O Holy Night: Darkness and Light

The church was always dim for the late Mass prelude on Christmas Eve.  Red candles burned in glass lanterns surrounded by pine boughs along the windows, the sanctuary lit only by small warm overhead lights.  We would take a seat towards the front, where we could see, though there was little to see; just to hear.  The organ always played first, a voluntary that started with a single note trill, a call out of the darkness.  There was something about the dimness that made the music even more magical, and I always found myself a little disappointed when they turned up the house lights to begin the service, looking forward to the moment when they'd turn them off again and hand out candles for "Silent Night."

And maybe that dimness, that acknowledgement of the darkness, is why I've always loved the winter solstice.

On a whim, I decided to go to my yoga teacher's solstice workshop, to mark the passing of the the darkest days, to find my body on the mat again.  She runs a class like this one every year, a candlelit affair with live kirtan and lots of savasana.  It's the sort of thing that feels luxurious when you have children at home and cookies to be baked and email to respond to and a thousand other reasons you can't go.

In truth, it had been a long time since I made time for a yoga class in general.  I let life get in the way; I don't get home in time for the evening class; I prioritize time with my children; I tell myself that it's better to get a run in on the weekends and burn some calories than to go sit still and reconnect with myself. None of these are very good excuses.  I could make time if I tried hard enough.

I  signed up online at the very last minute, and drove in the dark past home a different way than I usually go, along back county roads, past farms and small neighborhoods outlined in the pinpricks of Christmas lights.

I was early, not overly so, but enough to make small talk with others who had come for class, women who asked me warmly where I'd been, how my kids were, how work was; who told me that it was good to see me again. It was like coming home, almost, to people who didn't judge me for leaving. Which made it even funnier that when I parted the curtain to enter the studio and set up my mat, my teacher's face appeared on the other side.  "You can't come in," she said, smiling.  "Seriously?" I responded, worried that she was taunting me for missing class for so long.  "Yes, seriously!" she said, face still laughing, pulling the curtains closed behind her.  I returned to the bright chatter, waiting for her to tell us to come in, wondering what could be waiting on the other side.

When she finally called us over to begin the class, she explained that she wanted us to enter the space of darkness together, in silence, without our mats (she had set up mats for us already, across the entire floor to allow us to move as we needed to), to come with nothing.  And as we walked in together, I knew that she'd been right, to let us mark this solemnly, with the absence of sound and light.

We sat, cross-legged, as she asked us to imagine going into a dark forest, the trees closing in overheard, the scent of pine and soil and moss thick in the air, grounding ourselves through the earth. We were called deeper and deeper into the darkness, she said, deeper to the core of the forest, but without any fear; instead, she invited us to embrace the darkness, to become part of it, to dissolve into it.

When we celebrate the solstice, we celebrate the end of darkness, the beginning of longer days, the reemergence of life, victory over death.  But like those Christmas Eve preludes long ago, when I sat next to my father drinking in the candlelight and music, there's something about the darkness that is important and beautiful, too.  I revel in the quiet, in the dimness, just as I did when I was a child.  Sometimes, after everyone goes to bed, I'll turn off every light except for the Christmas tree, which glows in the corner.

Because without embracing the darkness, without becoming it ourselves, without going deep into the unknown, we can't see the stars.

#Microblog Monday: A Change of Perspective, and the Handstand

Last summer, because the timing of the class was convenient for my schedule, I went to a yoga studio where everyone, it seemed, was able to do handstands.

It frustrated the hell out of me.

I've been practicing yoga for about ten years, on and off.  But let's face it: I'm not exactly the most diligent student.  I practice best in a community, and when I don't go to class regularly, I don't practice at home.  I am what I might call a yoga slacker.

I know that handstands aren't integral to a yoga practice.  Which made it easy for me to make lots of excuses.  "This isn't yoga."  " They're just showing off."  "They have lots of time to practice because they're stay at home moms who have nothing else to do" (this last comment based on conversations I used to overhear at the studio).

None of this changed the fact that when I went home, I felt bad about myself for not being able to do what clearly came so easily to everyone else.

It took me a year of off-and-on practice, from forearm stand to here, but with better attention to the role that my core plays in the pose, and how my feet lift just as the crown of my head lifts in tadasana, and with less fear of falling, I can now do this:

