal virtues and a dash of stage presence. I have virtually no range because I'm out of practice, of course. Of the other brave/shameless chanteuses, two had clear, precise choral voices and did admirably with choral favorites: O Holy Night and Silent Night. (I asked later, and yes, they both had been in choruses at one time or another. I admired the range of the fellow who sang "O Holy Night". That song is waaay out of my league.) A third could not carry a tune in a basket, but did a game job of "Rudolph". The fourth got up to help save "Rudoph", making it a duet.

After the party, I went straight to an antiques shop and bought a beautiful paperweight for $48--$50.40 with tax, perfect. It's colorful and imperfect, but it makes up for its small chip with lots of character. Appropriate to win with my singing.

2007-12-17T19:58:00.000-05:00

Pah rum pah pah pum

That little drummer boy has it out for me. That song--it stays in my head, endless loops of pah-rum-ing, pah-rum-ing, pah-rum-ing, through day, night, sleep, meetings, eating, talking, piercing even through other music playing. Each breath, each heartbeat echoes with a PAH-RUM. I have no respite, no refuge.

After days of torture, by some miracle or whim the capricious demon drummer boy will leave me be, and the quiet falls like gentle snow, blanketing my wounded psyche...Then--WHAM!--The Song That Shall Not Be Named is playing on the radio, in the grocery store, on TV.

He leaves only to torture me more.

Pah-RUM PAH-RUM PUM PUM

The Holy Family was truly holy not to beat the drummer boy with his own drumstick.

2007-12-16T09:45:00.000-05:00

Work work work

With a big nod to the interesting discussions over at Narya's.

I'm in the odd position of having three jobs. Well, that's not the odd part, really. The odd part is that I am in an entirely different position at the three jobs, in terms of structure, and doing very different work, and receiving very different pay.

1. Day Job: I am a salaried employee with great benefits, including 401K with employer matching, health insurance, and paid time off. But I feel stapled to my desk and trapped.

2. My Business: L'Etat c'est moi. I do what I like exactly how I like. I do all the marketing, the business planning--and I get excited about that part (sometimes more excited than about the actual shiatsu). Am I making a dime? No. Do I have to do X hours of unpaid work to bring in one hour of paid work? Yes. And then, the money that comes in goes back out to rent and liability. But I have fun. And someday I will profit. (I did double my revenue since last year, and increased spending by only about a third, so we're closer...)

3. The Spa: I walked into the spa yesterday, my first day, and had three clients. One booked in advance; two were basically walk-ins. A fourth wanted an appointment when I was working on someone else, and didn't return.

3a. Spa v Day Job: For three hours of actual work at the spa I made what I make in one whole day at Day Job. But--1. I was there all day even when not working, in case someone else came in, and no pay for those hours. 2. No benefits, no paid time off.

The other gals--the aestheticians--had fewer clients than I, maybe one client each. But they also answered the phones, made appointments, sold gift certificates, and so forth. I think that they receive an hourly wage in addition to whatever they make working on clients. And yet, I may well have netted more money than they did, I don't know. I got to rest between clients, they got hourly pay. Which is better? I think that soon I won't have downtime between clients. Tiring, but more pay.

3b. Spa v My Business: At the spa, I walk in, see the clients they've booked for me, under the auspices of their marketing, and leave at the end of the day anticipating a paycheck. The spa takes 50% of what the client pays, but charges the clients 30-50% more than I do. (Clients are paying for the "spa experience", which requires much more infrastructure and many more niceties than my practice, and I am A-OK with this. If clients want the spa experience, with all the robes, fountains, aromatherapy, soft music, etc., that entails, they should pay more. If they want an artsy, fun environment, and shiatsu done more traditionally, they should come to my private practice in the yoga studio and pay less.) The spa clients often tip 20%, essentially making up the difference in pay. And then, I have no overhead to pay, so I can just take the money. In my private practice, any money coming in pays rent for the space first, then filters down to the marketing budget.

However, I greatly modify my way of practicing shiatsu for the spa. In my practice, I do shiatsu old-school: comfy futon on the floor, client fully clothed, balancing qi using principles of East Asian medicine. At the spa, clients are expecting "massage" and aromatherapy. The first thing all spa clients do is to take off street clothes and put on a robe and slippers in the locker room. I get it; it's nice. It lets them move into a different mental space, it's a ritual. So then I'm left doing shiatsu through a sheet instead of through clothes, which limits the supported stretches I can do and the positions I can place the client in. (How to work in side position with a naked person on a table? How to stretch a leg to the side on a naked person? These techniques work much better with a fully clothed client on a wide futon on the floor.) Working on the table is the hardest modification for me. I was trained to work on the floor, from a kneeling position. Now I stand and bend over, sending happy thoughts to my lower back. Different!

And then, these clients want their muscles worked out. I don't usually focus on muscles, but rather on qi. So there I am, leaning my forearms as deeply as they'll go onto three different sets of sore shoulders. I find it a little tiring to work this way, to be honest. In my own practice, if someone needs really deep pressure, I stand one one foot and use the other to leeeeaaaan my body weight in through my sole. This, again, works best on the floor. Oh also, they keep the spa room sweltering hot because the clients are nude and laying still, but I am fully-clothed and moving a lot, such that the heat rather depleted me.

I do like the aromatherapy, though, and may incorporate it into my own practice. Scent is very powerful. I mix up a carrier oil (jojoba) with a couple drops of an essential oil or two (I used rosemary and lavender together yesterday, yummy). Then I apply when working on head, neck, hands, arms, and feet. I could see my private clients liking this, and I could even add a couple bucks to the treatment fee.

To sum up Spa v My Business: I get actual money from working at the spa, but less satisfaction, and it's more tiring.

Conclusion. Which is best? I have no idea.

2007-12-14T17:20:00.000-05:00

Holy Crap YUM

Dried Bing cherries! Does everyone know about this? Why didn't anyone tell me??

2007-12-13T18:54:00.000-05:00

Happy Nor'easter

My poor husband is stuck on the roads. I have the good fortune of being home today anyway, using my extra time off before it expires next week. The cats are sleeping. They are champions. I joined them, all drooling and snoring on the couch, but I only lasted about 45 minutes. They are way beyond my league, sleep-wise. It was kind of them to let me try.

Television choices: 10 channels of snow coverage (It's snowing! The traffic is bad! Let's go to a map! Let's go to a correspondent standing in the snow!), a documentary on Pittsburgh, a PBS interview with Steve Martin that makes the great comic seem boring, a cooking show rerun, and That 70s Show. No, really.

A few presents are prettily wrapped and unrefined gingerbread is in the oven.

2007-12-13T13:50:00.000-05:00

Odd Scenes

1. A lady left me a message wanting to learn more about shiatsu. She had a whispery, childlike voice and a scattered way of speaking that make me think she is a young teen. I call her back. She tells me something unusual is going on, and she wonders if I can help. "You see, I'm an empath," she begins. I think, oh no, she can't turn off hearing voices or something. But it turns out that she meant that to be the normal part. She pauses, gathers her nerves, and adds, "And I think I have that seasonal affect." Winter depression? Seasonal Affective Disorder? That's the big revelation? I assure her that it is miserable, but perfectly normal, and that shiatsu can help. I offer to send her my latest newsletter, which is all about SAD. She doesn't currently have an email address, she explains, because the smutty ads just keep coming, and she thinks they are targeting her specifically. I explain that we all get those. She gives me someone else's email address, someone who won't mind receiving her email for her.

And then, in her scattered, rambling, crazy-laughing way, she keeps me on the phone for half an hour talking about whatever comes into her head. I gently try to return her to the topic at hand, repeatedly. I ask outright--and at last get her attention--whether she would like to make an appointment. I offer her giant chunks of time in which I'm available to give her shiatsu; in response, she asks for a time I did not offer: Next Friday night. I explain that I'll be at a Solstice event. She invites herself to the event. I explain that it's a private event. She begs me to get her in. I tell her about another, open event she can go to instead. She thanks me, but also says she would rather come to mine if I can possibly get her in.

She asks if I accept credit cards for shiatsu payment. I say no. She says this is a problem, even though she knows it's expensive for the practitioner to accept cards. I tell her I offer half-hour treatments at an affordable rate. She asks if she can get 40 minutes instead, because half an hour is not enough. Patience Meter on Empty, I pass my husband a note that reads, "10 Kinds of Crazy!!". He calls my phone so I can say, "Oh, call waiting!" and hang up on 10 Kinds of Crazy. She was clearly not, in fact, a teen, but a grown woman with issues.

If she ever gets it together to call me back to make an actual appointment, I have decided to refer her elsewhere.

2. The acupuncturist got drunk at the Christmas party. I went upstairs to use the bathroom. She opens the door, leans against the frame, smiles a silly smile and asks, "So how are you?"

"Good. How are you?"

She drops her eyeglasses off her head, bends over and fumbles to pick them up. She says, "I'm good, I'm good. I'm not sure how many martinis I had. Maybe 2...or 3...."

I ask if she wants a ride home. "Nah, I'll just wait here for a bit." I wish her luck navigating the stairs.

When I return downstairs, I find that she is curled up in the floor of an empty, dark room. She is talking to someone, but no one else is there. The hostess goes to check on the acupuncturist. It turns out she's talking to her boyfriend on the cell phone.

Only 3 other guests remain--me, G, another shiatsu practitioner. We leave. I wonder how the acupuncturist gets home.

The martinis were awfully good.

2007-12-07T23:22:00.000-05:00

An Interesting Question

Someone asked me today: If you were handed a plane ticket and could write in any destination, where would you go?

Now I ask you.

2007-12-07T22:33:00.001-05:00

Christmas Song

I think Larry's right. I think we should try to pen our own Christmas song. I've been mulling it over for a day or two, hoping to sneak up on some inspiration before it fled away. At first, all I got was some simple lyrics with a lovely, haunting melody:

Christmas time is heeeere
Happiness and cheeeer
Yuletide by the fireside....

Melancholic and beautiful, but certainly not new. It's from A Charlie Brown Christmas, which explains why animated children with giant heads were skating to the song in my mind's eye.

Then some great lyrics popped into my head:

Doorbells and sleighbells and schnitzel with noodles
Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings...

Damn, I remain a hack. No wonder those lyrics I channeled were way beyond my writing ability. The next line is, of course, "These are a few of my favorite things".

But I think I may have the beginnings of a chorus--really, truly new, as no melody sang through my mind--so help me find the lyrics that go with these. Or, help me out by making these better. Or we can ditch them, whatever, especially of I'm plagiarizing without knowing it.

Ahem.

Working title: A Christmas Lullaby for All Mankind

"And here's my Christmas wish for you

May love grow in your heart like a rose
May peace fly to your heart on a dove
Let kindness shine from your heart like a star
May your heart be light"

We could also/instead work in wisdom or charity, faith or trust...But they seem so serious.

***
And I can kind of hear the end of the song, lines alternating sung like church bells, fade out:

Good night
Sweet dreams
Good night
Sweet dreams
Good night

***
Maybe this is all very bad. Go easy if it is. In the spirit of Christmas charity and all.

PS Ann, you're a poet. Lend a hand?

2007-12-05T21:52:00.000-05:00

Bloggers, Did You Know?

I got in the car to drive home, turned on the All Day All Night Christmas Music Channel.

Now, I can be something a classicist, figuratively and literally. I majored in Greek philosophy in college, for goodness' sake. I want my holiday songs to be classics, be they the Alleuia chorus from Handel's Messiah or Andy Williams' shiny-as-a-new-penny Most Wonderful Time of the Year (what an arrangement! Bravo to whoever did that!).

And instead, the song that played when I switched on the radio...It was...It gave me belly laughs. Whooping belly laughs with tears in my eyes. I mean no disrespect to any Christian believers. It's the aesthetics of the song that really killed me. A gravelly voice crooned in a rock-pop-country way to Mary, asking, repeatedly, "Mary, did you know"--that your Son would walk on water, that the Son you delivered would deliver you, etc etc.

But, as LeVar Burton (my first crush) used to say on Reading Rainbow, you don't have to take my word for it. Someone very thoughtfully made us a PowerPoint YouTube video.

PS. From the looks of it, this song I'd heretofore never heard of is quite popular, maybe in a different geographic region than the Deep Blue North.

2007-12-02T09:33:00.000-05:00

Unexpected

I got a call on Friday. A spa in a wealthy area has a backlog of shiatsu clients, but their practitioner had to move suddenly to Florida because of a family emergency. I met the owner the next day at 9 AM, did an audition treatment, walked out with a black shirt to wear when I start work the 15th. This is a chance to make good money. I would like that. For years I've felt like I was working my ass off for every last penny, not compensated enough.

So, I'll just start with Saturdays; and if it works out, and if the p/t nonprofit job comes through, I'll be able to quit Day Job, work more than one day at the spa, and still have time for my own practice (heretofore unprofitable).

I'm reeling. I was exhausted from the upheaval and the interview yesterday. I was catatonic on the couch from 2 PM onward.

The prospect of working at an upscale spa has certainly brought up some of my "stuff". I look scruffy compared to the other employees and certainly the owner, the Most Polished Woman of All. I've always thought of myself as charmingly earthy, but I suspect I'll need to apply some serious makeup to bring in the tips from the wealthy ladies.

And, how do I feel about being the money-leech at the side of the wealthy wives? Not sure.

