Our Collective Story

Over the last ten years, I have heard innumerable stories from friends, family and strangers about their experiences on September 11th, 2001. From a friend whose father was supposed to be on the plane that hit the North Tower to another whose uncle lost his life at the Pentagon, there are hopeful and painful stories from that terrible day. Just this morning, my yoga instructor began class by telling us how she was supposed to fly to South Korea on the morning of 9/11 and found out about the attacks at the ticketing line in the airport.

I'm always struck by how people want to, or really need to, tell their stories. Perhaps it's our way of processing what occurred, since, even ten years later, what occurred remains unfathomable. Or it's our way of reaching out and connecting with each other, reminding us that we as humans are capable of loving and caring for one another, in spite of the evidence to the contrary. Maybe the process of telling our stories is these things and a lot more.

It has become clear, in the ten years since that, with regard to 9/11, we have a collective story. It is ours, as participants in this country (in this world): a cacophony of memories. A discordant mixture of stories that together join to form one. We each need to tell our story because of our desire to be a member of the cacophony.

It's very much like what happens when yoga students chant "Om" at the end of a class.  Om, or Aum, is the Hindu symbol representing the energetic vibration of all life (think Einstein's E=MC2 but without the downward facing dog). We chant together and our voices unite. It's not necessarily a pretty sound but, because we are participating in it together and sending it out, it can become beautiful. In this way, our cacophony of memories is not necessarily pretty. It's filled with unimaginable grief but, because of its unifying nature, it's beautiful.

I am convinced this universal desire to contribute to the collective story of 9/11 is one of our most amazing weapons against the hatred that brought the towers down. Our willingness to tell our stories to one another and, even more, to listen to others' stories is illustrative of our universal refusal to become like those who attacked us. Our stories bind even the most different of us together and help us to see one another's worth, something our attackers failed to do. Indeed, the binding in which we have participated acts as a daily reminder to search for the humanity in each other. If we were more than just "enemies" to these men -- if we were fellow humans with lives and, of course, with stories to them -- I don't believe 3,000 of us would have died that day.

Ten years ago today I was a sophomore at Boston College. I was far from my parents and siblings but surrounded by my wonderful family of friends. We gathered together as a school and prayed, having lost 22 alumni, and we connected and supported each other. We were bound together that day so tightly by our shock and grief and our willingness to connect with one another. I pray that we can practice this willingness with the same kind of fervor we did ten years ago.

Empathy Hurts

I spent some time this week playing around with my yoga practice in the studio at which I now teach, 3 Bridges Yoga in Portsmouth, NH. It's a warm and friendly studio with 2 wonderful owners, Jody & Bjorn Turnquist, and I am thrilled to be there. Although I demonstrate certain poses during class, I don't actually do the postures alongside students in my class so that I can adjust them both verbally and physically. Since I'm not practicing with them, I want to be super careful that I don't lose touch with what they might be feeling in certain poses and sequences -- which is why I went to 3 Bridges earlier this week to work on poses and sequences through which I lead a class.

One of the poses I practiced was Baddha Sirsasana (the headstand I'm doing above). In any inversions like this, there is always a fear of falling (at least for me there is!). I have this scene in my head where I fall over, scream from fear and pain, and create a domino effect throughout a class of yogis standing on their heads. I would be just the girl to cause such a yogastrophe, I know it. I imagine my students feel this fear as well in this pose (perhaps without the detailed visualization...). Worried falling might hurt or make a scene causes people to hold back and refrain from trying some inversions. While this fear is totally justified and should hold some people back who would be unsteady and unsafe, I find this lack of confidence stops many, who are prepared, from progressing forward in their practice.

So, I'm in this pose, imagining limbs flying, yogis falling, Lululemon logos going everywhere, and I think, why don't I just let myself fall out of it so I can know how it feels? I'll just get it over with-- it can't be that bad. I have this optimistic image of myself rolling gracefully into a somersault, planting my feet and rising to standing with my hands in the air, yelling, Ta-Da! I just know it's going to be totally awesome and not hurt a bit.