It's worth noting that I still need support to get up there (i.e., it's helpful to have a wall, just in case).  I can't stay this way for very long.  But it's been nice to discover that I'm capable of doing it after all.  It just took a little readjustment of perspective.

~~~~~~~~

Not sure what #MicroblogMondays is? Read the inaugural post which explains the idea and how you can participate too.

Filters, Bliss, and Gluten-Free Snickerdoodles

It's always been interesting to me to watch the world awaken again after the Christmas to New Years week.  In my line of work, students tend to be relatively silent, either experiencing the satisfaction of a semester completed, or beginning to work through the stages of denial that surround a less than successful term.  There's a period of just-being that happens at the end of December, which I really enjoy before all hell breaks loose.  Where I am work now, students don't take exams until after the break, but I feel a similar escalation in tension, and the email is definitely beginning to build up again.  Which is why I'm even more glad that I was able to get to yoga class several times during the holiday week, even if I was responding to email more often than I might have liked.

My teacher spent a lot of time talking about the koshas, which are, in Vedantic philosophy, more or less like filters of experience.  The ones we end up focusing on most in class are the annamaya kosha, or the physical body; the pranamayakosha, or the energy-body; and anandamaya kosha, or what I can translate only as the "bliss body." 

When we practice yoga, sometimes we filter the experience through our physical body: we're tight in our left hamstring, or maybe we're a little wobbly in our balance poses.  We feel our weaknesses, or even our strengths.  If we're being attentive to the lived experience of our bodies, sometimes we can tell what we need next.  Do we need to move through vinyasa?  Or rest in child's pose?

If we can rise out of the physical body experience, sometimes we can be attentive to the pranamayakosha.  Where does the energy go? The breath?  Can we visualize its movement up and out of ourselves, connecting to something larger?

And finally, if we can let go of even this, we experience anandamayakosha, which is experience in its rawest form.  We don't get caught up in what hurts, or what's tight.  We don't overprocess it.  We just breathe, and be.

My teacher likens this to discovering vegetables after growing up eating them from a can.  I know exactly what she means; though my father grew a garden, and we ate from it in the summer, canned peas, canned beets, even canned asparagus were part of my childhood.  And the first time I tasted a roasted beet, or shelled my own peas, or bit into a raw asparagus spear, I was shocked to discover how flavorful and delicious it was.  So it goes with the filters of the body and the mind.  If we can experience things in their raw, pure form, without the canning and processing, we're bound to experience them with a depth and dimension that we never imagined.

On the other hand, sometimes things are better processed.  My yoga teacher happens to have a fondness for Del Monte creamed corn, which is about as non-organic as she gets, I imagine; for me, it's whipped cream from a can (true confessions: one of the valuable skills my son learned this week was spraying whipped cream directly onto his tongue).  And it's OK to process; we are human after all, and we were built with bodies that experience the world this way.  To deny that would be to deny our humanity.

But it's important, every once in a while, to get rid of the filters, to just be there.  The new year can be a time for removing obstacles, but also seeing the obstacles that stand in the way of our access to bliss.  Which is not to say that you have to eat plain lettuce, by the way.

What are your filters?  What stands in the way of your experience of bliss?

Gluten-Free Snickerdoodles
Food historians tell us that small cakes or biscuits with snickerdoodle-type ingredients date back to ancient Roman times. Joy of Cooking attributes the cookie to Germany, suggesting that though they added more spices and dried fruit, the name is a corruption of the German word schneckennudeln, a type of cinnamon dusted sweet roll. These are minimally adapted from Elana's Pantry; her snickerdoodles aren't exactly raw, but they do let you experience the heady cinnamon in a way uncluttered by processed white sugar.  If your body is crying uncle like mine has been, these are a good not-too-terrible sweet treat.

2 c. almond flour
1/8 t. kosher salt
1/8 t. baking soda
1 t. cinnamon
1/4 c. virgin coconut oil (or butter)

2 T. honey
1/3 c. coconut sugar for rolling
2 1/2 t. cinnamon for rolling

Preheat oven to 350, and line baking sheets with parchment.

In a food processor, combine the almond flour, salt, baking soda, and cinnamon.  Pulse in the coconut oil and honey.

In a shallow bowl for rolling the cookies, combined the coconut sugar and cinnamon until well mixed.

Roll the dough into balls by tablespoonfulls and briefly dip the balls in a small bowl of water before rolling them in coconut sugar and cinnamon mixture to coat.  (If the dough is too sticky, refrigerate for half an hour.)

Place the cookies onto the prepared baking sheets and press gently to flatten them just a bit.  Bake for 10-12 minutes or until beginning to turn golden.  Cool for a few minutes on the baking sheet to make sure they're firming up, and transfer to a wire rack to cool completely.

Cleaning Out Closets, and Zaletti

Every once in a while, I get on a cleaning jag. Like the one that led me to throw out my books, only a little less drastic.

I think, in some respects, it's reactionary behavior: I am actively resisting becoming my mother.

You see, my mother has lived in the same house since she was two years old. Her two brothers moved out, got married, and eventually sold the place to her and to my father. It was easy. And my mother tends to travel by the path of least resistance.

While the house has undergone renovations over the years, parts of it still live in the 1950s, or 60s, or 70s. Though my mother is not exactly a hoarder, she comes close: things have accumulated in the attic, and since my father's death almost 11 years ago, they've also accumulated in every room of the three bedroom house. You can barely walk into the room where I slept for the first 17 years of my life; piles of clothes form an obstacle course to the furniture. In the back room over the garage, a thin film of dust covers almost everything. I fear that some day it will become my responsibility to clean out this house, and in the meantime, I try to keep my own accumulation at bay.

I was hoping to get up to her attic during the break to throw away old dresses I discovered at Thanksgiving (things I wore before I hit double digits) while I was looking for old books, but the timing hasn't seemed to work out. And I need the space to do this on my terms, without my mother looking on and fretting about it. I know that throwing things away is difficult for her, in this house where she has spent her entire life.

The problem with a house full of this stuff that one has gathered through the decades is that at some point, you begin to store things in a haphazard way that makes it virtually impossible to access both the things you want to use and the things you want to get rid of. The only way to clean out is to make things even more chaotic, to empty everything out of the space and look at it, and start over, storing things in ways that make sense.  It's a daunting task, even if the rewards involve finding the gems we'd forgotten we had.  You have to be fully prepared for this kind of deep cleaning.  It's not something to be undertaken lightly.

My yoga teacher says that we are like mini-versions of this problem.  We hold on to so much baggage--not all of it excess--but when it all becomes jumbled together, we become cluttered, too.  Which is the point of a meditative yoga practice.  To take out all the clutter, put it all under a microscope, and without judging ourselves, get rid of what we don't need. But also to know that in the process, things will get messy.  You don't reach bliss without slogging through a little mud.

If you've read this blog for at least a year, you know that I don't make New Year's resolutions, because I think it's too arbitrary; I think that if we really want to make change, we need to be ready, and a new calendar doesn't necessarily mean we're ready for large-scale renovation.  But even if I don't decide to do anything drastic, I do find myself cleaning out a little at this time of year.  Maybe it's my way of trying to start with a cleaner slate.

Are you ready to clean out a closet or two?  Or do you need some time to prepare for the clutter and chaos that cleaning will entail?



Zaletti
These were an experiment this year, a sort of clean-out-your-closet cookie. I'm not sure they'll become one of my staples, but I'm grateful for the impetus to make space.

1 c. currants
1/4 c. dark rum
1 c. + 2 T. stone ground cornmeal
1 1/4 c. flour
1/2 t. salt1/2 t. baking powder
1/2 t. baking soda
4 egg yolks
1/2 c. sugar
6 T. unsalted butter, melted and cooled
zest of 2 lemon
1/2 c. confectioner's sugar
1 t. - 1 T. lemon juice

Preheat the oven to 350F.  Soak the currants in the rum for at least 15 minutes, until plump.

Whisk together the flour, cornmeal, baking soda, salt and baking powder in medium bowl and set aside.

Using a stand mixer, beat the egg yolks and sugar together until the mixture becomes pale yellow.  Add the butter and lemon zest, beating until smooth.  Gradually add the dry ingredients and mix until well combined.  The dough should be firm; if it's too dry, add some of the rum from the currants, and if it's too wet, add a little flour.