I also have some latent prejudices against the upper classes. Will I be treated like the "help"? Are they spoiled, self-involved people, and will my treatments be reinforcing those tendencies? Most of all, will I morph into a little clone of the wealthy ladies, not unlike Cady in Mean Girls becoming the queen of the clique she set out to bring low? Or Andy in The Devil Wears Prada?

Ah hell, I should just let it go and allow myself not to work so damn hard at a job I don't like, give myself permission to make some money and enjoy it.

...Right?

2007-11-26T19:24:00.000-05:00

Thanksgiving and Beyond

I had a mostly unrefined Thanksgiving. I ate a bit of stuffing and a nibble of a gorgeous pumpkin cheesecake. (It looked as if made by a real, professional, bakery, but it was, in fact, made by my brother's gf's roommate, who was not even at our celebration.)

My spinach salad was a sleeper hit of the day. Grandma, accustomed to canned spinach if any, was shocked! shocked! that those tender little leaves were spinach. My brother was enamored by his first taste of goat cheese. My sister ate three bowls of the salad. It was weird, a salad being such a favorite on Thanksgiving.

Dancing at the TMI line, I will share that PMS week is an AWESOME time for Thanksgiving to land, if you're a "constantly hungry PMS"-type like me.

Beyond...

We stayed the night and returned home Friday evening. The cats have been like glue since. Some of you may remember my early tales of Luna Cat from this blog. She's Not Like Other Cats. Besides rolling in the litterbox for fun and eating canned beans and tomatoes, her oddities include that she's not noctural, prefering to curl up and sleep on our feet through the night; she's incredibly attached to her people; and she bumps into things in the dark. Her poor night vision and un-aloof adoration of me and G. have been especially evident over the long weekend. In the past, I learned that some of her unusual traits (needing to be at the very highest point of the room, playing fetch and inventing other games, that voice) seem to come from her Siamese mother. Today I idly looked up Siamese cats on Wikipedia, wondering if I'd recognize any other gifts from her mama. And here we are:

They also have a great need for human companionship. Often they bond strongly to a single person. These cats are typically active and playful, even as adults.^[3]^[4]
The social orientation of Siamese cats may be related to their lessened ability to live independent of humans. Siamese coat colouration is appealing to humans, but is ineffective for camouflage purposes. They are less active at night than most cats, possibly because their blue eyes lack a tapetum lucidum, a structure which amplifies dim light in the eyes of other cats. Like blue-eyed white cats, they may also have reduced hearing ability. Therefore, being dependent on humans may have been a survival trait for ancestors of the Siamese. ^[4]

That's all I want to write for now. I think there was something else, but poof...

2007-11-19T21:49:00.000-05:00

The Challenge, continued

(A review of the terms of The Challenge can be found here.)

I figured out how to make unrefined waffles and unrefined hot chocolate this weekend, which cheered me quite a bit after my no-good week. Today I made unrefined brownies. They are intense and molasses-y. Could only nibble my way through one, which really is a good thing.

Things I did not eat because of The Challenge this weekend included a giant, beautiful-looking slice of chocolate PB pie at a bookstore cafe; scones at a tea room; and cookies at intermission of the woodwind symphony concert.

Thanksgiving will be interesting. I've been strategizing. I can eat most things, but not my favorites: stuffing (sob) and pie. Nor can I have the broccoli casserole (what passes for a green vegetable at T-day with my family), because it's coated in a wonderful layer of breadcrumbs. And cranberry sauce is, alas, mostly refined sugar.

I'll be bringing a salad with goat cheese, an unrefined pumpkin pie (recipe courtesy of Deepak Chopra), and a cranberry fizzy drink sweetened with fruit juices. Hopefully these will carry me through. I can, of course, have the turkey, potatoes, gravy.

My Mom, I love her dearly, is not one for overarching menu planning. She plans to serve butternut squash soup, squash, and sweet potatoes. I presume the last two will both be mashed. This is why I chose to bring a salad. I was sorely tempted to suggest that she cut the sweet potatoes into cubes and roast them with some olive oil, sea salt, and herbs; but I didn't want to come across as obnoxious or ungrateful. Thanksgiving stresses the lady out a little; why make it worse? Just shush and bring a big spinach salad.

2007-11-16T13:10:00.000-05:00

Dear blog friends,

What advice would you share to the world? What accumulated wisdom would be your gift? Please share it in the comments and I'll share mine here.

I certainly haven't figured out most of life, but there are a few things I think I get right. Here they are, as my best tips on life I can give my friends. Yes, I'm getting sappy. I'm trying to cure some of my cynicism of late with a little sap.

Buy your spices from the Indian grocer. They are cheaper and such better quality.
Seek beauty, be it a concert, art, a book, flowers, nature, whatever is beautiful to you.
Preferably seek beauty with free passes from the library.
Keep a well-stocked birdfeeder. The birds enjoy it and you get to enjoy them.
A cat can be one of your best friends.
Keep your cat friend away from the birdfeeder.
Be sincere.
Real maple syrup only. Only!
As Thich Nhat Hanh says, go for refuge in the island of self.

Cheers
'Style

2007-11-16T12:24:00.000-05:00

Perfectionism and Morality

One of my colleagues seems to view human error as a moral failing. It makes her so angry.

I wonder if anyone has written about the conflation of perfectionism and morality in some people's minds.

2007-11-14T21:14:00.000-05:00

And then *sniffle* WAH!

Another tough day, the kind when you're going so fast fast fast that you are totally exhausted by 3 but must continue to push fast fast fast, and it's been over a week like this. Then, exhausted and tense and a trifle distracted, I rear-ended a Beamer in stop-and-go traffic on the way home. The driver was terribly nice and apologetic that he needed to ask for my info; it was a leased car, otherwise he would let the fender-bender go. Then a weirdly awkward but amiable moment when we realized neither of us has been in an accident before, so we didn't really know what to exchange or how to proceed. Eventually we sorted it out.

And then I got home all weepy because of a bad day + car accident, and I proceeded to mess up the falafel I was attempting to prepare for dinner, and then I stared in a catatonic state at the television for a while. Did you know there's a TV show where people compete to be the best mentalist, which is like a cross between a psychic and a stage magician?

...Learning this did not make me feel much better.

I sort of wish that the earth would just swallow me up. Or better yet, maybe my nice, soft blankets would swallow me while I have sweet dreams tonight, and I'd never have to return to the harsh and nasty world.

2007-11-13T19:54:00.000-05:00

Bad Cop Is Tired

I don't like being the heavy. I can do it if I have to, but it makes me tired. Shouldn't we all be able to talk things over gently and reach harmonious conclusions? We all work hard, we do. Even George the Salesman. Can't we just not do this?

A few weeks ago, I had to call up a freelancer, formerly our best freelancer of this sort, for the second time about the same project. It was still not right--materials arriving 3 weeks late with the art missing? really?--and I said, "Is this project being done in India?" And they said, "Yes." And I said, "I have no philosophical objections to work being done overseas. However, I have a serious practical objection when my project is screwed up." They brought the project to their US office. I also mentioned I may not work with them again. Ever.

Then there was my colleague who works remotely missing deadlines. I eventually had to tell his in-office supervisor. This was a really tough decision: on one hand, I had to do some serious CYA operations for my own safety and welfare. On the other, I know this remote employee does excellent work but is viewed with constant suspicion because he's not in the office. They are constantly threatening to terminate his contract because of office politics.

Then, if George the Salesman were not bad enough, his colleagues The Delivery Guys a. refused to help G. level the oven, b. did not have the delivery rebate form we were promised, and c. left the drawer of our old oven--which they were supposed to remove in entirety--on the front step. Yes! An oven drawer! On the front step! It's just fantastic! How is that even an option? I sent Lowe's (yes, Lowe's. Lowe's, don't shop there) an irate email. The central customer service has replied, but not the local branch, even though the HQ supposedly forwarded my complaint to the manager of the local store, promising me s/he would reply within 24 hours. So I must rain down more fire and brimstone upon Lowe's.

On top of that, the vet never phoned us with the results of the obscenely expensive blood work we had done for our sick cat. Thankfully she's now better, but for that price, you should send me the results on a freakin' engraved card. I called yesterday and they were closed for Veteran's Day. Today I was too busy to call.

And then, the freelance group that sent my project overseas and then brought it back--guess what? The project must be final Monday (they think Thursday, just to make sure I get it Monday) and today, I discovered a major error. MAJOR. ERROR. Oddly, it's a sort of error I had checked for, but either it was freshly introduced or somehow I missed it despite specifically checking for it. But it's a 101 kind of mistake, an assinine mistake that affects many other things in the project. I wish I could get into details, but I am skating on Blogging About The Workplace Ice. I had this Zen moment where I was just breathing IIIINNNN, breathing OOOOUUUTT as I called the Bad Freelancers (dialing felt slow-motion) and I said, calmly, "Is Kathy there?" (My contact.)

"She's not available Could I give you her voice mail?"

"Would you page her, please?"

"Actually, she had to run out this morning."

Crystalline calm: "Is there someone else I could speak to? There's something of an emergency with my project."

I was transferred to the department manager. I explained, "I'm specifically not panicking. I found a big error..."

Thankfully, they fixed it, and hopefully it's done now.

And then, the person who works remotely and sometimes misses deadlines emailed me to say that one of my best and most trusted freelancers missed some things so minor as to be insanely petty. So I asked this person: Are you a Virgo? And the answer was, Yes.

OH and P.S.: I forgot to tell y'all another whole thing with Other People's Deadline-Missing Screwing Up My Projects, but now I'm just plain tired.

2007-11-11T11:07:00.000-05:00

A Serious Time of Year

The roads are packed during commute time, even in the countryish towns west of the city. Everyone is here; no one is on vacation. Their kids are in the thick of the school year. We wait in long lines of steel behind yellow buses. The listings are sparse for the local arts calendars. Everyone is buckled down, pushing projects through before the holiday season. It's slightly determined, grim. No one has time for a shiatsu session or a concert. It's time for work.

Oddly, this gives me less to do on the weekends.

2007-11-05T21:17:00.000-05:00

George the Sales Guy

We bought a new oven this weekend. Ours gradually wandered from 50 degrees off the requested temperature, to 75, to 100, to wandering all over the temperature map. Mice live in it. It looks like it may be the original model from when our condo was built in 1976. In a word, it's gross. In another: inefficient.

So off we traipsed to Big Box Home Stuff Store, like good aspiring middle-class Americans, and examined the ovens. We selected a model we liked. It was hard to get the sales guy's notice. Eventually he--George--graced us with his attention. My hubby enquired as to whether there were other models with similar features we should consider. George replied by--not kidding--turning to me and asking, "Hon, do you cook a lot?" My usual bubbly nature fizzed right out; clearly, "polite but cool" was called for here. Nonetheless unprepared for such a terrific throwback of a question, I stammered, "I bake...some." Dear Husband tried to draw George off me. George would not have it. He pointed out to me that the heating element was ideal for "keeping gravy warm". I have never in my life prepared gravy. I'm not boasting about this; it's merely a fact.

George appeared to me to be living in some possibly alcoholic time warp. He had the stubbly face, weirdly pliable facial features, and quick defensiveness I saw in many a homeless alcoholic/lost soul in my Santa Fe days.

When we scheduled delivery, George creepily-amiably said he hoped I'd have some brownies ready for them! Oh dear me! When we were at last freed from his grip, he "helped" a couple looking at washing machines by cutting off the husband to ask the pretty blond wife how many loads of the kids' laundry she does a week.

2007-11-05T21:11:00.000-05:00

Weekend Review of The Challenge

Some things I ate despite The Challenge: 2 croutons, 1 onion ring, oyster crackers in my clam chowder. (I think it's important to note these and be honest, and do better next time.)

Some things I did not eat because of The Challenge: warm bread before dinner, pumpkin cheesecake, mozzarella sticks, many more onion rings, sugar in my tea.

Some things I ate because of The Challenge: dates, whole grain bread, whole wheat couscous, quinoa, homemade unrefined chocolate chip cookies, almonds, a wonderful salad instead of a sandwich, more apples than usual.

2007-11-04T08:50:00.001-05:00

I hate to curse it, but I'm too excited

I have a prospect for a new job that may replace the publishing gig. I don't want to curse it, so I won't say anything further at this time. But it seems like a job custom-made for me pretty much fell into my meditating lap.

Maybe.

I can say no more.

2007-11-04T08:46:00.000-05:00

Old

This morning, as I delighted in the bustling activity at our bird feeder while toasting my homemade (whole grain) bread, I reflected that I really have the hobbies and interests of a much older, possibly retired, woman. G. said, "At least you have a blog."

2007-11-02T20:44:00.000-05:00

The Challenge

The email reached me on October 16. "A Holiday Challenge" said the subject line. One of my favorite people, the woman who runs the yoga studio where I practice shiatsu (who also happens to be an amazing astrologer/dancer/honey producer) was challenging me--and what, a hundred other people?--"to avoid eating refined sugar and flour for this holiday season."

I closed the email.

I opened it again. I read the compelling reasons for doing this. I reviewed the terms of the Challenge: no refined sugar or flour from the day before Halloween until the day after Easter. I closed the email.

I opened the email the next day. I thought about the amount of smack (that is, white sugar) I consume. I thought about the amount of white flour I consume: pasta, baguettes...I closed the email.

I thought about my winter mood swings and wondered if they could be related to sugar highs and lows. I contemplated that I cannot eat just one holiday cookie--it's a dozen or nothing. (In one sitting.) I pondered the steady march of 5 pounds a year onto my waist and hips since beginning work at a department inundated with holiday treats from vendors. It's been 6 years since. We can all do the math.