So I fall...
                 not-so-gracefully.

There is definite tuck and rolling action, but there is no grace and certainly no Ta-Da!
Oh. And it hurts like a mother f-----. Perhaps there is a graceful way to fall but I didn't just do it. I did the opposite of it. Ouch.

My dreams of becoming a gymnast shattered, I peel myself off the ground and commence the pity party. I was only trying to put myself in my students' shoes so that I could teach out of an authentic place, look where it got me? A pounding headache and some awful tasting humble pie. Empathy hurts. Also, I'm rethinking my thought process and realizing maybe that Mensa membership card isn't going to arrive, after all.

I think about another person I know who also went overboard with empathy. My friend Rita's husband was with their kids while she was at a work function. Halfway through the function, her phone rings and it's him.  
    Johnny ate one of the berries off our bush outside. I'm sure it's poisonous and I'm freaking out!
Johnny is barely a toddler at this point.
    Well, Rita asks, How is he?! Is he OK?!
    He seems OK right now but, just to be sure, I ate some berries, too.
    WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?! Rita shouts into the phone.
    I wanted to know what he was feeling!
 Thankfully Johnny, and his dad, were both fine.

I realize Rita's husband and I understand the importance of empathy but maybe lack intelligence when applying it. Empathy is central to any successful relationship because it's the skill that allows us to cross the bridges between one another. It's most certainly a skill, since, it's something you have to practice in order to perfect.
 
I, for one, am still practicing. And I have the headache to prove it.

Rabbis, Preachers & Yoga Teachers

It's a beautiful Sunday morning in San Diego and I make my way to my favorite studio to practice at while I'm in town: CorePower Yoga in Hillcrest. I'm in town for my cousin's wedding and, though I'm there only a few days, I have to squeeze in some yoga. The instructor is new to me (unsurprising as I don't live in San Diego) and he brings a whole lot of energy to the practice. His sequences are interesting, challenging and fun but what sticks with me most of all is manner of teaching. Let me be more specific: he is a cross between Richard Simmons, Jesse Jackson and some hippie guy who would be named something like "Tree Frog" or "Belt Loop." I like the guy but am taken aback by the one-liners he inserts throughout the asanas (our physical postures). From "You only have one life to live, make it beautiful" to "Forgive someone today," I'm not sure if I'm on my yoga mat or in a pew somewhere. His words are valuable, and even seem authentic, but their frequency throws me off a little as every asana seems to bring a nugget of inspiration (read: cliché). Yet, I look around, and seem to be the only one not buying into the message.

Now, I realize some of this is my problem. I can be cynical, judgmental and downright snobby when it comes to anything involving the "touchy feely" or "warm fuzzy." When visiting a studio I love in Philadelphia the other week, an instructor put "Beautiful" on by Christina Aguilera during a hip stretch and I just about went into barf-asana, a truly graceful pose where I vomit my breakfast onto the nearest yogi. I just couldn't take it! There was something that felt contrived to me that I couldn't get past. Perhaps it was because I didn't really know where this instructor was coming from because I wasn't familiar with her. Or maybe I just really hate that song. Obviously, the instructor wanted to take me somewhere (emotionally? spiritually?) by putting on this song and I just didn't want to go. Yet again, the cheese stands alone because people around me seemed to be loving it.

The point is, people seem to be open to receiving something more than just a workout when they show up at yoga. But what is that "something" they want to receive? Life lessons? Inspirational messages through a variety of cheesy songs? Is it up to the instructor to provide that? Are yoga studios the new synagogues and churches? After all, hoards of people spend their Sabbaths on their mats. Does that make yoga teachers the new rabbis and preachers?

The masses gather . . . but not for mass, for yoga!