Drain the currants and stir them into the dough, reserving the rum for another use.

Divide the dough into two balls. On a lightly floured work surface, roll out the dough into two 2" square logs about 10 inches long.  Cut each log into 1/2" thick slices, and gently press each cookie into a diamond shape.

Place the cookies on a parchment-lined baking sheet and bake until golden, about 15-20 minutes.  Remove the cookies and transfer to a wire rack to cool completely.

Sire together confectioners' sugar and lemon juice (1 t. at a time) until you have a thin (but not runny) glaze.  Drizzle glaze over the cooled cookies and allow it to solidify before storing.

Light in the Darkness, and Doodh Peda (Indian Sweets)

"Your first night driving home in the dark," my boss commented, nodding towards the window as I gathered my things to leave work.

I said something dismissive about having driven home in the dark before, because I've spent a few late evenings at events on campus, but as I crested the mountain in the middle of my drive, in the pitch black, tensely hunched over the wheel as I scanned the road ahead for deer, I realized he was right, in a way; this darkness felt different than it had just three weeks ago.  More permanent.  Or at the very least, more sustained.  I could sense winter coming.  There would be snow in these mountains.

Diwali, the five day Hindu festival popularly known as the "festival of lights" and the first in a two month series of  light-filled holidays from various traditions, began on Sunday this year.  The festival celebrates the victory of light over dark, good over evil, and knowledge over ignorance, honoring of the return of Hindu god Rama and his wife Sita to their kingdom after years of exile.  During Diwali, celebrants clean the house and light small clay lamps filled with oil to make the goddess Lakshmi (of prosperity) and Ganesh (remover of obstacles) feel welcome, and there are lots of sweets shared with friends.

More importantly, perhaps, the holiday celebrates awareness of the inner light, the light of higher knowledge dispelling all ignorance, the awakening that brings compassion, awareness of the oneness of all things, and eventually, ananda (which my yoga teacher translates as "bliss").

While of course the parallels between the celebrations and the daylight hours depend on the hemisphere in which you live, there's something to be said for looking inward when the light outside wanes.  I've written here before about the practice of pratyahara, withdrawing from the senses, in order to better focus our inner awareness; though I haven't been to my beloved yoga teacher's studio in a while to practice there, I suspect that's what they're preparing to do this month and next.

So as I headed into the valley, I turned off the radio, slowed down, lowered my high beams, and listened.

The silence was wonder-ful.

Happy Diwali; wishing you all the light of andanda.  Enjoy the darkness.

Doodh Pedas
I love Indian sweets because they're so different from our cloying candy.   These are pretty easy to make, and the "dough" is fun to play with, whether you have kids or not.  Next time I might even add a drop or two of rosewater, just for the heady sent .

1¾ c. powdered milk
1 can sweetened condensed milk
2 T. butter
6 green cardamom pods, peeled and seeds crushed to fine powder
small pinch of saffron, dissolved in 2 T. warm water or milk
small pinch of salt
nuts (cashews, almonds, pistachios etc)

Microwave the butter in a deep bowl for 20-30 seconds until just melted. Add the milk powder and condensed milk and stir well until you no longer see any lumps.

Microwave the mixture again for 1 minute. Mix well again, and microwave once more for 1 minute.

Add the cardamom, salt, and saffron, and mix well. Microwave for one more minute.

Allow the mixture to cool a bit, and dump it onto a piece of waxed paper or parchment. Cover with another sheet of waxed paper or parchment, and roll the dough into a 1/2" thick round. Cut with a cookie cutter or into whatever shape you like, and press nuts into the center. (The dough, as it cools, becomes lots of fun for children to play with.) Cool completely.

On Living Well, and Arroz con leche

When I was in graduate school--the second time around--I took a Philosophy of Education course in which we were assigned Aristotle's Ethics.  I remembered hating Aristotle from some other course, so I wasn't looking forward to revisiting it, but in my re-reading I was drawn to the concept of eudaimonia, which--often mistranslated as "happiness"--really means "doing and living well."  As I was boxing up some books to take to my new office the other day, I took Ethics off the shelf and began to thumb through it fondly, realizing, with some small degree of horror, that I ended up loving philosophy after all, and thinking that perhaps I hadn't had enough life experience to fully appreciate Aristotle when I read his work the first time.

Skimming my marginalia, I was surprised to notice how much Ethics reminded me of my study of yoga, how much living well was bound up with the activity of right intention, which Aristotle calls "virtue" (but which isn't exactly virtue as we tend to use the term now).  Most of us think of happiness as a state of consciousness, something internal, and even passive.  But the way Aristotle describes it, eudaimonia involves real, messy, being and doing in the world--even if slightly limited by the fact that his is a state-backed model of the good life.  Eudaimonia comes of habit (according to Aristotle), like the "practice" of yoga texts. Even considering right action in yoga discourages attachment to outcomes, where for Aristotle the means are oriented to the end through the process of rational thought, there are striking parallels between Ethics and the Gita.*

My yoga attendance these days has been sporadic at best; I don't get home early enough for the Thursday night class I used to take, and I try to spend my weekends being available to my kids instead of commuting to Frenchtown where other people are trying to breathe through vinyasa.  I brought my mat and yoga pants to work today, hoping to escape for an hour during lunch, which I ended up eating (in the form of an apple and a granola bar) at my desk, trying to manage a situation that was stubbornly resisting management.  Given the sort day I've been having, I felt deflated.  On the other hand, what I was doing was sort of along the lines of right intention.  It just didn't have a very physical dimension.

What we know about anatomy suggests that the mind-body connection isn't a connection at all, but is really one in the same thing: essentially, two nerves connect our bodies to our brains.  Body is mind, and mind is body--even for Aristotle, in a way.  My daughter reminds me of this constantly, (still) learning by touching everything, expressing herself (despite her advanced verbal skills) by jumping up and down or rolling around on the floor.  I could practice yoga on my own, but my best practice is in sangha, in community.  Which makes sense to me, after all; if living well is practicing right intention, then it follows that the practice of yoga, which is also about living the best life by cultivating a space for right action, entails not abstracting oneself from the world, but figuring out how to immerse oneself in all of its dimensions.  Doing yoga all the time.


Remember that Mary Oliver poem, "Rice"?

I don't want you to just sit at the table.
I don't want you just to eat, and be content.
I want you to walk into the fields
Where the water is shining, and the rice has risen.
I want you to stand there,
far from the white tablecloth.
I want you to fill your hands with mud,
like a blessing.

Don't just sit at the table; fill your hands with mud.  Get down and dirty, out in the field. That's happiness.

*(Philosophy PhDs and yoga experts: go ahead, tell me where I got it wrong.)

Arroz con leche
This is a simple dessert from my childhood, which I find myself craving when the weather finally takes a turn towards fall.


4 c. milk (of your choice)
1/2 c. short-grain rice
1 cinnamon stick
1/4 t. dried orange peel
pinch salt
1/4 c. sugar
3/4 T. butter (optional)
1 t. vanilla 

Add the milk, rice, cinnamon stick, orange or lemon peel and salt to a medium saucepan and bring to a boil over medium heat. Immediately reduce heat to very low and simmer, stirring often and scraping bottom, for about 45 minutes.

Add the raisins and sugar and simmer for another 15 minutes. Stir often to keep from sticking to the bottom of the pot.

Remove from heat and stir in the butter and vanilla. Adjust sugar to taste and serve hot or cold, sprinkling the top with some ground cinnamon.

Hanuman, Anandam, Memory, and Chickpea Ratatouille

Each month, my yoga teacher focuses on a different asana to deepen our practice, and this month's theme was hanumanasana.  Hanuman, according to Hindu scripture, was the deity who reunited the lovers Sita and Rama, symbolizing the role of public servant, and seeker of truth.  We're also thinking about the second of the Yoga Sutras of Patanjali, and last night, my teacher was talking about the things that keep us from anandam, from bliss: the things that keep us from uniting with the truth.

One of these things, according to Patanjali, is reproducing memory, living as if what was true then is also true now.  Or distorting memory in ways that link it with other thought patterns.