I opened the email. I read the line: "If it [the Challenge] does not work for you, you can enjoy next year's season knee deep in refined treats." I thought that was a good point. I closed the email.

I argued with myself about my love of baking bread. Whole grain bread? Too...too much chewing. I thought about opportunities for learning to make whole-grain treats with unrefined sugars, like raw honey, molasses, and Succanat. I talked with people about the Challenge. It was universally deemed insane.

Then that stupid, pesky (snotty, know-it-all) voice in the back of my head started saying, You know this is what you've needed to do for years. You know it. You've finally been called on it. Do it now, as an experiment. Do it when you have a support network doing it with you. If it doesn't work for you, eat crap next year. People have done much bigger things than this: marathons, walking on the moon, immigrating to foreign places with nothing but fifty cents and a trunkful of hope, quitting real addictions. You can freakin' give up sugar for a few months.

I took a deep breath, and on October 20 I wrote back: "OK, I'll do it--BUT I reserve the right to bake bread with a little refined flour alongside the whole grain flour. It makes the texture much better."

My friend replied, "Okay, we'll put a little star on your forehead so we all know."

Now I'm on Day 4 of the Challenge. Some early observations:

1. Regular, refined cookies taste like sweet clouds and I could eat 4-6 at a time. Whole-grain cookies sweetened with honey or Succanat taste like actual food and are very filling.

2. Same goes for the fruit-puree-sweetened malted milk balls I found today: filling.

3. Sugar withdrawal can create a mild but persistent afternoon headache.

4. Holy crap, my "sweet" tastebuds must be shot through. I made some honey-sweetened apple cookies and they were not sweet-tasting at all.

5. Quinoa is really, really good. I always forget this until I am reminded by eating it again. Dinner suggestion: shrimp flambe over quinoa. Breakfast suggestion: poached eggs over quinoa with tahini sauce. (Christened "Hippie Eggs Benedict" by my husband.)

About 60 people are doing the challenge. I wonder how it's treating them.

2007-10-28T00:00:00.001-04:00

Arrrrrr

Went as pirates to a Halloween party tonight. And I don't know if it's just my piratical 'tude lingering, but upon coming home I unsubscribed from maybe half a dozen email lists. I opened an email account, and went: ARRR! Too much seagull shit be cloggin' up me inbox. Scurvy dogs tryin' to steal me treasure with they pleas for orphans and beluga whales! Or tryin' to sell me vitamins I don't need--I'd rather have scurvy and rickets both than give me treasure to that bearded land-lubber Dr. Weil! ARRRRR.

So I slashed a virtual cutlass through these e-newletters. Tomorrow I just may close down an email account or two (I have four. Do I need four?) and cancel one or more of the credit cards that just sits there without any balance, sending me statements for $0 every month. Then I'm going to get on that Do Not Fucking Send Me Your Fucking Catalogs list and make J Jill and her scurvy-dog kin walk the plank to a long sleep with Davy Jones.

ARRRRRR, I shall be free as the sea.

2007-10-21T17:33:00.000-04:00

Taking Interest

Yesterday was a Day of Great Festivities for G's birthday. Friends joined us at a brewhouse for beer, food, and conversation. It was a great time.

But the part that stayed with me most is that two relatively new friends--a PhD colleague of G's and his wife--were very interested in shiatsu. They took a genuine interest in both the theory and the technique. It was so nice, so refreshing, and I was so grateful. I usually can't discuss shiatsu with anyone outside the healing arts circle; I can see the eyes glaze. So I stopped bringing it up, omitting this huge chunk of me from daily conversation, but these new friends drew it out by asking me questions.

(This was especially notable in contrast to another couple at the party, who don't care about shiatsu. They would never be so impolite to say so, but they don't ask, and they have never seemed to take much interest when I've brought it up in the past. I can tell: they think it's weird. In fact, it's sort of sad, it seems that as much as I like this couple, I have less and less in common with them.)

Anyway, the point of this post was positive: These new friends are interested in what I do! When I mentioned it to G, he noted that those two have a wide range of life experiences, have done many interesting things, and they are open-minded and curious. (Qualities I like to think I share. Qualities I do share when I'm my Better Self.) They are quirky, to be sure, and so are we. It's small wonder we had a pretty instantaneous connection.

So I got to thinking, am I able to engage a variety of people, to take interest in what they do? To find common ground? I would like that to be true, but on reflection I found that I cannot make myself interested in professional sports. I just don't care. My eyes glaze over whenever it comes up. I like to watch a good, live soccer game now and again--Lots of action! Cute players!--but I don't follow a team. I wish I did care, as so many people take an interest in sports, and it really brings people together. Can you make yourself care about something?

...But you know, another friend was there last night who manages sports teams, and even though I'm not a "sports person", we've had great discussions about sports, the culture around teams, the rituals, the philosophy. And he and his wife also take an interest in what I do--especially the lady, as she is a psychotherapist, so we have much in common, if different approaches.

Philosophers. I want to be surrounded by philosophers. That's why I love you, my blog friends. You're philosophers.

2007-10-20T15:04:00.000-04:00

The God of the Old Testament

...may well be mildly irritated with us.

After the Plague of Mice was cleared up by our heathen cats, the Lord of Israel saw fit to rain down a Plague of Ladybugs. I came home one night and gasped to find them crawling all around the living room, just below the ceiling. I'm currently trying to smoke them out by burning sage, like a good heathen.

What's next? Snakes? Boils?

2007-10-17T19:28:00.001-04:00

Fall: The Sleepin's Good.

I forget every year how wonderful it is, those first cool nights. Crawling into bed and feeling the comforting weight of thick blankets pressing against my skin; cat curled up on my toes or across the corner of my shoulder, gently purring; loved one to my left side. The bed becomes a retreat, a soft, safe cocoon. Then in the morning--sunlight slanting across us or gray sky, it matters not--oh, so hard to wake up from autumnal slumber.

UPDATE: Nature has a sense of humor. The afternoon after I wrote this, a warm front moved in, and we're back to sleeping with the windows open and tolerating only a thin sheet. It's supposed to reach 80 degrees on Monday. Eighty!

2007-10-11T21:22:00.000-04:00

Meeses

On Sunday morning I awoke to find the cats batting around a poor dead mouse.
(Really cute little bugger.) G. was still asleep, so I wrapped up Mousie in
a cozy rag made of discarded, tattered silk thermal underwear and set him
outdoors under a tree. I covered him in leaves and asked the Other Mice to
stay away from our home, for witness the fate that hath befallen their
brethren.

In the days since, I have seen the cats staring with too-great interest
under the oven. I said more than once, "G., there must be mice living under
the stove. Would you please take a look?" I was feeling some primal part of
my brain taking over, the part that would shriek and run at the site of a
mouse. I didn't even know that part was in there. But G. replied that mice
couldn't be living there, because how would they get to the second floor?
This made absolutely no sense, especially in light of the recent, dead
mouse, but I let it go. G.'s hypothesis? That the cats had batted their toys
under the oven and were trying to retrieve them. To his credit, this does
have precedent. But in light of recent events, it was unlikely.

Last night, when I padded to the kitchen for my 1:30 AM drink of water, the
cats were really interested in whatever was happening under the stove. I was
feeling a little keyed-up anyway, having enjoyed too much oolong tea too
late at night. It freaked me out. I returned to bed, convinced that at any
moment, a cat (specifically, Luna), would jump on the bed and triumphantly
drop a mouse near my face, or on my legs, or...And that said mouse would be
only half-dead and proceed to crawl over me. For the rest of the night, any
time G. stirred, even the tiniest bit, I was awake with a gasp and a
shudder, certain it was time to Meet The Mouse.

This morning, I arose 45 minutes late (tired and still feeling wired) to
find Luna, sure enough, madly batting a dead mouse across the kitchen floor.
Previous Mousie appeared to have perished by a little heart attack at the
mere sight of cats. Today's Mousie looked like the cats killed him in a more
active manner. Poor Mousie II. I admit to feeling a surge of pride in my
cats, who I never guessed could have pulled off any real hunting. They
usually chase moths, who evade the cats with their wily moth tactics.

I woke up the ever-sleeping G. and explained that, given my whopping 15
minutes to get out the door after oversleeping, he would need to dispose of
the mouse. And I also invoked Gender Roles ("I'm invoking Gender Roles," I
said) so that he would have to inspect beneath the stove. I could feel that
my Primal Mouse-Fearing Brain had swallowed Mind of Rational, Modern Woman,
to my great surprise and chagrin. We took a moment to iron out the proper
instances for invoking Gender Roles, as neither of us had done that before,
and then he agreed to check the mouse infestation.

"But how could they get to the second floor?" he asked, bewildered. "They
CLIMB," I replied.

2007-10-06T08:27:00.000-04:00

Becoming a Transformer, Part 2

My transformer skills have been under severe trial this last week. I was surrounded by personal crises: one friend was having PTSD; another was reprimanded at work; a third, her husband asked her for a separation last weekend; and yet another had to put her beloved cat down. On top of all this, I was exhausted and my dear husband, simply grouchy.

It was a lot. I had to take several 'sanity breaks', eating lunch alone and meditating, or taking long walks by myself. I was certainly not 100% successful in Not Absorbing, but that amount of Crisis weighs a person down. It's a practice, not an end. I wasn't as patient with G as I want to be; but it was hard. I was fielding personal crises all day, and he was grouchy without apparent cause. And he should be Numero Uno, the one who gets more mental energy, but last week, his stress just didn't stack up to what was going on elsewhere. I feel torn about that.

But now I'm better, he's better. The friend with PTSD came to my practice for treatment, and I'm delighted to report it helped her a lot.

The funniest thing is that a couple of the Women in Crisis told me they are seeing psychotherapists, like it was a big secret, something odd or shameful. I wanted to say, but didn't, Yeah, so is every-other person in this damn building. Does anyone here seem particularly happy to you?

2007-10-01T18:53:00.000-04:00

Etiquette Advice, Please

Two of our friends are turning into a Sniping Couple, the kind who show no remorse at arguing and undermining each other when out for an evening with another couple (that's us). I usually just tune and and ignore until a Sniping Squall passes. Has anyone found a way to tactfully and effectively prevent public sniping from marring a pleasant evening?

2007-09-28T10:20:00.000-04:00

Becoming a Transformer (Warning: Infinite Navel-Gazing Ahead)

One of my aspirations is to become a transformer. There are those people who can truly help others transform their difficulties, sorrows, anger. Thich Nhat Hanh is the obvious example for me.

It's so easy to absorb rather than transform. When a friend tells you about her bad day and then you feel weighted down--absorption. That's how I've spent most of my life so far, absorbing. I think I was taught, not overtly, that this is the proper and compassionate response. But really, absorption just adds more "icky" to the world and doesn't help the first person feel any better. And I've noticed that champion absorbers become very tired and burnt out and then can't even listen to their friends or family. I've been there. I've been a sponge.

I've learned not to absorb, mostly, and I'm so grateful for that. I learned that as part of my shiatsu training. One day in my first semester I told my teacher that I developed the symptoms of my shiatsu recipient, but the recipient felt better after the treatment. My teacher--I will always love her for this--told me that we should not have porous energy that lets in the pathologies. We shouldn't be sponges! I'd never heard that before, not really. So I began making myself solid, and finding I could help others better when I don't take on their stuff.

Then, through the teachings of Thich Hhat Hanh and other great Buddhists, I've been learning not only not to absorb, but to transform the negative emotion. Watering positive seeds in myself and others. Sitting with hurting people and listening without judgment. And this really works, even in my barely-developed capacity to practice. The first step, of course, is to do it for myself. For myself and for the good of others! What a concept for someone raised Catholic.

Since returning from the retreat, I've been trying to find ways to water positive seeds. My grandma was complaining that all the "old people" in her assisted living community talk too much to her and ask her whenever they need help. Why do they ask me? Why do they talk to me so much? My former response choices would have been: 1. agree but later roll my eyes about how Grandma is such a complainer; 2. sympathize and possibly feel irritated along with Grandma; 3. ask follow-up questions that reinforced Grandma's negativity and feeling of victimization. Instead, I breathed in and out, smiled, thought for a moment, and replied, "Grandma, it's because you have a such a friendly face and a nice personality." And I could see it--her perspective changed, she smiled and looked more relaxed, dropping the subject. It was no longer that they were taking advantage--it was a compliment!

Over the weekend, my mother was stressed out (and resentful) because she had to plan Grandpa's birthday party at last-minute. I'm familiar with many of the storylines that run through her head: I'm the child who does all the work and is never appreciated, I hold the family together, my parents manipulate me. So after the party, at which Mom was in an anxious and irritable state but putting on the tight smile, I wondered how to approach her. Usually I end up reinforcing her storylines, which makes no one happy; or retreating from the unpleasantness and leaving Mom hanging, feeling badly. I didn't want to do either. I said lightly, "Mom, you did a great job pulling together that party at the last minute. Everyone seemed relaxed and I think everyone had a good time." That night she was still crabby (but not directed at us; directed inward, but I can still feel it!). Then, a few days later, she called and thanked me for saying that! She said it made her feel so much better! It was wild, and such a nice thing for me to hear--I felt good, too.