I recently started teaching yoga and, while I'm totally obsessed with it, this notion that yoga teachers might fit into the category with rabbis and preachers freaks me out. I feel equipped to guide students through their practice, making helpful suggestions when necessary, but I am no guru. I am no preacher and I am no rabbi. I am no authority on life and on their lives, in particular.

When it comes to teaching yoga, I tend to agree with Socrates' understanding of learning. Learning is a "remembering" or "recollecting" of knowledge we have lost along the way. If this is true, than the teacher is there to aid in that recollection rather than hand down or give knowledge. I am necessary as an instructor insofar as I can help my students get back what they already know and may have forgotten. This understanding gets me off the hook (phew!) and places more responsibility on the students themselves. We invite our students to remember, to learn, but we don't pass out the knowledge because it never was ours to begin with- it was theirs.  

I know that I lose touch with a lot on a regular basis that my yoga practice helps me put back together or, re-member. It helps me to breathe, find stillness and connect with myself and I am grateful for my teachers who help me in that and forgo the emotional ballads (although I'm sure music montages are helpful for some-- more power to 'em).

As far as rabbis and preachers go, maybe they could take a page out of a Socrates' book? Just sayin'...

It's Official: I've Lost It.

We're moving across the country in precisely 9 days and 13 hours. Ho. Ly. Smokes. This means, I am crazy right now. Not my normal brand of crazy but a new kind: the kind where I daydream longingly about chickens with their heads cut off and think, "ah, to be that subdued!" There is so much to do and so little time to do it! I've lost it. I'm speaking, of course, about my mind. See, I couldn't even find it quickly enough to put it into that last sentence!

In a desperate attempt at sanity, I've put a list together of signs I've exhibited that prove I've, indeed, lost it.

1. My outfit today says, "I've given up." Yes, I believe fashion speaks. Just yesterday, my outfit said "I'm pretending that I'm not pajamas when really I am."


2. There are packed boxes everywhere and yet I still insisted we get a Christmas tree. We no longer have glasses but, don't worry folks, the Tannenbaum's a blazin! It's a vertically challenged, naked tree but it is fantastic! Every time I'm around it, I feel like saying, "good grief!" because it's my very own Charlie Brown Christmas tree.

3. I've been looking at the ridiculously huge pile of laundry saying, with great authority and fervor, "Laundry, do thyself!" No matter my optimism, the mass remains.

4. I've developed an enormous mass on my chin. Seriously, I'm Rudolph, the chin version! I prefer to refer to it as my "tumor" instead of a pimple, to which my husband so predictably responds, "It's not a toomah!"



5. I talk to myself. And my cat. Yeah, I'm that girl. I'm in my apartment all day working and packing, things were bound to go south for my sanity! Claudymom, God love her, always talks to herself. She says that "it's great talking to myself because I don't give myself grief like you kids do!" Ah, Claudymom. If this means I'm turning quirkier like her, than I guess I'm cool with it.

Send. Help. Please.

Oh, and Diet Coke. Lots of Diet Coke.

It's the Remix to Transition . . .

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We. Are. Moving. Finally.

Yes, now that blurb at the top of this page that describes me as someone who is "about to make a move" is legit. I am really, friends, about to make a move. We have set our sights on Portsmouth, New Hampshire and should be there after Christmas to ring in the new year, Granite State style.

What's that, you say? You've never been to New Hampshire? Well, watch this educational video and learn. I promise it will be illuminating.


So, folks, this is where I am moving. It's just like Old Hampshire, but it's new. This means, I am officially in a period of transition. We need to figure out how we're moving our stuff across the country, how our little Satan (our cat) is getting across the country and, of course, where we'll live when we make it there.

Overall, I like change. Now, I didn't say I was good at change, just that I liked it. Call it my ADD but I love switching things up because it keeps things fresh and exciting. Take my shampoo, for instance. I rotate through shampoo so my hair doesn't get bored or worse, take the hair products for granted (I do buy Aveda, after all- that s#!t's expensive).

My husband complains about the volume of products but his luscious locks totally thank me.