I guess that's one reason that yoga has been recommended as a treatment for PTSD: to help us get closer to the truth of now, rather than inhabiting a past that our minds can embellish.  If we are focused on our breathing, on the position of our bodies in space, it's a lot harder to rehash the things that caused us pain; we are too busy with the process of reunification of self.

Mel posted the other day about refusing to get on an emotional roller coaster, and I could have sworn she was talking to me.  I've recently gotten back on a roller coaster that I thought I'd never get back on again.  It's a ride that takes me right back to where I was two years ago, with twists and turns and plummets into the depths that make me -- even now -- dizzy and sick: I have a strong visceral reaction to living in this space of memory.  I did it because I thought it would bring me closer to the truth.  I did it because I want, desperately, to do the right thing.  But sometimes it's hard to know what the right thing to do really is.

There have been a few times over the past few days when I look down at my daughter and realize that she is becoming this little person; I find myself wondering where this small, articulate little one came from.  I've been with her from the beginning, of course, but I will admit to being a very distracted parent over the past two years.  People have asked "are you enjoying your time at home?"  And I would have to answer, "well, sort of, but it's hard to focus on enjoying your time at home when you think you're supposed to be somewhere else."  It's hard to focus on being at home when you never know if and when you'll get a job, and you live in constant limbo.  (Sort of like being pregnant after infertility and loss.  Yes, you are happy to be pregnant, but you also know that at any moment you may lose everything, so you try hard not to attach at all.)  It's hard to focus on being at home when you feel like you're treading water.  It's hard to focus on being at home when you are depressed.  It's hard to focus on being at home when you feel like you are going to leap out of your skin at any moment, because this is not your life.  It's hard to focus on being at home when you are still stuck in the memory of what happened to you when this all started.

And now, I feel sad that I've squandered the time I had, the gift I had.  Not on purpose, but because I couldn't be present for it.  Still on the roller coaster, I try to drag myself back to the now, and notice the amazing little one before me.  Because she is what's real.

Om anandam, sachit anandam.  Welcome bliss.  Be present now.  And be gentle when the memories come.

Chickpea Ratatouille
This Mark Bittman dish from the April 2013 issue of Vegetarian Times is the sort of thing you can prepare and then step away from, so that you can spend more time being where you are, rather than where you think you're supposed to be.  This is not my mother's ratatouille.

1 lb. small eggplant, cut into large chunks
28-oz. can whole tomatoes, drained and chopped
3/4 lb. zucchini, cut into large chunks
1 medium yellow onion, sliced (1½ cups)
2 red or yellow bell peppers, cored, seeded, and sliced
5 cloves garlic, peeled and halved
1 t. salt
¼ cup olive oil
2 15 oz. cans chickpeas, rinsed and drained
1/4 c. chopped fresh parsley


Preheat oven to 425°F. Combine eggplant, tomatoes, zucchini, onion, bell peppers, garlic, salt and oil in large  roasting pan.

Roast 30 to 40 minutes, or until vegetables are lightly browned and tender, and some water has released from  tomatoes to create a sauce, stirring occasionally.

Stir in chickpeas, and roast 5 to 10 minutes more, or until chickpeas are heated through. Stir in parsley, and season with salt and pepper, if desired. Serve hot, warm, or at room temperature.

Green: Toasted Kale and Coconut with Farro

I am, and always have been, the sort of person who does best in the gym through peer pressure.  It's not that I don't want to go, but more that I just don't enjoy running on the treadmill or using machines; I can't bring myself to watch TV and live in my head for that long while I'm doing reps.  I like the social aspect of group exercise classes; I like the friendly joking, the camaraderie and encouragement of fellow class members, even the collecting grunting and groaning during a particularly challenging class.  Like comments in blogging, it makes me feel a little less alone.  In fact, this is so important to me that it determines where I go to the gym; I go to our local YMCA because I love the mix of people there, I love the fact that I don't feel like I have to walk shamefully through rows of perfect bodies and people primping, I love the fact that people come as they are, in all shapes and sizes, and the goal is not perfection but wellness.

So I was sort of surprised when I realized that I'd been attacked by the green eyed monster at the Y today.

My group exercise classes are mostly "regulars" -- people who show up for the same classes every week.  Some of us show up for class at the same time every day.  Monday is Kick.  Tuesday is Tabata.  Wednesday is Step.  Thursday is Groove.

Usually the instructors are encouraging of everyone, regardless of ability.  But I know that they're also always on the lookout for potential teachers.  And in the class I love most last week, the instructor asked after "friend x," mentioning that she wanted to get her into an upcoming training.

I like "friend x" a lot.  I think she's good at the class.  She is skinny and athletic.  She remembers all of the steps in a routine.  I've known that this instructor was trying to tap her for some time.  And it's not as if the instructor doesn't encourage me, too; she's mentioned that I would be a good fit for teaching a different class (which, in my opinion, is full of people who do it even better than I do).  But still I found myself thinking, "why aren't I good enough to get trained to teach this class?  Why won't she pick me?"

I spent the rest of the class feeling shamefully inadequate.  And envious of my friend.

Yoga teaches us that behind every block, every painful feeling, every surge of resentment, is life force waiting to be freed.  When we get stuck in asana, we breathe, and the breath re-creates the flow of prana, often allowing us to move more deeply into the pose.  Instead of worrying about what we don't have, or where we fall short, we focus on freeing that energy, on allowing it -- as it wants to do naturally anyway -- to shift and move, to become something else, to become more creative.

And then we're called to practice mudita,or empathetic joy.  The more we cling to our selves, the more we get stuck in "I"-ness, in our achievements, the more we are limited.  The reality is, we don't have to be good at everything.  That's not what it's about.  It's about practicing to the best of our ability, and resting in the joy of others as they do the same.

And when I think about it, that's at the heart of the Y, anyway, at the heart of the success of our group fitness classes.  Not to be caught up in what we do best alone, but what we do best together, experiencing joy when others can reach their fullest potential.  The spirit of non-competitiveness.  I can do this when people experience joy in things that I don't want; now it's up to me to practice joy even when the achievement is something I would have wanted, too.  Because the fact that someone is attaining joy near me makes me part of that joy, too ... makes me an integral component of it.  I am part of the energy the makes that joy possible.

So that's what I'll be working on this week.  Looking my teacher and my friend in the eye, cheering her on, and making sure that my green says where it belongs, in my salad bowl.

Toasted Kale with Coconut and Farro

This recipe comes directly from Heidi Swanson's cookbook, Super Natural Everyday, which I bought myself with a gift card as a treat during the holidays.  I haven't bought a cookbook in years, and it was absolutely worth it; I haven't been disappointed in a recipe yet.

Respecting the intellectual property of other bloggers means not reprinting recipes as they are written without permission from the author.  And I didn't alter this one very much, as I usually do.  So instead today I'm posting a list of the ingredients, and a link to Serious Eats, which did get permission from Heidi to reprint her recipe.   I used a bit more kale than she did, which I've reflected below.

Suffice to say that this was the most amazing kale dish I think I've ever eaten.  I literally could not stop devouring it.  If you liked the kale chip phenomenon, this dish will rock your world.  And start to finish it took me about 20 minutes, with minimal effort.  If only working on my other greens was this easy.

1/3 c. extra-virgin olive oil  
1 t. sesame oil 
2 T. shoyu, tamari, or soy sauce 
4 lightly packed c. chopped kale, stems trimmed, large ribs removed 
1 1/2 c. unsweetened large-flake coconut 
2 c. cooked farro or other whole grain (optional)

Pratyahara, and a Birthday: Carrot Leek Soup

So I turned 39 yesterday.  It was, in many ways, an ordinary day.  Little or no fanfare, no dinner at a fancy restaurant, just good wishes.  I went to the Y and tried a Boot Camp class that kicked my proverbial arse, but was told by the instructor that I "had potential to stick around."  My son baked me a birthday cake from a box (which I have to tell you about in my next post, because it deserves discussion of its own).  Though it was a quiet birthday, it felt just right.

This month in yoga, we're focusing on the practice of pratyahara.  In a nutshell, pratyahara involves sensory withdrawal, removing the information overload that we live in every day in an effort to draw inward, and pay more attention to the self.