Oh, and at the party, Grandpa couldn't finish the clams he'd ordered. He first announced generally that we should all eat some clams. No one wanted any. Then he called each of us until he got our individual attention (interrupting conversations etc) and offered the poor clams. Everyone said no. But he wouldn't let it drop. I could feel irritation rising. I could see that Grandpa was for some reason anxious about leaving all the clams and he almost couldn't let it drop. So I said, "Sure, Grandpa, I'll take a clam. Thank you." I put it in my mouth, Grandpa relaxed and moved on with life, my stomach said, "Don't you DARE swallow that thing," and I discreetly returned the gritty clam to its shell. (Note to restaurant: You're supposed to clean the steamers. CLEEEAAAAN them.) In the past, I never would have thought to make this ceremonial gesture, but I was glad it came to me. I was the Sacrificial Clam that night, but we all won in the end.

The Buddha is the great physician and his teachings are the great medicine, they say. I'll agree with them.

And yes, there are weird family dynamics on my mom's side.

2007-09-27T07:19:00.000-04:00

Last evening was the Harvest Moon. We went for a walk in the park and (to our surprise) saw a bunch of children--mostly Chinese, but a mix--placing candles in the water. Then we rounded the bend and saw a huge, red moon hanging low in the bluegray sky. I did a Moon Salutation; G. was too self-conscious to join me in that, but he enjoyed looking at the moon.

If only I knew where to get a moon cake outside of the city. A sticky sweet cake with a whole egg yolk in the middle--sort of gross, but also really yummy. (I guess that's why the Chinese only eat them once a year!)

2007-09-25T20:15:00.001-04:00

Tell Me True

Anyone else here like liver? Delicious.

2007-09-25T20:10:00.000-04:00

I'm in favor of tribal casinos in Massachusetts because I believe in letting the First Nations enjoy a clever way of getting back some of the wealth, livelihood, and dignity robbed of them. It's bullshit when people say these are "fake" tribes. If the tribes are in fact shadows of their former selves, let's pause for a moment and think why that might be. And also, casinos give retired old ladies and the Chinese something to do. The Chinese reportedly love those casinos.

That's all.

2007-09-24T19:25:00.000-04:00

I Feel Bad for Britney.

That's all.

2007-09-23T08:48:00.000-04:00

Omnivory

My yoga teacher had a potluck at her house on Friday. She is a strict vegetarian; really, she's quite strict about her diet in general. She tried the ice cream one man offered, but commented about how she hasn't tasted ice cream since the last potluck, which I found slightly awkward.

The next morning, G and I drove to Chinatown to meet friends for one of my very favorite excursions--dim sum! For dim sum enjoyment, you must bring a sense of adventure and leave behind your shellfish allergy. What's in that dumpling? Who knows! The women pushing the cart does, but she doesn't know how to tell you in English. Why is there pork in the middle of a sweet, angel-food-cake-like roll? And how did the pork itself become sweet and bright red? Who knows! But hey, sweet pork can be delicious! And oh look, there's a shrimp in that other thing! Yum!

This unusual combination of food experiences--Vedic asceticism straight to delightful Taoist openness--made me want to start a new food movement, or maybe a branch of the Slow Food Movement: The Omnivory Movement. Food movements are usually defined by what is not eaten--meat, fish, eggs, dairy, wheat, sugar, pork, shellfish, eggs...vegetables, if you're one of those Neanderthal Dieters...Let's have a movement that instead celebrates the wide variety of foods that humans can eat! We shall rejoice in fresh tomatoes, crusty breads, pungent cheeses, meats and sweets!

PS I was very grateful that our dim sum friends appeared interested in my 3-minute dissertation on why the sesame roll filled with red bean paste is a perfect Taoist food, complete with detailed description of the yin and yang elements of said roll. Very polite.

2007-09-22T08:10:00.000-04:00

Dying Takes Longer Than I Thought

One of the basic Buddhist teachings, especially prevalent in Tibetan schools, in the immediacy of death: You could die today! Wake up! Wake up! That teaching (as outlined in Lama Surya Das' Awakening the Buddha Within), plus a friend dying at age 25 of cancer---along with reading Thich Nhat Hanh's beautiful teachings on dying; an article by a massage therapist about his work in hospice; and a book I once produced on hospice---these sparked my desire to volunteer in hospice.

I had this notion that people on hospice were about to die. Right now. Any second. Because, after all, we could die. Right now. Any second. So, hospice patients could especially die. I was surprised to learn, then, at my training that there is the dying process and then there is active dying. Patients can begin hospice once a physician estimates that they have six months or less to live. Humans begin active dying--with its particular set of signs and symptoms--two weeks to a few days before leaving their earthly shells. And this article states that there is also a pre-active dying phase.

Which is to say, I began visiting hospice a month ago and both of my patients are still alive without even a trace of the rattles. Disorientation is another sign of the Angel of Death, but one of my patients has advanced Alzheimer's; disorientation is a given. She had thick oral secretions during one of my visits, but then they went away. I had expected that I'd be getting a new patient every-other week, but it turns out: Death, like Buddha, takes its time.

This makes sense: One cannot rush a natural process, not really. As the Chinese proverb goes, You can't make shoots grow faster by pulling up on them. Anyone who bakes yeasted bread knows that wait and patience are as essential as flour. Bread is alive and happens on its own time. My friends who are mothers have found that the baby emerges when it's ready, defying Mom's wishes from the start. And once, a friend was alarmed that her first tomato plant was producing only small, green, hard tomatoes. She thought that her plant was defective or diseased. It's just that it was only June, and tomatoes take time.

2007-09-07T21:21:00.000-04:00

So. Tired.

Shout-out to Narya. I'm feeling your pain. The working + running a shiatsu practice + volunteering is wearing me down. I'm tired. Got home at 7:30 PM today after running around doing Shiatsu Practice Building and hospice volunteering, and still had more preparation to do for the festival tomorrow. (A literal festival, not a Plain Croissant Festival, at which I'll be doing shiatsu demos. And it's supposed to be 90 degrees out there again.)

Coworkers from Day Job enviously say, You have Fridays off!, but I don't. I work loooong days on Fridays, just not at Day Job. I'm hot and tired and worn out and won't get a weekend this weekend, once again. I work on Sundays. And this weekend, on Saturday. Tonight, affixing new address labels to business cards, I told the husband: I don't want to practice shiatsu anymore. I'm just tired. He said that most small business owners probably say this type of thing a lot. I pictured our ranks, all lined up and haggard through the ages, our houses messy and friends wondering why we can't lounge by the pool on Sunday.

I think I need to tweak this so it will work for me again. I'm a little too tired to figure out how.

2007-09-07T12:06:00.000-04:00

Taking Refuge Gets Confusing, Part 2

I had a great talk with a friend about the Chattering Dharma Sangha, the group that was fond of interrupting each other during dharma discussion. This friend was on the TNH retreat with me, and she has lived in this area longer than I. She had the privilege of visiting Chattering Dharma when it was not so Chattering, back when its founder lived locally and ran the group. It was a strong and lovely group then. But shortly after the founder moved far away and the leadership changed, my friend felt that Chattering was no longer the group for her. She couldn't remember exactly why. She listened to my account of the group dynamics. When I said, "But maybe I'll go again Monday and see," she made some baseball metaphor I didn't quite get (something about 3 strikes and 4 balls), which I took to mean or you could just let it go. I thought she had a good point.

We talked about other sangha options in the area. There's the Tibetan one (led by the wonderful monk from afar while he works to renew his R1 permit and reenter the US), the Korean Zen one she just heard about, and the possibility of starting our own.

Neither of us felt qualified to start a sangha. We aren't Dharma teachers in any formal way. "Speaking of Zen without truly understanding it is no better than being a parrot," says an old expression. But we wanted to share in certain of the rituals of Thay's lineage, like Touching the Earth and reciting the 5 Mindfulness Trainings.

We decided there was a middle way. We would each choose a sangha we liked for regular practice and Dharma lessons. But monthly, she and I would get together and invite others to join us, to meditate and practice some of the rituals. I think this will work beautifully.

Last night I visited the Tibetan group. It was marvelous. Of course, it's different in subtle ways from Thay's teachings and practices, and that will take some getting used to; but I loved it. People were warm and open and interested in my "Zen take" on matters. Tibetan Buddhism is very medieval in some ways, but that's OK. I'll just reinterpret the medieval elements quietly to myself. Buddhism is not like Catholicism; I will not be forced to recite things I don't believe every week. In Buddhism, there's an acknowledgment that regardless of our own views, ultimate reality is what ultimate reality is. In any case, both Zen and Tibetan are Mahayana schools, so I'm not stuck in some harsh Theravada climate. (I'd link Mahayana and Theravada, but it seems the Theravadic Buddhists wrote all the articles online.)

It turns out many people in this sangha have also studied Zen. One practices Zen archery and invited me to watch! This month, there will be a Zen incense ritual after the Zen archery! I'm so excited! I'd never even heard of Zen archery before!

(One of my Big Life Goals is to learn Zen tea ceremony.)

On Monday, my friend and I will go visit the Korean Zen group. Maybe it will be even better than the Tibetan group, but I really really like the Tibetan group. We'll see!

2007-09-04T22:41:00.000-04:00

Taking Refuge Gets Confusing,
Probably Part 1 of Several

I take refuge in the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha.

My retreat with Thich Nhat Hanh impressed upon me the importance of the Sangha, a community of Buddhists that support one another in practice. Buddhism is a practice, something requiring cultivation. Belonging to a sangha strengthens us in our practice. It helps to meditate with others; meditation actually becomes easier. It helps to be accountable to the sangha for regular practice. It helps to receive inspiration from one anther. It helps to have friends with whom to discuss the Dharma and its application in our own lives. During the retreat, I felt the strength of practicing with a Fourfold Sangha* of over a thousand individuals, the power of sharing our joy and suffering, and returned home with a resolution to practice with a sangha here.

We all belong to the great, capital-S Sangha of all Buddhists ever, but it's also nice to have a more concrete, little-S manifestation for support.

My 30-person dharma discussion group from the retreat has kept in contact through email. This contact with my retreat small sangha has been incredibly nourishing. We became very close from only a few days physically together, and I've already received great support from these wise people via email. I've shared some support, too. Lots of love flowing there.

But finding a local sangha with which to practice is more tricky. In a sense, I'm very fortunate; there are two local sanghas I could choose from. I was initially more inclined to join the sangha in Thay Nhat Hanh's tradition. They meet every Monday evening for an hour of meditation and an hour of dharma discussion and tea. I've been twice.

The first time, last week, there was only one woman there. She said that many people were on vacation and there are usually 8-12 members at a meeting. We hit it off terrifically. She expressed to me some reservations about the sangha, however. She indicated that they are not as "formal" as many sanghas, and she would prefer a more formal group. I wasn't sure what she meant. She also said that the group was not as centered in the Order of Interbeing (Thay's tradition) as they had been under past leadership. I wasn't sure what she meant, but I liked her very much and felt refreshed after the meeting, eager to return. Let's call her "Wilma".

Last night I attended for the second time. To my disappointment, Wilma was away for the long weekend and therefore not at the meeting. Three members were in attendance, including the woman who is the de facto sangha leader; let's call her Tory. Tory has been there the longest and so runs the group.

Tory told me straightaway that they are "less formal than many sanghas". She was clearly happy about that, telling me that it may take getting used to if I'm accustomed to a "more formal" practice. I still wasn't sure what she meant. We began with meditation, which was fairly standard, even if posture was poor (as Wilma had warned me it may be).

Then, as soon as meditation ended, the chattering began. The excessive chattering about nothing; the kind the Buddha warned against. Tory was the biggest culprit, which is alarming, because she is the one setting the tone for the sangha. Now, don't get me wrong, these are very nice, friendly, good people. But it struck me that this lack of "formality" was sort of undermining the effort of mindfulness. Then the ladies settled in for the dharma discussion. They quieted a bit. We took turns and listened fully to each other, as is the point. But then Tory started interrupting people, talking over. Before long, the conversation was a chaotic free-for-all with much more talking than listening going on.

So I'm left to tease out whether this is my own negative judgment getting in the way, or a legitimate concern about whether this is a good sangha for me. I'm leaning toward "legitimate concern" right now. No group will be perfect, to be sure, but this dharma discussion was not nourishing for me, and it left a bad taste in my mouth. Still, I'll go back again to see whether last evening may have been a fluke. Yet it strikes me that strong, grounded leadership may be important for a sangha to thrive.

The other option is a sangha in the Tibetan tradition run by a very good monk who lives locally. I've been a few times in the past and enjoyed it. But it in isn't the Zen tradition, which is the lineage I best relate to, and here is no dharma sharing between members that I know of. Still, I'm thinking that a strong Buddhist root may be more important than the exact right tradition, especially since the chatty sangha seems to have sort of abandoned having any strong roots; and I get lots of dharma sharing from my e-sangha. I'll revisit the Tibetan sangha on Thursday to see.

I mention all this in the hopes that one of my smart blog friends (and y'all are smart) will read the whole looong thing and chime in with sound advice.

Choices, better to have 2 than none!

*monks, nuns, laymen, laywomen

2007-08-26T18:19:00.000-04:00

In the Alzheimer's Ward

I've at last begun volunteer shiatsu work in hospice. I currently visit patients at two local facilities. For background, let me explain that there are not hospice facilities where people go to die. When a doctor estimates that someone has less than 6 months to live, s/he can be placed on hospice at the discretion of the primary caregiver. This means that no heroic gestures will be made to save the person's life. Often, the patient is given pain medication. A hospice organization may be hired to send their nurses, volunteers, chaplains, and so forth to give care at the patient's bedside. This bedside might be located in a swanky assisted living facility, a nursing home, or the patient's home.