I have loved pretty much every minute I've spent here in SF. So, to show my appreciation, I've made a list of the things I will miss most about this great city (you know I love lists).

1. Wine Country. Really, this is self explanatory. Not since football games at Boston College was it appropriate to drink before noon. Thank you, Sonoma, for making inappropriateness acceptable again.
2. Food. Yes, I know there is food where I am going but not like this. From sandwiches at Ike's to Tsunami sushi, I will miss the smorgasbord of opportunities to stuff my face. I feel like like Templeton from Charlotte's Web when he's at the fair! So many things to choose from I might not get home because my tummy is so full!
3. People of Color. Yes, I feel I have to say "goodbye" to diversity as I am moving to New Hampshire where I will be with, pretty much, only other white people. I am sad about this because I know diversity makes us better and well, I need all the help I can get!
4. Being Outside . . . all year. I am moving to a place where it gets very cold and I'm kind of in denial about that. I don't really want to talk about it so . . . moving on!
5. My friends. Yes- I have friends in NH. Fabulous ones that I can't wait to be near. But, I also have fabulous friends here that I don't want to leave. When I finally master teleportation and/or apparition this long distance will not be a problem. If you don't know what apparition is, then I feel sorry for you but you can look it up here. 

I hope that, in the next few weeks, I take the time to reflect on what this place has meant for us. To often, we jump from one thing to another and never take a moment to soak it all in-- sometimes, we are really bad sponges. I wish, for myself and my husband, that we will internalize all of the wonderful things we've had and allow them to make us better and stronger. Then, we'll share that wealth with New Hampshire and, all I have to say is: New Hampshire, you're welcome.

This Blonde Bakes?

Now, I don't want you to get the wrong idea about me-- I am not domestic. It's not that I can't do domestic things or don't think they're valuable: I can and I do. It's that I hate doing domestic things like cooking, baking, cleaning, sewing (that one I actually can't do), etc. All I'm saying is, they're called chores for a reason and now that I don't get an allowance, I'm just not interested. 

Even with my domestic aversions (I think I might be allergic), I actually baked this past weekend. As per usual, I had a craving for chocolate and something had to be done about it! Perhaps I was feeling sorry for my husband who, when he wants something homemade, has to make it himself, so I decided to bake some oatmeal chocolate chip cookies-- my absolute favorite vessel for delivering chocolate to my mouth.

Besides a wife's guilt, my reason for choosing to make these cookies was sentimental. When we were younger, my grandmother (Claudymom's mom) would bake cookies for my siblings and me when we would come visit. She baked oatmeal chocolate chip for my sister and me and oatmeal raisin for my brother (Which is a lesser cookie, let's be honest. What's the point of a cookie without chocolate? She obviously liked my sister and me better).

Claudymom never let me bake growing up because she said I made a huge mess.

As I was baking, I thought about my Grandmother, or "Gram," as we called her. Just like her daughter, she was one of the quirkiest quirks that ever quirked. Whether she was mispronouncing words, chewing uncommonly loudly or singing Carly Simon's version of "Itsy, Bitsy Spider" in her car off of the only tape she owned (given to her at the dealer so she see the "caliber" of the sound system, I guess), this woman was full of life. As I made those cookies, I felt her presence and may have even sang a few bars of the song good old Carly made such a classic. Obviously, it sounded awesome.

They were ridiculously tasty. They're all gone now.

I felt really close to Gram that day because I was doing something she had done, over and over again, for us. She wasn't just a memory or a concept, she was an action: baking oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. The tangibility of the baking process helped me remember her in a new way, especially because this was the first time I baked these cookies since she died ten years ago.

Even though I wished she was there so much, it was nice not to have to share the privilege of licking the bowl with my sister. I never did like to share.

As we near the holidays, I hope I can pursue actions that connect me with my loved ones that are gone, as well as the ones that I am lucky to still have with me. What will you do this season to connect with those you love?