My yoga teacher says that everyone on earth, when we strip away everything else, wants the same things: peace, happiness, and to be seen or known, by ourselves and by others.  Though I'm not sure I can agree with such a reductive statement about humankind, I do think that most of us want to be known.  And I also agree that sometimes all of the noise--both the noise that the world creates for us and the noise we create within ourselves, with negative self-talk or attachments to worldly things--gets in the way of us knowing our deepest selves.  Pratyahara--which we practiced by closing our eyes, blindfolding ourselves, and covering our ears--counters that noise by creating silences: by removing visual or auditory or other sensory distractions.

It so happens that I spend a lot of time in asana with my eyes closed.  I know it's not recommended; it's a force of habit.  And yet, I never realized why it was so natural until tonight.  Yes, in some ways it's relaxing (though I'll warn you, you're going to feel that stretch in your side seam a whole lot more in trichonasana, and it's a lot harder to balance in vrikshasana when you can't focus on a spot on the wall).  But it's mostly relaxing because those distractions go away, allowing me to focus on what's happening in the physical body.  Once you realize that's what you're doing, that sensory withdrawal is like a laser beam, illuminating one small piece of you at a time.

That drawing inward to look at ourselves, and to gather energy for what's coming next, is a perfect winter activity.  The pause, the caesura, the time of waiting.  Just as people do physical cleanses, and get rid of the junk food in their lives, so it's important, sometimes, step away from all of the noise.  To meet our truest selves.  Pratyahara offers one way to withdraw, to restore our senses, to renew.

And in some way, even if I couldn't articulate it at the time, maybe this was my wish for my birthday: to withdraw a little, to go inward, and to prepare myself for what's coming next.

Here's looking at you, 39.  I'm ready.

Carrot and Leek Soup
adapted from The View from the Great Island
Good mental nutrition requires good physical nutrition.  And though I hate to admit it, sometimes you need something a little better for you than cookies.  This is what I ate when I came home from yoga tonight.  You can strain it to get rid of the seeds, but I sort of like them, for a little crunch.

1 T. butter
1 T. olive oil
2 t. yellow mustard seeds
2 t. coriander seeds
1/4 t. tumeric
1/2 t. garam masala
1" piece of fresh ginger, peeled and minced
2 leeks, sliced (white and light green part only)
1 small green apple, peeled and diced
1 lb. carrots, peeled and roughly chopped
4 c. vegetable or chicken stock
salt and fresh cracked black pepper to taste

Heat the oil and butter over medium heat in a large soup pot and saute the spices for a minute or two. The seeds will start to pop.  Add the leeks and saute for a few more minutes, stirring often to prevent browning.

Add the apple, carrots, and stock to the pot. Bring to a simmer and cook until the carrots are tender, about 25 minutes.  Puree the soup in a blender, food processor, or with an immersion blender.  Add additional water if necessary.

Stranded: Chicken Pot Pie Soup

Noon on a rainy Tuesday.  The towtruck pulled up in front of my neighbor's driveway and began to slide the bed back, inclining it to the ground.  N. heard the commotion and went running to the door, pressing her face to the glass, where her breath made frosty marks around her small nose.

I'd been expecting the truck; my neighbor told me the other day, in her matter-of-fact way, that the van was going to be towed.  My neighbor is almost ninety, and the van has been uncooperative for a long time; finally, it rusted out completely underneath, leavings its entrails exposed to the elements.  But uncooperative as the van may have been, it was the symbolic representation of her independence.  It was her escape.  To the Amish market.  To the salon.  To the doctor's office.  To wherever she needed to go, by herself.

As I watched her from our doorway, standing on her own porch, I tried to imagine the thoughts in her head.  About borrowing her daughter's car.  About juggling rides.  About not going places.  About having to ask for help.

She stood there for a long time, stoic, half inside, half outside, newly coiffed with an auburn bouffant.  There were no tears; it was as if she was standing watch to make sure it all went right, rather than offering her last goodbye.  Finally, as the driver loaded the van onto the truck, she closed the door.  Perhaps she could take no more.

I believe that part of what has kept her and her husband alive and healthy for so long is their sense of independence, their sense of freedom. I can only imagine how difficult it was for her to give up that freedom.  She was, effectively, stranding herself.

My mother is also now stranded here.  She has no car, no friends, no lunch dates, not even 24 hour access to the Food Network, because we have no TV, much less cable.  She is in some pain; she can walk from room to room, but prefers not to move from standing to sitting positions more often than she has to.  She has to ask for help, and it's as if she doesn't quite know how; she doesn't want to be a burden, and yet sometimes not knowing how to help her is more burdensome than a simple request.  Today I helped her wash her hair in the sink, and take a sponge bath, and felt an awkward intimacy, almost like I was intruding.  These are things I do for my children.

This is a difficult negotiation for us.  There were times, as an adult, when I wanted her to be there, to support me, to tend to me, and she wasn't.  At least, not in the way I wanted her to be.  And I couldn't ask her to be, because that is not the person she is.  And yet now, I find myself in the position of caretaker.  Feeling like I ought not to be feeling sorry for myself, because she is the one in pain.

In her 2001 book Bodhichitta, Pema Chodron writes

"Bodhichitta is [...] equated, in part, with compassion—our ability to feel the pain that we share with others. Without realizing it we continually shield ourselves from this pain because it scares us. We put up protective walls made of opinions, prejudices and strategies, barriers that are built on a deep fear of being hurt. These walls are further fortified by emotions of all kinds: anger, craving, indifference, jealousy and envy, arrogance and pride. But fortunately for us, the soft spot—our innate ability to love and to care about things—is like a crack in these walls we erect. It's a natural opening in the barriers we create when we're afraid. With practice we can learn to find this opening. We can learn to seize that vulnerable moment—love, gratitude, loneliness, embarrassment, inadequacy—to awaken bodhichitta."

The soft spot.  Our innate ability to love.  The crack in my wall.  Maybe this is the moment that Pema would call the "teacher."

There is more soup on the menu this week.  The sort of soup my mother would like.  Because when you're stranded, at least you ought to have something you like to eat.

Chicken Pot Pie Soup
adapted from no, 2 pencil

2 T. butter
1 medium onion, diced
2 stalks of celery, diced
1 large carrot, diced
2 T. flour
2 t. sage
1 t. thyme
6 c. chicken stock - plus additional to thin if soup is very thick
3 c. shredded and 1 c. diced potatoes
4 c. cooked, diced or shredded chicken
1/2 c. evaporated milk (or heavy cream)
1 cup of frozen peas

Melt butter in a large pot over medium heat.  Add onions, carrots and celery and saute until softened. Add flour; stir well and cook about one minute more. Add herbs and chicken stock, increase heat to medium high. Once chicken stock begins to simmer, add potatoes and let simmer for about 15 minutes, or until potatoes begin to break down and thicken soup. Add chicken and let simmer until heated through, then add milk and peas and let simmer about 5 more minutes.

Add salt and pepper to taste, and adjust consistency of soup with additional chicken stock if needed.

Coming to Terms (and Honey Lavender Ice Cream)

I lace up my sneakers, open the door, and step out.  It's only been three days since I've gone running, but it feels like an eternity: my limbs feel like stone.  I have already decided that I'm going farther today.  I reach the street, lean forward, take a breath, take a few steps, quicken my pace, and begin.

***

Before I got pregnant with my daughter, I had a dream that is still vivid in my mind.  I am walking down the sidewalk, perhaps towards downtown, perhaps towards the farmer's market up the street; the sun is warm and the light is dappled on the pavement.  Ahead of me, my son walks with my husband, holding his hand, sometimes skipping away, then running back to him, like a boomerang.  Sometimes he climbs up onto my husband's shoulders, ruffling the leaves playfully when his head nears the branches.  I am walking a good distance behind them, more slowly, carrying a child in my arms.  A daughter.  She is heavy, thoughtful, watching the world go by with solemnity.  I want to hold my boomerang child, too, but I know I must carry this one right now.  I feel like I'm being left behind, even though I'm not alone.  I feel my throat tighten, watching them head into the light without me.  Without us.

***

Yesterday I went to yoga class for the first time in weeks.  It's been too easy to miss class lately, with my husband's business trips, and our (too short) vacation, and the loss of momentum.  I dragged myself out, knowing that there would probably be a sub because my teacher goes to India every year at this time, also knowing that I need ... something.  Recentering?