On Friday I visited a well-appointed assisted living facility to see a 96 y.o. woman, who was sharp as a tack despite some short-term memory loss. She carried on a great conversation and lit up the room with her smile. After visiting for a few minutes, I explained what shiatsu was and asked if she'd like to try it. "No," she replied, "Not today." Her aide explained that this patient sometimes needs encouragement to try new things. We encouraged her. We demonstrated shiatsu on the aide, who oohed and aahed over how good it felt. Then we asked again, "Would you like to try shiatsu?"

"No, not today."

Today I visited a different patient in an Alzheimer's unit at a local hospital. She was very receptive to shiatsu and became very relaxed with treatment. This was fantastic, but the best part was the other patients in the unit. Her roommate, beaming a loopy grin, presented me with the cap from her lotion bottle as a gift. As I filled in the volunteer log in the hall, another patient stood beside me singing something like deranged Broadway tunes without lyrics, putting on a grand show. From time to time, she'd tap my elbow and exclaim, "Look!," pointing at nothing.

I freaking love this work.

2007-08-09T21:40:00.000-04:00

Bye

Busy busy weekend, then going away for a week. Meditation retreat with Thich Nhat Hanh.

While I'm away, remember to breathe and smile, and I will be breathing and smiling with you.

A flower for you, the Buddha to be--
'Style

2007-08-08T21:41:00.000-04:00

The Patience Layer

It's August, truly August, hot and sticky. The heat erodes that fine, fluid layer of patience that lubricates and cushions little day-to-day interactions; the heat has created an ozone hole in our tolerance. And when the heat of temper flares through the patience holes, that temper-heat creates an even greater gap, and the nasty cycle continues until cooler days drop the bottom out from our nastiness and restore our minds.

Everyone looks tired.

2007-07-29T21:28:00.000-04:00

Not a Ho

no no NO

You cannot receive shiatsu naked.

I will not come to your house. You must come to my office. O-F-F-I-C-E. Like professionals have.

Did you read the ad? Because if you did (and perhaps you're just barely literate, yes maybe that's the problem) you would see that I advertise prenatal support and healing IBS and hospice and palliative care and 700 hours of training! and fully licensed! NOT HAPPY ENDINGS.

2007-07-27T15:16:00.000-04:00

Adventures in Shopping

Today is a grab-bag day: saw a shiatsu client, then zipped 40 minutes away for a TB test required to do volunteer work, made a couple phone calls, and en route back from TB test, stopped at a mall to shop for my friend's bridal shower tomorrow. (Still have to get teeth cleaned, pick up antibiotics, and--the fun part--dance away at a Nia master class this evening.)

But let's zoom in on the mall for a moment. After grabbing delicious Indian food at the food court for lunch (naan and everything, hurray!), I stopped by Macy*s, hoping for a hat. The invitation to the bridal shower--tea at a seaside inn--encouraged me to wear a garish garden-party hat. You don't have to ask me twice to don a floppy monstrosity. I've been looking for the right hat for a while, but I have a relatively large skull and mounds of hair, and therefore all hat-contenders have been too small. But luck was a lady today, as I found a bright bright bright pink straw hat with a ribbon, and it fits over my curls, for 50% off*. Blessing #1 from the Mall Gods.

I felt rather out of place in Macy*s, a store populated by manicured, coiffed, made-up women in pastel sundresses and color-coordinated heeled sandals. I left the mall and paused to drink wonderful chai from Indian food court place in my car, blasting the A/C, and call my mom to ask about shower gift protocol. She encouraged me to go off-registry, save the registry items for the actual wedding, and just purchase something from the heart my friend would like. I appreciated my dear mother's counsel, specially because it spared me a trip to the heinous, big box store known as Bed, Bath, and BEYOND.

So back into the mall I trooped, making a bee line for Williams and Sonoma. And I have to tell y'all, in stark contrast to Macy*s, at W&S I felt as if I'd been beamed up to the Mother Ship. There we all shopped, casual in our Eddie Bauer tees and khakis (or variations thereof), most of us wearing distinctly different, yet similar, plastic frame glasses, no "done" hair in sight. I became best friends with the checkout guy in 5 seconds. In addition to the heat-resistant (to 800F!) spatula for my friend (in pink, naturally), I picked up a book about tea for me. It was marked down to $7.99, but it rang up at $5.99--it was on a double sale, my new BFF the cashier told me! Blessing #2 from the Mall Gods.

Then, blissing out in the good shopping mall A/C, I had to stop by the bookstore because W&S, love it though I do, has no Jacques Pepin cookbooks, and what shower is complete without Fast Food My Way? Well, the Little Chain Bookstore (name still on the sign) was bought out by Big Chain Bookstore (name on the bags), and although normally this would make me sad, this Big Chain really is better than the Little Chain was, and besides which, I have a discount card for this Big Chain. So, Blessing #3 from the Mall Gods, Fast Food My Way was 30% off today, which wasn't even posted anywhere.

Dentist time!

*Yes, in fact I am wearing my favorite new hat right now as I type. No, it doesn't go with my red tee shirt. What's it to you?

2007-07-23T12:58:00.001-04:00

Mysterious

I have an odd pain around the area of my right kidney. I can't tell whether it is muscular or organ pain, so I visited the doctor this morning, where we ruled out a dizzying array of maladies: pregnancy, gallstones, pneumonia, two possible kidney infections. It may still be another kidney infection or an ovarian cyst, however. My money is on the cyst. Been there before.

Ah, you precious little organs, all that can go wrong with you...It boggles the mind.

2007-07-21T08:24:00.000-04:00

I Just Decided

I've been wondering whether Clinton of Obama should be my contender for '08. Been leaning toward Clinton, because she seems most qualified to me. Obama is a little too green. Does he have the fight? But then, I argued with myself, we need a relative outsider for real change.

I just read this Slate article about the Pentagon insulting Clinton, and I decided that she's the one for me. It's good. Go read it. Not too long.

2007-07-19T15:15:00.000-04:00

This Test Is Freakishly Accurate.

Your Score: Sad Cookie Cat

67% Affectionate, 46% Excitable, 62% Hungry

You are the classic Shakespearian tragedy of the lolcat universe. The sad story of a baking a cookie, succumbing to gluttony, and in turn consuming the very cookie that was to be offered. Bad grammar ensues.

To see all possible results, checka dis.

Link: The Which Lolcat Are You? Test written by GumOtaku on OkCupid, home of the The Dating Persona Test

Thanks to Trifle.

2007-07-14T19:33:00.000-04:00

Flavor of the Season

Each summer has its own mood. A lazy summer, a summer-love summer, a lonely, angsty summer, a beach summer, a carefree summer, a summer that whispers promises on shady breezes. Summer 2007 is kicking off as a crazy summer.

Two weekends ago we had my sister's graduation cookout-party all day Saturday. It was great fun, it was over an hours' drive. This is not inherently crazy until you factor in the teeming mass of chatterboxes we call my family. Take, for example, the act of getting up from the table to fetch a drink. I said, "I think I'll get a drink. Anyone want anything?" This led to a 3-minute conversation about how the table could use another chair. New plan: pick up extra chair, bring to table, get drink. I pushed up from the table, strode 3 steps across the deck, and ran into my dad's best friend, Roger. Roger and I talked for 10-15 minutes: how are his kids, how was his daughter's wedding, what his son, with whom I graduated from high school, is doing. My mom went by to get grandpa a drink; I mentioned I was about to bring an extra chair over. She handed me a chair, which remained in my hand as I talked to Roger. Mom went by again a few minutes later, grabbed the chair, brought it to my table. My dad came by to talk to Roger, and I escaped in search of thirst-quenching goodness. Two more steps, and there I was with Roger's wife, Beth, and my great-uncle, Ray. Another 10 minutes before I could disentangle myself and get to the coolers. Then there was getting back to my seat, which was a matter of reversing the process, but with different players. Later that day, I went inside to get my sister Chapstick and did not see her again for 40 minutes---having run into an aunt, uncle, and more friends of my parents---at which point she had found her own. A while after that, she went inside for playing cards and did not get back out for about half an hour. My husband passed her in the hallway, the cards dangling from her hand, talking to more relatives. G. was perplexed when were still at the party 2 hours after we'd agreed to leave. My dad pulled him aside and said, "There's something you should know, now that you're part of this family. You will never be able to leave until at least 45 minutes after you decide to go."

The next day was our anniversary, and we spent it in pretty seaside towns up the coast. We had a nice dinner. But boy were we tired. In between all the festivities, I was working my regular job, treating shiatsu clients, and planning to move my shiatsu office.

Then things got really crazy. I'd rather not get into all the gory details, but G's dad was embarking upon a happy second marriage, his wedding on July 7. I worked Monday and Tuesday after the graduation/anniversary weekend, G picked me up from work Tuesday night, and we drove straight to Connecticut, dodging accidents on the Mass Pike, to throw the mildest bachelor and bachelorette parties humankind has yet seen. Hartford rolls up the sidewalks at 9 PM sharp. Still, it was a loooong day for us, and then we spent the night at a Howard Johnson's. The next morning we drove to the town of our alma mater and ate lunch with good friends. I also found a wonderful oriental rug for ninety percent off, perfect for my new treatment room, which is spacious and well-located but poorly decorated. We were well but tired. We drove back home to spend Thursday in our place before returning to Connecticut Friday.

But not all was well beneath the surface. First, my friend in Florida emailed and said that she had a mysterious venomous bite on her neck that blurred her vision, but her acupuncturist's advice of applying warm compresses was helping tremendously. I wrote her back and strongly, strongly advised her to see an MD and not mess with this. Turns out she has no health insurance as a freelancer, and so can't afford it. I became (again) enraged at the joke of health care.

Oh but then we got a call. G's dad was in the ER. The day before his own wedding. Blood clot in the leg plus compartment syndrome. So we drove back down and had a hectic weekend between helping him and his bride at their home and the reception hall, and then back to the ER the morning after the wedding. The wedding itself was lovely and I only hope the groom will remember some of it through the haze of oxycontin and/or codeine. Then followed a harrowing week of him being in the hospital, getting surgery, and the hospital being a general ZOO and/or 3 ring circus of miscommunication. To the point where the new wife began keeping a log of every doctor's order so that she could call staff on it when they began giving him the wrong medication, oh yes. Fucking wankers, as I like to say. Lots of nervous phone calls and emails last week. But thankfully neither the hospital nor the clot killed my dear father-in-law, and as of this morning he is home and still temporarily drugged. And thankfully we did not have to return to Hartford and sleep at the HoJo's again this weekend, though I must admit it was a very clean and serviceable budget hotel. But I like my fancy mattress at home. It has memory foam and pocket coils. As a side note, if you're going to spend a lot of money on anything, a top-of-the-line mattress is an excellent choice. You spend a third of your life there. A good night's sleep is invaluable.

On top of all this there was some drama surrounding my current treatment room, which I'm thankful for in a strange way, because it reinforces my decision to leave.

So I worked at Day Job Mon-Thursday this week, and thankfully it was relatively drama-free, because I couldn't take much more action. Yesterday was also wicked busy, beginning with NIA class, and then shiatsu demos at a real estate office, and then a new--rather difficult-- shiatsu client, and then a trip to a farmer's market which was twice as far as we'd thought.

This morning I was exhausted and out-of-whack, still kind of tense from all the craziness, equilibrium not yet reached. But it's been a very therapeutic day, beginning with a shiatsu trade with a great practitioner whom I still can't believe likes to trade with me. Then G. and I went to a wonderful picnic-party with Italian food and mask making. This artist who makes amazing, astonishing masks opened his studio to us (and his wife is the amazing cook--her grandfather cooked for a king of Italy!). First we ate and chatted on the cool patio beneath a giant oak. Then we sat among his mythical, huge, beautiful masks--the sun and moon, a raven, Cyclopes, Bacchus, an Elder with a giant beard, dragons, lions, and on and on--and made our own humble creations with feathers, paint, pipe cleaners, sequins, and so forth. But each of us made an expressive, wonderful, unique mask, that was the coolest part. I was especially impressed with my own husband's mask, with the earnestness and concentration he brought to an activity he didn't initially think he would enjoy. Channeling perhaps some grad school angst, he glued gold rope in rows to look like the sticky, side-parted hair, and glued on a crazy mustache and beard of Easter basket grass: it was an amalgram of poorly-groomed professors and graduate students. He topped it off with silver pipe cleaner eyebrows angled a little too high and messily, just right for his character. I attached fake flowers and a teeny little parrot to a gold mask, creating something like a tourism mask for Puerto Rico, if you can picture such a thing. Two people used a cat mask base to create very different, wonderful felines. One woman made a lacy mask with devil horns of sparkly red pipe cleaner and a halo of sparkly silver pipe cleaner. Another woman took a mask covered with feathers and added some well-placed beads and sequins to make it her own Mardi Gras expression. It was very therapeutic, and somehow making these individual creations brought us together as a group.

Tomorrow, another cookout, this one a potluck at the home of my teacher who is recovering from cancer. (Oh yes, I also made a dessert for the potluck today.)

But tonight, a movie, I think.

2007-07-08T22:20:00.000-04:00

A Few Reasons It's Good To Be Home

My own schedule
Our own bed
Shower filter
Real soap
Conditioner
Eating regular food prepared at home

Including fresh fruits and vegetables
Tomorrow I will eat

Breakfast: blueberry smoothie, oatmeal, Earl Grey tea
Lunch: salami and provolone sandwich, tomato and basil salad
Snack: donut peach and pluot

No, I'm not sure what a pluot is or how it tastes, but I always have to try the new fruit at the market, to the distress of the cashier. Later this week I will try a velvet apricot, which is purple, unlike most apricots, which are apricot.