If you want the recipe, I've posted it here. This whole "writing about baking and posting recipes" is not going to be a habit. I will leave that to the fabulous Lady Gouda, who knows a whole lot more than I do about the "kitchen" subject.

I used to make fun of bloggers. . .

Not to their faces, of course. I'm just not like that. I at least had the decency to do it behind their backs.

Now that I'm a blogger, I think it's only fair that I should make fun of myself. As illustrated above, I'm a big fan of "knocking it before you try it." Here is a list of things I used to make fun of but got totally into later on:

1. Uggs. Sure, they may be a little funny looking but have you ever worn them? It's like cloaking your feet in a soft lamb right before it's sheared. Fantastic. I used to make fun of people for wearing them (again, behind their backs, like a lady) but now I own 5 pairs. Yup, 5 pairs.

This is but a small taste of what I had to live with for years.

2. The Color Pink. Since Claudymom decorated my room in Laura Ashley for the first ten years of my life, I kind of overdosed on pink. My bedroom looked like Laura had eaten bad Chinese food, chugged a whole bottle of Pepto Bismol to cope with it and then threw up over my room while her child was coloring the walls with only a pink marker. Once we moved into a different house, I vowed never to have pink in my room again. I hated it for a long time and, after years of healing, we eventually mended our relationship and my bridesmaids wore a lovely shade of vermilion on my wedding day. It was glorious.

3. Capri Pants. I didn't "get" them for a long time. Sure, they would be useful in the event of a flood but wouldn't my ankles be cold? I have very sensitive ankles. I would mock my dear friend Caroline for wearing them where we were in high school (I really was such a doll!) and it was only a short time later that I had capris of my own. They're quite handy in the mild-weathered San Francisco. Not quite pants, not quite shorts!

4. Harry Potter. There was a time in my life that I persecuted fans of the teenage wizard. It was a dark time in my past that is quite difficult for me to write about. I even threatened to tell my husband (who was then my boyfriend) the end of the 6th book because I had heard a rumor about what happened. I can't believe he still married me! Clearly, I have repented and stepped away from that dark time in my past. Ok, I'm done talking about it-- it hurts too much.

5. Diet Coke. Gosh, I am just bringing up all these painful memories! I used to think Diet Coke tasted disgusting and would make this face anytime people drank it around me:

Isn't it so fun when someone makes this face at what you're eating or drinking?

After years of making this face, I woke up one morning my sophomore year of college with craving for Diet Coke. My life hasn't been the same since! I have a sneaking suspicion that my roomies were slipping me some behind my back and therefore creating an addiction (ah, sweet addiction!) that I would happily carry into my adult life.

6. Highlights. Yes, I was judgmental of people who got highlights. Is there no end to my hypocrisy?! Now, without the help of a trained colorist, I would not be "blonde yogini" but rather "'I used to be blonde when I was younger and sometimes I get blonde in the summers if it's really sunny and I am outside enough' yogini." Thank God for my conversion, not to mention my fantastic colorist at my local Aveda salon (their blondes really are the best!).

7. Big Sunglasses. I was skeptical of the trend in designer eyewear at first because I didn't want to look like a bug or worse, Johnny Depp from Willy Wonka. Now, they are my go-to accessory on any sunny day. Without them, I would need a seeing eye dog when it gets really sunny. My absolute favorite are my Kaenon sunglasses-- the design is called Leila. I just feel so much better in big, fabulous sunglasses. When it comes to women's sunglasses, I say the bigger the better. They are worth the price, in my book and I daresay I look nothing like Willy Wonka (even though Johnny Depp is super hot and, while he's a man and everything, any likeness to someone of that caliber hotness is a compliment).

8. Many more things! Skinny jeans, gladiator sandals, Mexican food, Canada and the list goes on!

I guess I judge what I don't understand or feel uncomfortable with . . . I'm sure there's a lesson from history here. With my track record, in five years I will be a purple-wearing, Ashton Kutcher fan who votes Republican. Yikes!