The sub was someone I know fairly well, a woman who is in the 500 hour training this year.  My teacher had given me her name as a reference when I was exploring doing teacher training, when I had given up on getting pregnant after years of loss after loss and had just been handed a diagnosis of unexplained secondary infertility.  I had decided I was going to give myself a different goal, just a week before discovering I was pregnant with my daughter.  Seeing her always reminds me of one of the alternate universes where I didn't end up, the one in which I become a wildly successful certified yoga instructor, but have only one child.

Her style is a little different from my regular teacher, but you can also tell that she was my teacher's student.  She does more than just talk about asanas; she talks about philosophy.  And last night she talked about stillness, that we need to find that place in us that doesn't move, the center around which chaos swirls.  My teacher calls this sattva.

I find some irony in this.  On the one hand, I have a hard time not getting swept up in the chaos.  Chaos has defined my life for the past 38 years.  But on the other hand, I am the center now.  I'm the one who isn't changing, who is just watching the world dance around me.  And I don't always find it a welcome place to be.

***

I am running through the better part of town now, through the Mc Mansions.  I hate these houses, this sprawling treeless suburbia, and yet, I want them.  Or more correctly, I want the ability to have them if I wanted them.  There are other things like that, too.

***

You should know this about me: I was a valedictorian.  I was the one who was always ahead.  I was the smart one, the one in the gifted and talented classes.  The first one in my class to take my exams in graduate school.  The one who won the fellowship.  The one who started new programs at my former place of employment, turning them into some of the most highly visible features of the university before I left my job, unable to turn a blind eye to culture that openly permitted sexism.

Now I applaud with humility and jealousy when the accolades get handed out.  I'm no longer the best in show.  I watch others walk into the light, and wonder if I'm not running fast enough to keep up with the chaos.

***

My son starts first grade in two weeks, riding the bus for the first time.  My daughter is beginning to put words together to form stories: "Eat.  Elmo. Eyeball.  Nomnomnomnom.  bwahahahaaaaa!" (in reference to consuming an Elmo cupcake last week.)  My husband orbits us, coming and going on business trips and busy with work.  My former colleagues' lives march onward in Facebook, with posts about new student orientations and other harbingers of the new academic year.  My non-work friends have their own chaos, some of it not good at all.  My blogging colleagues and friends have theirs, some of it very good chaos, indeed.

And I sit here in the middle of it, just watching.  Feeling jealous of the movement and strangely disappointed by the stillness that this teacher says I should cultivate.

***

I am three miles out from home, feet falling rhythmically on the pavement, my mind spinning, the air thick with jasmine, gardenia, lavender, and I realize I am gasping for breath. I stop, resting my hand on the splintered wooden fencepost, and am surprised to find that I am shaking, dry-heaving.  It comes, like a tidal wave.  My face is wet.  I brush the sweat away, but it's not sweat.

I am tired of death.  I am tired of giving up, of renouncing.  I am tired of the lives that didn't make it to term, the dreams I had to leave behind, the losses I had to cut.  And I am tired of the stillness that invades even the motion of running.

I am shaking my fist ungratefully at the sky, at the miraculously blue sky.   An older couple drives by in a beat up green pickup truck, waving, thinking I am waving at them.  I wave, take a deep breath, curse everyone, and pick up my feet, half skipping to start myself moving forward again.

***

When I first got our ice cream maker, I was surprised to see that the paddle stayed still in the middle while the bowl turned around it.  It makes perfect sense, of course, given that you want to continually give the ingredients new contact with the coldest surface in order to convince them to freeze evenly; it had just never occurred to me that it would work that way.

Maybe it's a useful metaphor.  Maybe I am running to stand still.  The flower around which the bees work, collecting nectar to bring back to the hive.  Honey.  Lavender.

***

I crest the hill, and turn down, towards home.

Honey Lavender Ice Cream

2 c. milk
1 c. heavy cream
1 T. + 1 t. corn starch
1 t. lavender
2/3 c. honey
3 T. cream cheese (or goat cheese, thank you Healthy Foodie!)

Mix about 2 T. of the milk with the cornstarch in a small bowl to make a smooth slurry.Whisk the cream (or goat) cheese and salt in a medium bowl until smooth. Fill a large bowl with ice and water.

Combine the remaining milk, cream, lavender, and honey in a 4-quart saucepan, bring to a rolling boil over medium-high heat, and boil for 4 minutes, Remove from the heat and gradually whisk in the cornstarch slurry. Bring the mixture back to a boil over medium-high heat and cook, stirring with a heatproof spatula, until slightly thickened, about 1 minute. Remove from the heat.

Gradually whisk the hot milk into the cream (or goat) cheese until smooth. Submerge the mixture partway in the ice bath. Let stand, adding more ice as necessary, until cold, about 30 minutes.

Strain out the lavender as you pour the ice cream base into the frozen canister and spin until thick and creamy. Pack the ice cream into a storage container. Press a sheet of parchment directly against the surface and seal with an airtight lid. Freeze in the coldest part of your freezer until firm, at least 4 hours.

Serve sprinkled with a few lavender buds, toasted almonds, or a square of good bittersweet chocolate.

Comfort and Red Curry

I went to yoga last night for the first time in about two months.  Between our own travels, my husband's travels, and missing a week or two to do something with my son, I lost momentum.  Knowing that there are more dates coming up in the next month that I won't be able to get to class was making me feel like there was no point in going, anyway, because I'd begin to practice and then backtrack again.

Of course, I become a much grouchier person when I don't go to yoga.  When I don't take time for myself.  Even when I go to the Y, I know that my daughter is in Child Watch and that all hell could break loose at any moment (most often this happens in the form of an emergency diaper change requiring that I leave my class at once).  And considering that I haven't been in weeks, and that I've been solo parenting on and off during that time, I admit, I have gotten grouchier than usual.  For me, yoga is a spiritual practice that offers me peace, and reminds me, as Rumi says, to "visit myself," but it also helps me to get out of myself, to think outwards, to gain perspective.  I love what Pema Chodron says about this:

For many, spiritual practice represents a way to relax and a way to access peace of mind. We want to feel calm, more focused; and with our frantic, stressful lives, who can blame us? Nevertheless, we have a responsibility to think bigger than that these days. If spiritual practice is relaxing, if it gives us some peace of mind, that's great-- but is this personal satisfaction helping us to address what's happening in the world? The main question is, are we living in a way that adds further aggression and self-centeredness to the mix, or are we adding some much needed sanity? (from Taking the Leap)

In the interest of potentially adding needed sanity to the world, I finally decided to go, despite feeling tired, and when I arrived, I discovered that there was a sub for my usual teacher.  Great, I thought.  I sacrificed the time and money and it's not even my favorite teacher.  I made my way into the room, unrolled my mat, and closed my eyes, feeling grumpier than ever.

I sat listening to my breath, and imagined what my regular teacher would say, about honoring the intention that brought you to class, about putting aside whatever you left to get to class and whatever you were going to have to return to after you left.  I heard her voice suggesting that I let the breath breathe me.  Slowly, the attitude melted away.

And the class was actually just what I needed.  It wasn't my usual teacher's pace, or her humor, but it was gentle enough to allow me to be gentle to myself.  I found myself grateful, in the end, that I'd gone, and that the sub was there after all.  And I felt renewed, able to tackle the world again.

It reminded me of my pickup at the farm two weeks ago, when I was just starting to get over being sick.  I didn't want to go; I almost called my neighbor to ask her to pick up my share for me.  I knew I'd have to carry N. on my back, in the heat, and venture into the fields if I wanted tomatoes.  I felt depleted, and wondered whether perhaps it would just be easier not to go.

But when I arrived, there were two curry dishes to sample, waiting inside the pickup space.  Our farm always has one or two seasonal dishes to sample at pickup, using part of the week's share, along with the recipe.  I've written here before about curry as one of my comfort foods, and it was as if they knew what I needed.  I don't even eat white rice much anymore, that small flowered Dixie cup full of warm rice and coconut milk and squash and red curry was like a small miracle.  It was the first real food I'd eaten in days.  I was grateful, and I told them so.  I know I was a better parent that night.