Dinner: cannellini beans with Swiss chard and a poached egg, according to a recipe from our new Lidia cookbook

Guaranteed tea when I want it
Two cats

Rather than seven
And they're ours

No dogs

I really don't enjoy dogs very much

Shiatsu practice in a period of growth
Lots of windows letting light in
Bright colors on the walls
Bloomfield: What's The Point

2007-07-06T10:29:00.000-04:00

Some Reflections on the 4th

I have trouble being "patriotic", as I discussed with a dear friend in town from the other coast yesterday, because I have no clear conception of what "America" is. I'm a New Engander, and I would gladly defend my beloved fishing villages, mill towns, clam chowder, liberalism, and even Dunkin' Donuts and the local R-less dialect from threats by, say, Manhattanites*. But I have no idea what it means to love America, even if I can love Massachusetts.

We're too big. Wouldn't we be better off with a more Federalist set-up, independent states held loosely together by mutual respect? Or maybe we need a few "mega-state" regions, dividing up into New England, Mid-Atlantic, Dixie, Midwest, Southwest, West Coast, Yellowstone-Park-Touching-States? Make the cultural divides the political divides. I promise we in the Bay State will try to resolve our differences with New Hampshire if we don't have to deal with Alabama. Right?

I'd write more, but it is steamy and hot (in a bad way) in this little home office.

*A friend from Florida emailed me and asked if I ever read the New Yorker. Ha! I replied that it's not exactly a rivalry with New York, because we're so obviously superior, but no, I don't read the New Yorker.

2007-07-02T19:11:00.000-04:00

Assortment

Ah, I'm tired. Much activity, less sleeping.

I'll be moving my shiatsu space soon, to a better-trafficked location, but a room that is not quite as pretty. But I know the woman I rent from currently is having big! feuds! with the landlord! and, as if to confirm my decision, the hallway of that office flooded over the weekend. The carpet is soaked with what was once inside the air conditioner. Soaked. Didn't keep me from seeing a client Sunday, though.

Saturday was my sister's graduation party. Very fun. Nice weather for it, in the 70s and clear.

Sunday--yesterday--was our very first anniversary. We had a lovely day strolling by the shore and a wonderful dinner. Best quail I ever ate.

And on Saturday I received my registration packet on the Zen Buddhist retreat I'll be doing (or should I say, being) in August, led by the Ven. Thich Nhat Hanh. He is 78 years old and only visits the States every-other year, so I thought it best not to delay. It should be a difficult and wonderful week, and I'm looking forward to it.

This week brings my father-in-law's wedding. We'll be back and forth between home and Connecticut all week for the festivities. Looking forward to it--but already oh so tired. Toothpicks holding my eyes open.

2007-06-23T10:21:00.000-04:00

High Noon of the Year

I spent the Solstice evening drumming with some friends from the drum circle. It was lovely, but it's also a little tiring for me to be around these new friends. I'm not sure how close I want to get to them, as they seem...dramatic. They are into the whole pagan-shaman thing, which is cool, and which I relate to on some level, but. But I don't want to talk about assorted spirits nonstop, and I tire quickly of gossip about this-or-that shaman who is using his or her power improperly. It all seems a little silly to me, and quite discordant to the Buddhist values I hold of right speech and non-attachment. I'm tempted to tell these friends--who really are lovely people, talented in both music and their own way of interacting with Spirit--I'm tempted to tell them the truth: That reciting your own storylines of pain or anger over and over gives those stories more power and causes you more suffering. They are attached to their suffering. We all are, truly, our minds cling; such is human nature. But they delude themselves into thinking that they are protecting each other and resolving things by talking, talking, talking this way; wasting precious breath on what amounts to gossip.

But the true problem is that, look! Look, I'm doing it right now, in a way. Why am I attaching to the storyline of their attachment to storyline? You could say, it's because you want to protect them, but that is the same reason they would give as they relish their dramas! Perhaps that energy of attachment is too strong with them and I should leave the group. Because look, I'm picking it up.
***

In other news, I baked challah. Ironically, I baked this traditional Jewish celebration bread for a baptism I'm going to today. I thought the festive occasion called for a festive bread, perhaps with a nice braid. I also baked a loaf for me and G. to eat, and it is perhaps the most wonderful thing I've baked yet (except those scones...and that Jacques Pepin almond cake...). Well, let's say, at any rate, that it's the most wonderful bread I've baked. It is perfectly soft inside, light and airy and so so soft. The outside is golden brown with just the faintest whisper of sweetness. Maybe we'll just stay home and gorge ourselves on both giant loaves today.

Do they sell insulin to non-diabetics who want to overeat bread grossly? Maybe in Mexico.

***

The weather is a dream. Mornings are clear and lovely, puffy white clouds, blue skies, and breezes. Not a spec of humidity. Then darker clouds roll in through the afternoon, treating us to late afternoon thunderstorms. These pass and yield to cool evenings. It's the most beautiful, perfect weather I remember in a long time.

***
There is more, but I must go. Reminders for myself/teasers for you: Thich Nhat Hanh, shiatsu space.

2007-06-15T08:04:00.001-04:00

Much Better

The new carpet is a toasty brown. It's a little darker than I'd remembered it, but it looks fantastic. Makes the whole place seem bigger, lighter, and cleaner. What a lift.

The old carpet was apparently, well, old. Yes, the color was obviously circa the 1987 "teal and dusty rose" craze, but archaeology supported our theory. Apparently there was a good quarter-inch of combined dust and eroded carpet (like so much sand) beneath the old pad. The Carpet Guys said this meant that the carpet was old.

The archaeologists/carpet guys also noticed that there was a seam running down the middle of the hallway. For those unfamiliar with best practices of carpet laying, this is not exactly correct. As the scholar studying the archaeologists' findings, I've concluded that perhaps the previous owners carpeted with remnants to save money. That would explain both the seam and the color...unless they actually liked the color. Which could be possible c 1987. Maybe they were psyched to find a teal remnant.

2007-06-15T07:45:00.000-04:00

Room 1, Chaos. Room 2, Pandemonium.

(From an email I sent yesterday)

Our little condo is in chaos this morning because we are improving the feng shui with new carpeting. Out with the bluegreen floors of the previous owners, in with a light tan! All of our worldly possessions--aside from the furniture itself--are stacked and shoved in the kitchen, with only a small avenue clear to reach the fridge, coffeemaker (for G), electric kettle (for me), and toaster. We even emptied our storage closet into the kitchen. (That closet doesn't even have the bluegreen carpet of the rest of the place. It has the original, bright orange, shag carpet! Oh my!)

The carpet layers will move the empty furniture into the common hallway as they work. It should be interesting. G is home to help, I am hiding at work.

The cats are funny in their reactions to the odd situation. Cats are very territorial, you know. They generally like things to Stay The Same. Noah was distressed last night as we engaged in the absurd act of packing all our belongings into the kitchen. He kept looking up at us and "quacking" for reassurance. Luna, on the other hand, was excited that she could jump into the empty bookshelves, climb over the growing jungle gym of boxes, and generally get in the way.

We also used the opportunity to pack the car with lots of items to donate to charity. Some were odds and ends our parents have given us over the years, such as decorative boxes and baskets, miscellaneous lamps, and two picnic baskets (we kept the third). The donations also include odd clothing my grandmother bought me (hot pink dress pants, for example), a complicated boardgame, and my collection of throw pillows. I made sure to give thanks for all the items and the kind thoughts and good memories that came with them. Be free, miscellaneous items! Be free!

2007-05-26T09:45:00.001-04:00

So Much More to Discuss

On the pursuit of beauty, but today I'm off to see the Italian Renaissance sculpture at the MFA and to shop for new, more beautiful carpet, and to seek to embody the beauty and grace of motion at NIA class. More anon.

Walk in beauty,
kStyle

2007-05-24T09:19:00.000-04:00

Question

Is beauty a frivolous pursuit?

2007-05-19T22:15:00.000-04:00

Don't WANNA

I don't know what's wrong with me lately, but I just don't want to do anything I "have to".

I'm usually pretty fastidious. But I let dishes go 2 days, until every surface--counters, kitchen table, coffee table--was covered. I spilled popcorn on the rug yesterday and haven't vacuumed it up. I finally unloaded and re-loaded the dishwasher (that's right, I have a dishwasher--no excuses) just now, but I refuse to wipe down the counters or do the handwashing items tonight.

I was like this at work last week too, dragging my feet.

What's going on? Is it the incessant rain?

2007-05-17T13:55:00.000-04:00

Cleanse Day 4: It Ain't Easy

OK, so I just ate a whole package of Chinese sesame-peanut candies. And you know what? They were friggin' awesome.

Note to self: no more shopping at the Chinese store during lunchtime, especially while cleansing, unless I've eaten first.

2007-05-16T21:03:00.000-04:00

Cleanse Day 3: Perception Shifts

Once you've stopped blasting at your senses with sugary and salty foods, the senses have room to heighten, allowing you to open up and perceive greater subtlety. Today, bananas taste like floral, sweet velvet. Chickpeas are dense little nuggets of nutty nutrition. Cauliflower is all texture, an architecture of stems and branches yielding to teeth and bursting fragrant water, spiced from simmering with Indian herbs.

I remained fairly tense all morning, until the afternoon rainstorm washed me out, leaving calm, clarity, contentment (and apparently alliteration). I drove home with the radio off, letting the symphony of sprinkling and pattering rain fill my ears and trickle down my spine, relishing the fierce lightshow and thunderclaps.

On a more mundane level, I've been craving salt.

2007-05-15T21:31:00.000-04:00

About Cleansing (for Ann)

Most people who cleanse do so in the spring, which is the ideal time to slough off excesses after eating, eating, eating, and hibernating during the winter. I mean, that's what winter is for, but then we need to adjust for a new phase of the year. A few people also cleanse in late summer, when there's an abundance of fresh veggies.

How do you decide what to eat on a cleanse? That's a toughie. There are ten thousand ways to cleanse. In a warm climate--Hawaii, California, Arizona--some people elect to do all juices, nothing but juice, juice, and juice. This is only good for certain people (fiery constitutions) in certain climates (Alaska and New England need not apply). Some people eat only raw foods for a few days. Macrobiotics eat only brown rice. A yogini friend eats a rice-and-lentils combo for cleansing (only that).

I did my first cleanse 2 springs ago under the direction of an acupuncturist. It was a classic model. Two days of nothing but fruits and veggies (and herbs, olive oil, and herbal teas), then adding back in selected grains (ones that do not form much mucus in the colon), and finally integrating protein--at different meals than the grains. It was a good cleanse, but I hated the recipes in the cleanse book, which were all quasi-Japanese flavored: lemon and soy, and lemon. (This is partly because lemon is very cleansing.) I was pretty angsty the first few days until I started modifying familiar recipes to suit the cleanse.

Oh yeah, and daikon? Tastes like rot. It's very cleansing and I was game...until I tasted it.

Last year, prepping for my wedding, I only got in only a day of cleanse. But I did get a very helpful eBook from a health coach. It took a more reasonable approach to cleansing, and suggested all manner of cleanses, from just giving up caffeine or sugar or processed food, to eating soup one meal a day, to a fuller cleanse like I'd done before. This eBook was willing the meet the cleanser where she is. (If anyone wants a copy, I'll tell you how to get it.)

This year I went back to the basic cleanse model from the first year and put my own twists on it. I chose my soup recipes from the Chopra Center Cookbook, which is wonderfully Indian flavored. Because my digestion is not the strongest (Spleen dampness and deficiency, as we say in the biz), I elected to keep jasmine tea on the cleanse because it tonifies the Spleen, and to eat almost entirely cooked foods. I'm eating barley, a very cleansing grain for the Liver, rather than doing pure fruits and veggies for the first 2 days. I'm eating very little raw food because it's also harder to digest.

The most important aspect of cleansing is probably setting your intentions for the cleanse--identifying your reasons for doing it. Sets the whole thing in a good frame.

Because cleansing is only for a short period, and because you bring certain intentions to it, it does not feel like a Diet. It's a way of taking care of yourself, not of beating yourself up.

Bonus cleanse tip: Avocadoes are very filling.

2007-05-15T21:12:00.000-04:00

Cleanse Day 2

Cleansing is an interesting experience. I've been feeling spacey, yes, and also a little more...open? Unshielded? This is an interesting experience at work. A lot of cleansing is just letting the experience happen. You have no idea how much we stuff down with food until you stop doing it for a few days.

A lot of anger has been rising to the surface, which is very good; but it's been sitting there, clinging to the surface--which is bad. Tonight's yoga class mellowed out the anger and made the rough edges round (rather literally in the case of my shoulder sockets). My yoga teacher said I was surrounded by pools of golden light during meditation. She made it sound like quite the laser light show. Very cool.

I slept like the dead last night. I can tell tonight will be similar.

People are supposed to poop a lot during cleansing. I've been pooping no more than usual. But lordy, the Number 1! I guess I was retaining water. Or I'm just drinking a lot more. Or some of both.

