Yesterday, I subbed in a second grade classroom. It was an insane experience from which I am still recovering. My wonderful sister is an elementary school teacher and, after yesterday, she is my new hero.
Things were going just fine in the morning. We had our morning meeting on the rug in the back of the room, the kids went to art, then lunch and we had a somewhat successful math lesson (I won't count the ridiculousness with the blocks used during subtraction if you won't).
But then came recess. Everything fell apart after recess.
The class lined up after their 25 minutes of freedom and I noticed there were a couple of girls missing. When the stragglers finally showed up, so did the tears. Of course, I was concerned. Had they been hurt? Had someone bullied them? But as I surveyed the scene, I noticed they were covered in mud. Zoe, the bolder and apparently more dramatic of the two, looked up at me and said, This is the WORST day of my WHOLE life!
She was the first of three second graders to tell me this yesterday.
The girls had slipped (apparently simultaneously?) while playing tag. But this mud catastrophe was only part of the recess drama and just the beginning of this terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. Somewhat of a feud had developed between the remaining girls. Lots of I'm not your friend any more action. Probably a walk-in-the-park for my sister to deal with but, you see, I'm used to teenagers. Teenagers are passive aggressive, God love 'em. A sixteen year-old will never actually tell another sixteen year-old that she doesn't want to be friends. No, she'll post it to another friend's wall on Facebook so that future ex-friend can see and then start texting about it using lots of emoticons and abbreviations. But second graders don't bullshit. They get right to the point and break up with you to your face. Of course, the next day you might get back together, but that's just another story.
Maya, the girl doing the breaking up, told me it was her worst day ever and then proceeded to cry for the next half hour. Sammy, the dumped, put on a braver face and just said it had been a terrible day rather than the most awful of her long 8 years. I appreciated her perspective.
Oh, and we haven't even gotten to Madison yet (those of you who know my cat will see the irony in a minute). She had a rough day (and yes, of course she vocalized just how awful it had been to me at least once). I'll summarize by saying that she initially served a time-out on the rug in the back of the classroom and then subsequently served one outside in the hall (self-inflicted). Even though I saw very little of her, I felt her wrath like she was ever-present.
At some point between sharpening pencils and providing tissues to the wounded, I took a step back to try to find my calm. Things were seriously chaotic around me -- tears and time-outs and math! Oh My! -- and I thought to myself, this is your yoga practice. Can you be calm inside when all hell breaks loose outside?
I won't lie to you and tell you that I was in a "Zen place" from that moment on but it was an educational moment, for certain. For much of the day, I felt so incompetent and out of control and coming back into my breath helped me regain my calm so that, rather than run out of the room screaming, I could deal with what was in front of me. Or, at least survive what was in front of me.
I'm fairly certain I won't be going back to second grade. I think I'll leave those heroics to people like my sister. But, I'm grateful for the memories. Hopefully Zoe will remember me fondly when she thinks back to the worst day of her life.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Yoga. It's Not Just For Heathens Any More.
My yoga practice just got cooler. Why, you ask? Because it's been termed "demonic" by Mark Driscoll, the pastor of Mars Hill Church in Seattle. And, if I know my inner 14 year-old self as well as I think I do, this pastor calling my yoga class a "little demon class" just kicked her into full rebellion mode. Take a look at this guy and his thoughts on yoga below.
I want to share a few things I've learned from my practice of yoga so you can see just how far I've gone into the realm of demonism and begin to pray for me as soon as possible. Actually, you might want to contact your local priest and schedule an exorcism at your earliest convenience.
Obviously, I am kidding. (If you didn't get my sarcasm then I will pray for you and your humorless soul.) I think Mark Driscoll has it TOTALLY wrong. I would also take a guess the good pastor has never even been to a yoga class (dude just looks tight, doesn't he?).
I am a Christian. I am also a yogini. In my experience, they are not mutually exclusive and, in fact, both strengthen each other in my life. Notice, I say experience because, unlike MD over there in Seattle, I have experience in both the Christian realm and the yoga realm. I would shrug off this anti-yoga banter if it was an isolated incident but, unfortunately, it's not. From the Catholic church to Christian fundamentalists, yoga has its share of critics. I'm totally comfortable with it having critics but I'd rather they be well-informed ones that aren't coming from a place of fear. I'm pretty sure that practicing yoga isn't secretly leading me into demon worship and, if it were, I'm certain I'd put the brakes on it. I'm not afraid of being converted to something against my will, I'm just not. What I am afraid of is missing out on amazing things because I don't trust myself enough to encounter the unfamiliar. If I lived like that then I might have never read Harry Potter (the horror!), lived in San Francisco (which I'm sure is MD's fave city) and become a yoga teacher (aka a demon teacher).
So, Mark Driscoll, I will pray for you. I will pray that you have a more open mind and learn not to fear the unfamiliar. Of course, this is my prayer for myself as well.
Namaste.
I want to share a few things I've learned from my practice of yoga so you can see just how far I've gone into the realm of demonism and begin to pray for me as soon as possible. Actually, you might want to contact your local priest and schedule an exorcism at your earliest convenience.
- All beings should be happy and free, expressed in the mantra Lokah Samasta Sukino Bhavantu in Sanskrit.
- God is present in each one of us.
- Namaste isn't just a word, it's a way of living that acknowledges the sacredness of others.
- Setting an intention at the beginning of practice helps you be mindful of those you love.
- Moderation, or Brahmacharya, is a helpful skill to master in seeking a virtuous life.
- Quieting the mind, paying attention to the breath and looking inside one's self will lead you to the divine.
Obviously, I am kidding. (If you didn't get my sarcasm then I will pray for you and your humorless soul.) I think Mark Driscoll has it TOTALLY wrong. I would also take a guess the good pastor has never even been to a yoga class (dude just looks tight, doesn't he?).
I am a Christian. I am also a yogini. In my experience, they are not mutually exclusive and, in fact, both strengthen each other in my life. Notice, I say experience because, unlike MD over there in Seattle, I have experience in both the Christian realm and the yoga realm. I would shrug off this anti-yoga banter if it was an isolated incident but, unfortunately, it's not. From the Catholic church to Christian fundamentalists, yoga has its share of critics. I'm totally comfortable with it having critics but I'd rather they be well-informed ones that aren't coming from a place of fear. I'm pretty sure that practicing yoga isn't secretly leading me into demon worship and, if it were, I'm certain I'd put the brakes on it. I'm not afraid of being converted to something against my will, I'm just not. What I am afraid of is missing out on amazing things because I don't trust myself enough to encounter the unfamiliar. If I lived like that then I might have never read Harry Potter (the horror!), lived in San Francisco (which I'm sure is MD's fave city) and become a yoga teacher (aka a demon teacher).
So, Mark Driscoll, I will pray for you. I will pray that you have a more open mind and learn not to fear the unfamiliar. Of course, this is my prayer for myself as well.
Namaste.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, August 26, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
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?
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'...
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! |
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'...
Thursday, December 9, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
It's the Remix to Transition . . .
Before you read what will be an amazing post, look to your right. You see that blue box telling you that you can help people by providing clean drinking water? Put in your email address and help P&G provide up to 100,000 days of clean drinking water. I promise you will not be inundated with emails from P&G. Do it . . . or else.
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).
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).
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).
- 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.
- 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!
- 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!
- 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!
- 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.
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