Sometimes it's hard to go where we need to go, or do what we need to do.  We don't want to go to yoga.  We don't want to write for the fifteen minutes we promised ourselves.  We don't want to see that friend who has been nagging us.  It's inconvenient.  We're tired.  We're grumpy.  But sometimes the nourishment we need is waiting there.

Where do you go or what do you do to nourish yourself?  Is it always easy to make that commitment?  Do you find that this practice, or this space, is self-centered, or does it help you to add sanity to the world?

Red Curry with Summer Squash 
This is slightly different from the previous red curry recipe I posted.  You can still make your own curry paste, but I like the convenience of the bottled kind.

3 medium summer squash cubed (I also tossed in 3 small eggplant)
1 sweet onion, sliced
2 cloves of garlic sliced
2 T. olive oil
2 T. red curry paste
2 c. coconut milk
1 T. fish sauce
1 T. brown sugar
Salt
Sweet (Thai) Basil

Sauté curry paste in olive oil 1 – 2 minutes to bring out flavor. Add 1 c. coconut milk; simmer 4 minutes. Add onion, garlic and squash. Cook until beginning to get tender. Add 1 1/2 c. coconut milk, fish sauce, and sugar. Add salt to taste, remove from heat and add sweet basil May use other vegetables as well

Stop-Motion and Larb Gai (or Tofu)

Last night in yoga we practiced sun salutations in slow- and stop-motion.  Before putting a foot down, for example, we would hover it over the ground for a few seconds.  If this sounds like a huge pain to you practicing yogis out there, well, it was.  I've done sun salutations hundreds of times, and though my form is far from perfect, my body naturally glides through the flows of the asanas.  It was amazing to observe how different something feels, and how clumsy and unbalanced you become, when you take a habit out of practice, when you make yourself wait in an in-between.

Part of the point, my teacher explained (besides allowing us to concentrate on our form), was to become comfortable with in-between-ness, with the messiness that occurs when we are attentive to the process rather than rushing headlong to the endpoint or solution.

I am not good with in-between-ness.  It's not that I don't enjoy the journey from point A to point B, but rather that I generally live with my end goals in sight, and I tend to be hell-bent on arriving at them.  That's one reason this year has been a challenging one for me: the goals are fuzzier (though I suppose I could set more tangible writing goals), and the days less purpose-driven (short of the bullet pointed list of things to do that is always in my head, and which always includes laundry and making the next meal, sort of like a shopping list that always starts with bananas and milk).  I am less graceful in this state.  Sometimes it's downright ugly.

On the other hand, sometimes if we disrupt the "flow," the most wonderful, unexpected things can happen.  Not like hovering my right leg an inch above the floor before I put it down for a high lunge (which builds muscle tone but makes my quadriceps scream), but like discovering a new kind of tiny flower that grows in the cracks in the sidewalk, or having a conversation with someone you've never met, or gaining new perspective on how to resolve a difficult situation.

I used to travel internationally as often as I could; we were lucky to have parents who took us on vacation every year to some really remarkable places: Spain, France, Mexico, the Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico.  I had relatives in two of those places, so it wasn't that surprising that we traveled to see them, but saving for those trips was a priority in our house.  When I started living on my own, I continued to make travel a savings priority, and I visited (some with my husband) Alaska (which might as well be another country for me, given where I live!), South Africa, Brazil, Thailand, Japan, Canada, and a host of other places.  And when I think back, I remember that the best trips were the ones in which I didn't, guide-book in hand, spend all of my time worrying about getting to the next place.

So I'll encourage you to do something disruptive today.  Live for an hour in stop-motion.  And become comfortable, for a moment, in the in-between-ness, the point of transition, that makes change possible.

Larb Gai or Larb Tofu
This refreshing salad is generally made with chicken, but the tofu will sop up the flavor and dressing beautifully.  And if the shallot bites, live with it for a minute or so. :)

2 t. jasmine rice*
2 t. coconut or vegetable or peanut oil
3/4 lb. chicken or firm tofu, minced/crumbled (I use my cuisinart)
1 stalk lemongrass, sliced
2 T. fish sauce (nam pla)
1/3 c. broth
3 small shallots (1-2 large ones)
4 green onions, sliced on the diagonal
1/2 c. cilantro, chopped
1/2 c. mint, chopped
3 T. lime juice
1/2 lb. lettuce, shredded
1/4 c. roasted unsalted peanuts

(PSA: this first part is a real p.i.t.a., and we will understand if you decide to skip the rice bit.)
In a small pan over medium heat, toast the rice until it's fragrant.  Grind to a powder using whatever means you have available: mortar and pestle, small and powerful cuisinart, etc.

Heat oil in a medium skillet over medium heat.  Add chicken mince and cook thoroughly, stirring often to break up lumps.  Add broth, lemongrass, and fish sauce, and cook for another 10 minutes (but watch to make sure it doesn't burn; you may need to turn down the heat).  Remove from heat and allow mixture to cool.

Add shallots, green onions, cilantro, mint, and lime juice and stir to combine well.  Place lettuce on a serving platter, top with chicken mixture, and sprinkle with peanuts.

*You could omit the rice entirely, though I'm told that the flavor of the dish without the rice really makes it a different dish.

Warrior II: Vegetarian Tamale Pie

We spent a significant part of last month in yoga class doing hip openers in order to practice our virabhadrasana II (warrior pose).  I've always loved that pose: it's named after an incarnation of Shiva, described as having a thousand heads, a thousand eyes, and a thousand feet, wielding a thousand clubs, and wearing a tiger's skin, and when I'm standing there, grounded, arms out, feet spread, I feel powerful.  To practice it correctly, though, is a challenge.  I consider myself pretty open in the hips (I have a dancer's "turnout"), but even for me, after the third week of holding a block against the wall with my knee in vriskhasana, I was actually having a hard time walking around after class.

The practice of the month made me appreciate, though, the necessary coexistence of the seemingly antithetical positions of openness and either defense or aggression.  We often think of warriors as people who take a position and hold it firmly, who are closed-minded, driven, bent on their own goals.  But yoga reminds us that the strongest warriors are also people who are open to their opponents; who stand firmly, feeling the ground firmly under their feet, but who can accept otherness and perhaps even respond based on the actions of their opponent.  There's a definite vulnerability to virabhadrasana II; while you focus on what's in front of you, and your arms and legs are spread wide, your body is completely open.

How many times have I assumed "fight" stance in a closed way?  And how much more powerful might I have been if I'd been flexible, open, strong but still willing to be vulnerable?

We were talking about leadership and conflict in the youth group I work with on Sunday, and one of them said something truly inspiring: she said that she used to be a much more angry and aggressive person, but she's come to believe that if something or someone is persistent enough to find its way into her life, that she should receive it as a gift, with thanks, even if she doesn't like them and doesn't agree with them.  It was an impressive, inspiring thing to say for someone who is only 15, even if she doesn't technically live that belief all the time.

I'm waging quite a few battles of my own these days.  Perhaps a change of stance is in order.

What are your battles?  Have you tried being open?  And if so, have you found it a more effective approach?

(This recipe is good for the days when you're battling against the clock to put dinner on the table.  My husband didn't like it because it has coconut oil in it (though you could easily sub in another fat), my son wanted to eat mostly cornbread, and my daughter picked out the black beans, but I still think it's a good recipe for "clean" eating, which is another war many of us wage on a daily basis.)

Vegetarian Tamale Pie
(a recipe for the crockpot)


3 cloves garlic, minced
1 28-oz box diced tomatoes
1 8-oz pkg sliced baby Portobello mushrooms
1 cup diced yellow onion
1 large zucchini, diced
1 large red bell pepper, diced
1 15-oz can black beans, drained and rinsed
1/4 tsp sea salt
2 tsp ground cumin
3 tsp chile powder
1 tsp dried oregano
1 1/2 cups whole-grain yellow cornmeal
1 1/2 tsp baking powder
1 large egg
1 1/2 cups skim milk (almond milk or soy milk is OK)
1 1/2 tbsp apple cider vinegar
2 tbsp melted coconut oil
1/2 cup low-fat shredded cheddar cheese

 In a 5-6 quart slow cooker combine garlic, tomatoes and accompanying juices, mushrooms, onion, jalapeño, zucchini, bell pepper, beans, chile powder, cumin, oregano and salt. Stir to combine, cover and cook on low for 6 hours.

Increase slow cooker heat to high. Meanwhile, prepare cornmeal batter: In a medium bowl, whisk cornmeal and baking powder. In a large glass measuring cup or small bowl, whisk egg, milk, oil and vinegar. Add to cornmeal mixture and stir to combine. Stir in cheddar.