Here's what I actually ate today, if y'all are curious:

7:50 AM. "Country potatoes", which are cubed potatoes baked with sliced red bell pepper, leeks, olive oil, dill, cumin, salt & pepper. Half a glass of water. Supplements: black currant oil and triphala.
8:15 AM. Jasmine tea in car. Tastes like liquid amber.
10 AM. Honeybush tea.
10:45 AM. Juice, lots of edamame.
11:30 AM. Stir-fry veggies, jasmine tea.
12:45 PM. Vegetable-barley soup. (VERY grounding and stabilizing. Made my nose run, too!)
4 PM. Fruit salad (banana, apple, blueberries with a squeeze of lime juice and a sprinkle of cinnamon); water. (getting tired and craving chocolate!)
7:20 PM. My yoga teacher happened to have a pot of herbal liver cleanse tea on the stove, and she kindly gave me a glass. Such a great tea.
8 PM. Dinner at last! I was so spacey I could barely function. Spinach and avocado salad with cider vinegar and olive oil for dressing; lemon water; edamame.
8:30 PM. More honeybush tea.

2007-05-14T21:47:00.000-04:00

Cleanse Day 1

The rules of the cleanse

Fats: olive oil, coconot oil, ghee
Drinks: water (with lime, etc), jasmine tea, herbal teas, some juices
Food:
Days 1-2--Any fruits and veggies (Including nightshades, ha!), barley
Days 3-4--Add in quinoa, rice
Day 5-?--Add in tofu, tempeh
Spices: unlimited

The goals for the cleanse

REST digestion, mind, Spleen, body
AGILITY
GETTING RID of whatever I don't need that I may be holding onto---emotions, thoughts, fat, food addictions, anger, frustration, waste in colon (Cleansing works on all levels if you so invite it)
DE-GUNK! feeling a little toxic lately
CLARITY
PATIENCE

I geared this cleanse toward supporting digestion, by including jasmine tea (not standard cleanse fare, being caffeinated) and consuming mostly cooked foods. Most cleanses emphasize raw foods, but my poor little Spleen meridian can't handle such things. I'm letting myself eat potatoes. I like them.

Selected notes from the day. I was very grouchy. Did not help that work was ridiculous the first day of cleansing. At home, I cheated and ate a sliver of brownie, so rich, so good. Felt more human after doing a little yoga after work.

Went to natural foods store for cleanse supplement and also water-based nail polish. Now my toes sparkle with "Goddess", a lovely deep mauve. Very spacey while there, typical for cleansing. Bought a nice juice blend, drank it in the car, felt more alert.

Honeybush tea is a nice cure for the sweet tooth.

Around 4 PM someone else microwaved meat at work. I smelled meat. Instant saliva. Jealous.

Noticing that food is EVERYWHERE. Turn on an hour of TV. No one on TV craps but everyone eats, all the time, constantly.

2007-05-02T21:30:00.000-04:00

The Tupperware Song

The melody is still a little rough, but the lyrics go something like:

Tupperware here, Tupperware there
Tupperware, Tupperware everywhere
Gets my lunch where it needs to go
But I gotta wash it, woe woe woe

The darkness of the last line ("woe woe woe", reminiscent of Greek or Shakespearean tragedy) belies the songs's ditty-like perky, upbeat tune.

2007-04-28T07:44:00.000-04:00

Summary

Sorry I've been a negligent blogger. Not that the fate of civilization hangs on my words. Truth be told, not too much is going on. I'm in a period of relative quiet, in all areas of life: not overburdened at Day Job, very few shiatsu clients, my community ed classes won't run because of low enrollment. I've been back at the drawing board re promoting my practice, and I think I have some good new approaches, such as introducing shiatsu to the people who most connect the community (teachers, police/fire/EMS, and realtors) via donating mini-sessions, and letting them disseminate the knowledge for me.

I fell in love with a kind of dance-yoga-martial arts fusion workout called NIA, and bought a 10-class card. Still going to drum circle. I reconnected with some people from shiatsu school. My sister scored me free tickets to Giselle danced by Boston Ballet for the week after next. I'm looking forward to the performance tremendously. My entrepreneurial hero, Gary Hirschberg, will be in my town this coming Thursday (to promote his organic ice cream at his organic restaurant. I like ice cream, his restaurant, and his vision, so it will be good). Oh, and the FDA is a bunch of wankers, especially lately.

G's new nickname for our esteemed president: Honest George.

2007-04-20T17:22:00.000-04:00

Q: How are vegans like born-again Christians?

A copy of VegNews sat on the office kitchen counter, the place where unwanted food and books go for colleagues to consume. I grabbed it; its brightly-colored cover promising an article about sweet potatoes was inviting.

I expected a magazine packed with delicious vegetarian recipes, highlighting creative new uses of vegetables. I carried the magazine around in my bag for two days, eagerly awaiting a free moment to thumb through the glossy pages.

That free moment came today. Boy, was I disappointed.

First of all, VegNews is not a magazine for vegetarians. It's a magazine for vegans who have apparently never read the Omnivore's Dilemma and therefore don't realize that sugary, processed soy crap (vegan ice cream in mass quantities, for example) is as bad for the earth as it is for your body. Not that I'm above consuming a little SoyDream--but, if the Militant Vegans want to go on and on about how much holier and healthier they are than I, they should not be eating soy crap.

The magazine is sprinkled liberally with advice on how to convert the omnivores--even the vegetarians--to the vegan lifestyle. Especially riveting was the article "Sowing the Seeds", in which "author with attitude Rory Freedman shares her no-nonsense, tough-love recipe for getting your guy to go vegan". Here's my faaaavorite part of that article, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I do:

When he orders meat at a restaurant, don't make a peep! A huge challenge for all compassionate vegans is successfully enlisting others without alienating those around us. So quit being such a damn nag. Unfortunately for women everywhere, nagging is ineffective.

Yes--women are nags! So enlightened are these vegans! Throughout this incredibly "compassionate" article, Ms Freedman refers to the theoretical meat-eating lover as "the big lug". Yes! So nice!

I won't get into much more detail here, because life is short and there are better things to think about, but did you know that vegans are thinner, healthier, more compassionate, and more determined than their animal product-eating counterparts? Oh yes, and they're trying to convert us for our own good. And there are testimonials from people who are so much better off since becoming vegans! Which all reminds me of those wacky, preachy, Jesus-loving zealots.

Recipes? There are exactly three in the whole issue. But there is plenty of stuff to buy buy buy, and also an article about 8 Vegan Weddings!

Like born-again Christians and who try to reach out to teens through rap and hiphop (check out the hilarious movie Saved! for a parody), here we have born-again Vegans trying to mainstream their message with a normal pop-culture medium. How long until we see a Christian Vegan movement? Is it here already? And to clarify, I have nothing against being Christian or vegan, and appreciate some of the core values in these movements, but can't stand the extremism, the need to convert. And the perverse lack of sensuality in both movements. Three recipes? This is not about savoring life. I daresay there is an element of hating the body in both movements, or at least in the dumbass magazine.

Someone once said that she or he most feared the dictator that would oppress the people for their own good. Whatever that quote is, I've mangled it and I'm sorry, but that's the idea.

PS. Another similarity between the movements is that both have a sort of "end times" feel. But I've run out of steam (probably because of all those animal products making me sluggish!) and won't get into this.

2007-04-20T11:43:00.000-04:00

I think...I think they call it...blue?

The sun is out for the first time in a week! This morning upon waking in a warm, sunny bedroom, I had to take a few minutes to get oriented. Where am I?

Going outside now---bye!

2007-04-19T18:20:00.000-04:00

Virginia Tech

What a terrible tragedy.

I think the answer is not gun control, nor arming everyone. I think the answer lies more in intervention for people with mental illness. (Slate.com has a good article about this approach.) I think maybe there's no one "answer".

It's a very sad thing. Borrowing from the Buddhists, I'm personally trying to use this as an opportunity to become more comfortable with my own mortality, and the mortality of those I love; to meditate on impermanence. Yes, it would be better not to have this opportunity for meditation.

2007-04-14T11:27:00.000-04:00

Wheee

I don't like drip coffee. I'm a tea drinker.

But I do like espresso. And I really liked espresso my Italian roommate used to make with one of those handy stovetop contraptions. I sort of forgot about how much I liked espresso until we went to the Azores, where the coffee was classic European---smooth, rich, chocolatey.

And lo, browsing in the 5&10 when we returned home, what did I see? A handy stovetop espresso contraption. $13.99. A bargain. I thought I'd mostly use it when we had company, so I bought the kind that makes 3 servings. It also made a sort of economical logic in terms of "unit cost"---I could make one serving at a time for $11.99 or three servings at once for $13.99.

Which means that if I make espresso on a Saturday morning, and the Husband does not want any---preferring drip coffee in the morning and espresso in the afternoon, which he believes to be the natural order of things---I end up drinking 3 servings' worth of the strong coffee and zipping around and writing slightly manic blog posts about coffee.

Love,
kStyle

Wheeeeee

UPDATE: kStyle went for a nice, long walk at the arboretum after writing this post. She then came home, ate lunch, and at 1:30 PM napped as though drugged. She is now awake and resting, nursing a serious case of post-caffeination couch suck.

2007-04-13T13:30:00.000-04:00

1. Do you feel better?

It would seem that feeling better is the number one top priority of weight loss. Every conversation involving weight loss seems to conclude with someone saying confidently, "You'll feel better," or its variations, "I feel better," "You must feel better," and "She feels better now".
Yesterday I was talking to a friend who has lost 30 pounds doing Weight Watchers, and she said, "I feel better". I'm happy for her--she's committed and worked hard and appears very happy and proud. Her accomplishment is, pardon the word, huge.

But I confess that I am a little perplexed. If the goal of losing weight is to feel better, does that mean that overweight people are supposed to feel bad? Because I'm about 30 pounds overweight, but...I feel great. My energy is good; I sleep like a dream; my bp, cholesterol, glucose levels, and thyroid are humming along at healthy levels. I don't think I'm an unattractive slob, either, though maybe I'm supposed to. Maybe it's because I really do eat a healthy diet with too many cookies thrown in, or because I exercise a lot, but I can't imagine feeling much "better". Which leaves me with little-to-no motivation to deprive myself of said cookies.

When I do feel bad, it's because of eczema flare-ups on my right foot and my tendency to catch viruses too easily. I don't see this as having much to do with my BMI. But, to remedy my Virus Magnet-ness, I'm going to try the Body Ecology Diet*. The B.E.D. combines the best of several eating plans--drawing heavily upon Asian medicine, which I love--to make your guts a happy environment for good gut flora and a poor environment for invasive, mean germs. I'm certain that my virus last week was so awful because I'd taken antibiotics for a gum infection the week before. The antibiotics destroyed my beneficial bacteria, which left my system an abandoned hotel waiting for vagrants, whorish germs and their crack.

Although the B.E.D. draws upon a couple of ideas I consider quacky (namely, the idea of chronic candidiasis and the Eat Right 4 Your Type nonsense), I know enough to discard those theories and work with the rest of the theory--which is solid--and the actual eating plan itself. Soon my guts will be populated with happy germs who will not permit the nasty outsiders to sneak in. And I might lose weight in the process, as this is a cookie-free diet. I'll feel better, no doubt, but because of cultures, not loss of fat.

2. Speaking of cultures...

I've noticed something extra-special toxic in pop culture lately: Fat celebrity women "coming out" as fat women who are sufficiently ashamed of their wayward binging and ready to lose weight. The toxic icing on the cake, so to speak, is the lying, the abject lying that goes along with this trend. Most recently, I saw the adorable Valerie Bertinelli on the cover of People. Valerie is ready to lose weight! She ballooned to a Size 14! yelled the cover. But Ms Bertinelli's photo showed a woman who was about a size 20. This is a problem. This is a problem because, first of all, it indicates that a size 20 is completely unacceptable, even for the supposed Fattest Celebrity Woman Alive. And secondly, if you have an insecure woman who is a fit 14, who knows what she will think upon viewing this cover in the checkout line. I have a thin friend who is mortified that she recently reached a size 12, and she thinks she is the fattest woman alive. She clearly has no idea how she actually looks, or what the difference is between a 20 and a 14. And I fear her seeing this cover, because it's not what she--or anyone else--needs to be fed.

*the book is quite good and level-headed, even though the web site makes specious claims.

2007-04-10T18:59:00.000-04:00

Clueless Tuesday

What do people do on Tuesday nights? You--yes, you there, reading--tell me. First I had three years' shiatsu classes on Tuesdays, 6-9, and now I take yoga on Tuesdays. But there is no yoga tonight. Is there a Tuesday protocol? I've put dinner in the oven and checked personal email. I might read later. Does this sound correct?

2007-04-07T12:20:00.000-04:00

Free Advice

Avoid watching House when you're sick with a mysterious virus. I'm sure I have leprosy now.

2007-04-06T12:47:00.000-04:00

Spiraling Down Into a Pit of Flu-y Despair

Oh my god, shoot me in the head. I'm far worse than my previous Angry Mime status. I ache, I'm nauseated, my skin is a color best described as "half an hour after death", sore throat, no voice, sinus pain, chills.

I've become like a pathetic wino. I tell Greg I love him every 5 minutes, in a sad little whisper. Last night, at bedtime, he said, "You know you've told me that three times now?" I'm even clingy and tearily grateful to the cats for napping with me.

2007-04-05T12:27:00.000-04:00

A New Guest at the Feeder

We have a white-breasted nuthatch, ladies and gentlemen! And boy is it cute. It seems to chew thoughtfully on the seeds. I'd like to be someone who chews thoughtfully. I will watch this bird for technique.

From the Cornell Lab of Ornithology web site:

In winter, the White-breasted Nuthatch joins foraging flocks led by chickadees or titmice. One explanation for these flocks is that the birds gain protection from predators by the vigilance of the other birds. In support of this idea, one study found that if titmice were removed from a flock, nuthatches were more wary and reluctant to come to exposed bird feeders.

2007-04-05T11:08:00.000-04:00

The Angry Mime Needs Something To Do

I'm a little too sick to work; I'm just below the threshold of "totally coherent" and way below the threshold of "concentration".

I'm a little too well to watch Daytime TV.

I'd bake, but I don't want to infect the bread.

I'd walk, but it's snowy and gray outside.

Read? See "concentration" problem.

I already meditated and did a little qi gong.

Not tired enough to nap; too tired for exercise.

Maybe I should vacuum. Yes, vacuum.

UPDATE: Good news. Tidying up the living room, I found an Architectural Digest I've yet to crack open. Pretty, pretty pictures.

2007-04-05T09:02:00.001-04:00

The Angry Mime

I lost my voice yesterday. I went to work anyway, because aside from a little fatigue and congestion, I wasn’t feeling all that bad. The laryngitis didn’t hurt; I just couldn’t talk.

But people insisted on chatting away to me anyway. I’d nod, smile, mouth a word or two in reply, and wave goodbye to “dismiss” myself, and my colleagues would look at me like I was being bizarre or rude. After they left my office or I theirs, I would dash off a hasty email connecting the dots that none possessed the mental wherewithal to connect themselves: I’m not intending to be rude or odd—I have laryngitis.

OH, they replied, so THAT'S why you’re acting strange.

My friends C. and P. were the only ones who were—what, sensitive?, observant?--enough to figure it out on their own. A brief hello (as it were) in the hall was enough for C. to say, “Oh, you have laryngitis!” When I reached my desk, I emailed her and said:

You get a gold star! You are the only person here astute enough to figure out
that I have laryngitis. Everyone thinks I’m whispering for my own amusement. And
you somehow, I imagine, figured it out without the benefit of a good night’s
sleep the others had.

(C. is a new mother.)

C. replied: Yes, we work with idiots.

Later, P. popped by my desk on one of her rounds to the vending machine for iced tea. (It’s like crack to her.) I wrote my tale of woe on a pad: No one can figure out that I have laryngitis! They’re treating me like a demented freak! She told me that she encountered the same difficulty when she had laryngitis about this same time last year. She said, “And by the third day I was definitely Angry Mime,” as she shook her fists dramatically, angrily, in the air, mouth open but emitting no sound.

Then she gave me her stash of cough drops. God bless her.

I’m not at work today. Too exhausting for a mime.

2007-04-02T18:10:00.000-04:00

Where am I

I'm needing to be off the computer and on the yoga mat a lot lately. Things I've gotten done (outside of Day Job) on the computer:
1. Almost finished my business plan draft. One more section to write.
2. Selected a logo from the wonderful designs my designer designed.
3. Selected a business card my designer designed based on said logo.
4. Got a tee shirt printed with logo.
5. E-mail newsletter announcing Spring classes I'm teaching through community ed.
6. Regular e-mails, they never end.

The mat calls...

2007-03-26T20:12:00.000-04:00

I like that book, okay?

Some reviewers love to get all pissy about the book French Women Don't Get Fat. Their defensive/sarcastic commentary can be summed up more or less as follows:

French women do too get fat.
French women--especially the author, Mirielle Guiliano--have a psychologically unhealthy relationship to food.
American women shouldn't feel all ashamed and go out and buy this Frenchie book, which is trying to taint us with its Frenchie ways.
And what about the smoking? Does the book mention that French ladies are chimneys?

The trouble with these criticisms is that

They were clearly penned by people who have never read the book, and
If they did read the book, they missed the point entirely.

I agree that it's sad, early in the book, when Mirielle's father criticizes an adolescent Mirelle for returning from America overweight. But this is almost beside the point.

The truth is, Americans have lost their food traditions, and this fact is likely a major contributor to our National Epidemic of Obesity. And Ms Guiliano, in her book, offers to share her food traditions with us. Maybe it's true that many French women are also straying from these time-honored traditions, as the Slate critic contends. I don't see how that affects the quality of advice (and recipes, mmmm) in the book.

Although Guilano does not use the same phraseology as my favorite health and nutrition coach, who works right here in the USA, the concepts are the same. Enjoy life, enjoy food as part of life, in balance and proportion. Learn what you truly in enjoy--in food and life--and cultivate those things. Eat smaller portions mindfully and chew well. Think about what you're eating and compensate for indulgences with lighter choices and more walking. Do exercise you enjoy. Walk. Drink a lot of water. Take the stairs. Love is a great slimmer. All things in moderation. Laugh.

I don't get what these critics are so grouchy about. I don't think they've read the book.

2007-03-23T18:56:00.000-04:00

That Dentist Was Worse Than I'd Dreamed

Remember my tale of dentistry woe? When we last saw the rude dentist and his too-rough assistant, they were about to fill a small cavity in my wisdom tooth. I felt absolutely no pain in the tooth, but he reassured me there was a small cavity that would worsen without treatment. After almost fainting in the office, and the dentist making an insensitive comment about it, I decided to find a new dentist. But the new dentist couldn't take me for a few weeks.

No matter, I didn't feel anything.

Upon returning from the Azores, my gum behind the wisdom tooth became very inflamed and painful. I've been downing (generic) Tylenol and chewing on cloves all week to stop the pain. I could tell that my gum was infected.

Today was my appointment with my new, wonderful dentist. He's kind and gentle, doesn't rush, and has a good sense of humor, to boot. Oh, and he's a network provider, so I have no out-of-pocket expense.

And guess what Dr. L. told me? I don't have a cavity in that tooth and I never did! Let's all take a moment and let this news sink in.

Dude!

But thankfully, because I thought I had a cavity, I had a preexisting appointment for when I developed a brand new gum infection requiring antibiotics. Oh yeah, and this might sound lame, but I had no idea that dentists could write prescriptions! Turns out they're "real" doctors after all.

And better yet, when I returned from vacation, I decided it was time to check out the local Chamber of Commerce. Leaving the dentist's office, Lo, there was the Chamber office, two doors down the hall. I had a great time meeting the ladies there and got all the info I need.

So maybe the Tao was in fact flowing through the incompetent hands of Dr. Goldberg, DDS.

2007-03-18T08:48:00.000-04:00

A Story About Tea

The tea plant, camellia sinensis, was brought to the Azores from Brazil in the mid-1700s. Tea, and other camellias, were planted for their bright flowers and glossy, deep green foliage, with no thought of producing anything drinkable from them.

At the time, Sao Miguel was famous for its oranges. England--especially Victorian England--could not get enough "Saint Michael Oranges". They loved 'em.

Then, a blight destroyed the island's orange production in the mid 19th century. Sao Miguel needed to diversify its agriculture. The locals began planting pineapple and raising cows for meat and milk. And the clever Micalenses brought in two Chinese men from the Portuguese colony of Macau to teach them the art of making tea.

A new industry was born. At its height, 14 factories made tea in Sao Miguel. Today, two remain, and they produce their tea the old way, without any chemical treatment.

In these photos, the neat rows of short, round plants are tea. This is a small planting behind the Porto Formoso Tea Factory. Elsewhere, just a bit down the road, whole hills are planted with tea.

2007-03-17T21:43:00.000-04:00

Lakes of Sete Cidades

Sao Miguel is called the "green island" for a reason...

City gates, Ponta Delgada

2007-03-07T08:36:00.000-05:00

A nossa viagem aos Acores

Friday night--that's two nights away!--we're getting on a plane. A plane is an amazing thing; it whisks you off the frigid, below-zero New England ground and, four hours later, deposits you in a tropical climate an average of 5 degrees cooler than Hawaii, the only place on this whole planet where pineapples--other than isolated specimens in botanical gardens--grow in greenhouses.

We'll land in a place where Portuguese is spoken, where tea grows, where spas spring up around natural hot springs. We'll see the ancient villages where my great-grandparents (grande-avos, I think) were born and baptized; in fact, my great-grandfather lived there until he was 18.

We'll walk around Sao Miguel (Saint Michael), the "Green Island", taking in the city of Ponta Delgada and the green countryside surrounded by blue, blue water.

It's hard to believe right now, hard to wrap my head around these facts of the near future, as I'm still engulfed in piles of work and petty stressors and frozen sky.

2007-03-06T07:30:00.000-05:00

The birds look cold.

Only the brave little titmice are visiting this morning, bracing the perches against the wind and puffing out their feathers for insulation. They look like we do when we scrape our cars.

I turned on the radio, wondering just how cold it was. Sure enough, ten degrees.

2007-03-05T19:19:00.000-05:00

At the Feeder

Sunday March 4: Three black-capped chickadees, two tufted titmice, and a female hairy woodpecker.

Monday March 5: one chickadee, two titmice, a male, slate-colored dark-eyed junco, and a pair of some sort of sparrows.

2007-03-02T10:20:00.000-05:00

Bird Sense

A few weeks ago, in mid-January, I decided we needed a birdfeeder. We had just visited my father-in-law, and his feeders were populated with everything from chickadees to cardinals to woodpeckers to nuthatches. I remembered watching the birds out my parents' window when I was in high school, how I found it joyous and calming to observe the pretty little visitors. It was time to set up our own avian cafeteria.

During my lunch break one day that week, I drove down to the garden store and chose a seed feeder, a suet feeder, and their contents, with the help of the kind of knowledgeable staff best found at locally-run small businesses. My guide to the land of bird feeding advised me that it would take a few days for the little guys to find the feeder, and I shouldn't give up.

That night, I filled the feeders and hung them from the hooks on our balcony rafters. (I also made a mental note to fill the feeders outside next time.) This vantage would give us an excellent view of the birds through our sliding glass door off the kitchen. I fretted a little over squirrels. I imagined eating my breakfast and watching the birds eat theirs.

Despite the clerk's warning, I popped out of bed early the next morning and waited for the birds. None arrived. No squirrels, either. Well, no matter. It takes a few days. I got to work on time for a change.

The next morning, there were still no birds. I sang songs trying to attract them, little ditties with lyrics like, Oh birds, won't you come, and eat off our feeder?/Oh birds, won't you come, what could be neater? That didn't work, so I resumed my usual serenading of the cats. Noah is a good boy/he's kind and soulful/Luna is a crazy cat/she's covered in pixie dust. Pixie dust, naturally, was a euphemism for the dust on her nose after she rolls in her organic wheat cat litter, wish I were making that part up. My favorite ditty, dedicated to Noah, goes
V1: Ca va, messieur?/Ca va, mon chat/Ca va, Alo!/Ca va
V2: Bonjour, messieur!/Bonjour, mon chat/Bonjour, Ca
va?/Bonjour!
The melody is very old-fashioned and would suit a scratchy 45 and a few glasses of red wine with a light supper of crepes.

***
Several days passed, me rising hopefully and ending up disappointed. After a week, I thought maybe they just weren't coming. After two weeks, despair. After three, I sort of forgot about the feeder.

A month after buying the feeder was when the depression set in hard. It had nothing to do with the feeder, everything to do with stress, stress, more stress, car repairs (ca-CHING), a lack of sunlight, lousy cold weather, and feeling dejected, like I would never make a shiatsu practice. We were on the accounting lessons of my business plan class, and I was overwhelmed. And then, my various clients sort of all disappeared at once, reaching the end of their treatment schedules or getting busy. It was clear I would be stuck in working for someone else...forever.

But then an amazing thing happened. As I was working on a list of Ten Things That Make My Business Special, and feeling unable to find any because I'd just been reading Fast Business magazine, which was causing my little practice to seem woefully inadequate...a bird flew by the feeder. He didn't land, just circled a few times to check it out. Then a couple more flew by. They did this for a few days, scoping it out, evaluating the risk level posed by two Not Stealthy cats staring at them, all fangs and eyes, through the glass. (Be subtle, I chastised Luna.) Then, the next day, one landed briefly without eating and took off again. On Monday, a brave black-capped chickadee and a curious tufted titmouse landed and ate a seed each.

Today, there are two chickadees and two tufted titmice landing, eating their hearts out, and chirping merrily. If I'm not mistaken, they seem to enjoy watching us almost as we enjoy watching them. Sometimes they pause and watch me eat my breakfast. It's a little bit funny, us watching each other.

I bet they'll bring their friends. And I'll bet the same thing will happen with my shiatsu practice: it's a matter of time, of people finding it, scoping it out, and then stopping in and sending their friends.

Meantime, the cats are glued to the "TV".

2007-02-26T18:31:00.000-05:00

Well Then, F-You, Too!

I'm a lot less depressed, which is a relief after two weeks of sobbing. But I seem to have come across some anger, rescued an inner badass or something. A mild badass, not a wild badass, but still.

1. Day Job expects me to arrive at 8:30 sharp. Never mind that I'm often there 45 minutes to an hour late because of all the work and the ridiculous deadlines.
solution: I'll show up right on time, and walk out right on time.

2. My colleagues at Day Job are doing sloppy work, and it necessitates multiple rounds of revisions.
solution: I'm not checking the revisions.

3. The work bully is very mean and I hate her. Today I brought a problem to my supervisor's attention. She said it needed to be brought to the Work Bully for resolution. Do you want to talk to her, or shall I?, she asked.
solution: I don't want to talk to her. You can. Thanks.

Yes, I'm electing myself a timecard employee: Check in, check out, do no more than is required, and less than is asked.

I'm not very good at this...yet.