Remove lid from slow cooker. Pour cornmeal mixture over top of vegetable mixture and spread evenly to form a crust. Place a clean dish towel over top of slow cooker and replace lid, resting over top of towel (this will prevent condensation from wetting the surface of the cornmeal crust). Cook for 1 hour, until cornbread sets. Remove lid and towel and slice into wedges.

Mindful Eating: Spanish Spinach

I've never really considered myself a food blogger.  Though I appreciate beautiful and tasty food (I think this is the definition of a foodie for me), and I like taking pictures of food to help people imagine that they are there to appreciate it too, for me, food is a metonym for other things: for comfort, for memory, for family, for community, for values (e.g. my CSA soapbox), even for identity.  Those are the things I write about.  I don't think I'm the only person who feels this way: my friend the lovely and talented JeCaThRe is writing a novel with characters who cook (I keep meaning to ask her for the password so I can catch up, and you should, too), and even publishes their recipes in her other blog; I feel like somehow, their food can stand in partially for who they are as characters.

Seeing food as something besides either fuel or art becomes problematic, though, when your eating becomes emotional.  Which, unfortunately, it is for me.  Though I cook healthy, beautiful meals for my family, I am a late night cabinet- and freezer-stalker.  Which, of course, feeds right into my overdeveloped sense of Catholic guilt, and makes me think I ought to be starving myself in compensation, which of course leaves me hungry at night all over again.  I am a yo-yo.

It's not even really an issue of having junk in the house: I do all of the shopping in the house and cook every meal during the week, so my cart contains mostly fresh fruits and vegetables, milk and cheese, cereal, and paper products.  Still, even when I've been particularly virtuous about the weeks' worth of groceries, I wind up eating a half a jar full of almonds, or peanut butter, or sheets of matzoh with butter.

Esperanza wrote a brave post recently about her relationship with food (and how it is complicated by her prescription medication, though, not emotion), and it resonated with me.  Why do so many of us, I wonder, have such difficult relationships with food?  What are the strategies you use to make sure that your relationship with food is a healthy one?

One of the things I need to do more consistently is bring my practice of mindfulness to eating.  Often I eat while I'm doing something else.  When I was pregnant, I was eating and drinking lots of water, but doing so with my full attention focused on the act of eating or drinking.  There have been times in my life when I've cut out sugar entirely, or gone completely vegetarian, or grain-free during certain parts of the day, so I know that mindfulness works.  Am I hungry?  And if not, why am I grazing?

Keiko had a great post a while back about mindful eating and the most delicious oatmeal raisin cookie. Thich Nhat Hanh has written extensively about the practice of mindfulness, and has some wonderful wisdom about mindful eating.  He writes:

"Each morsel of food is an ambassador from the cosmos. [...] Some of us, while looking at a piece of carrot, can see the whole cosmos in it, can see the sunshine in it, can see the earth in it. It has come from the whole cosmos for our nourishment.  [...] When you chew it, you are aware that you are chewing a piece of carrot. Don't put anything else into your mouth, like your projects, your worries, your fear, just put the carrot in.

And when you chew, chew only the carrot, not your projects or your ideas. You are capable of living in the present moment, in the here and the now. It is simple, but you need some training to just enjoy the piece of carrot. This is a miracle.

I often teach "orange meditation" to my students. We spend time sitting together, each enjoying an orange. Placing the orange on the palm of our hand, we look at it while breathing in and out, so that the orange becomes a reality. If we are not here, totally present, the orange isn't here either.

There are some people who eat an orange but don't really eat it. They eat their sorrow, fear, anger, past, and future. They are not really present, with body and mind united.

When you practice mindful breathing, you become truly present. If you are here, life is also here. The orange is the ambassador of life. When you look at the orange, you discover that it is nothing less than fruit growing, turning yellow, becoming orange, the acid becoming sugar. The orange tree took time to create this masterpiece.

When you are truly here, contemplating the orange, breathing and smiling, the orange becomes a miracle. It is enough to bring you a lot of happiness. You peel the orange, smell it, take a section, and put it in your mouth mindfully, fully aware of the juice on your tongue. This is eating an orange in mindfulness. It makes the miracle of life possible. It makes joy possible."

My father, who lived through the Depression and all sorts of other horrendous conditions, used to say "eat to live, don't live to eat."  I don't think that's the answer, at least not for me; simply eating to live means you may be missing the opportunity to appreciate what goes into your mouth before it reaches your bloodstream.  Instead, I'm proposing to eat more consciously, perhaps to "eat to live well."

This recipe is wonderful for mindful eating because of the complex flavors and textures, despite the simple ingredients.  The nutty crunch of the pine nuts balances the chewy sweet of the fruit (this version is a bit different because of the addition of apricots) and the potential bitterness of the greens.  Whoever said that Spanish people can't be vegetarians clearly never had Espinacas a la Catalana.

Spinach with Pine Nuts and Raisins

3 bunches of spinach
1/3 c. pine nuts
1/3 c. raisins
1/3 c. apricots, chopped into pine nut-sized pieces
1 1/2 T. butter (I used salted)

Thoroughly rinse spinach and place in a large pan. Cover and cook until just wilted, about 5 minutes. (You won't need to add any liquid if the spinach has just been washed.)

Drain the spinach. Cool and squeeze dry with your hands. Chop and set aside.

Heat butter in a skillet. Add pine nuts, raisins, and apricots, and cook over medium heat until the pine nuts and apricots are golden and the raisins plumpted. Stir in spinach and toss to combine. Cook until heated through, and serve immediately.

Props To You: Falafel Pie

I have always been a competitive person.  When I was younger, my competitive spirit manifested itself at school, because that was what I spent most of my time doing (and because I avoided competitive sports).  But as I grew up, it began to extend to every part of my life. This becomes problematic when you realize that you can't do everything better than everyone else can, especially if you're not particularly athletic.

My addiction to competition has been fueled, recently, by what my husband calls "electronic 'attaboys."  My car, a hybrid, congratulates me when I have get particularly good mileage: "Excellent!" it says, as I'm powering down.  My husband got two free fitbits from work, and I've been wearing one the past two days; one of its displays is a flower that grows as you are more active during the day, and of course, I had to compare the length of my flower with my husband's flower.  (There's probably something deeply and bizarrely Freudian in there that I am not going to explore.)  It also says "walk me" and "climb on" and "cheers" whenever I pick it up.  Because, you know, I need the motivation.

All of this goes away, though, when I'm doing yoga.*

When I first started practicing yoga--or more honestly, up until quite recently in my yoga practice--I refused to use blankets and blocks, thinking myself (I am ashamed to admit this) somehow "superior" for a more "authentic" practice.

But in my current class, my teacher requires us all to use props sometimes, in order to improve alignment, to rest some parts of the body in order to allow others to work more effectively in an asana, or just to improve our focus on the flow of prana or on the breath.

At first I resisted.  I didn't need props.  I could do this asana AllByMyselfThankyouverymuch.

Then, giving in, I felt my body shift.  I felt new awareness in my muscles and my joints.  I felt hips and shoulders opening.  I was able to pay better attention to what I was experiencing.  It was like focusing a beam of light on the part of the body that was moving, helping me to cultivate sattva, or (very loosely translated) harmony, not just a stretch.  Ohhhhhhh, I thought.  Now I understand.

How many times have we done this?  Refused props, or support, because we want to do it ourselves?  Because the competition, the doing it "better," is more important than the experience of doing it, whatever "it" is?  Because we have this twisted idea that doing it without help is somehow more authentic than using our props?  And how many times has that support actually helped us to see things differently, perhaps, if we were able to accept it, rather than trying to compete, or get ahead (which is, in case you are interested, the rajasic way of approaching things, rather than sattvic)?

On the other side of the question, perhaps it's time to support someone, rather than trying to beat them at a game you may both lose?  Perhaps it's time to offer perspective, rather than one-upsmanship?



Sattva is a philosophical principle that also influences diet if you're into ayurvedic cooking.  I give you this (mostly) sattvic, not entirely beautiful, dish, adapted quite liberally from The Vegan Stoner (which you really must go read, because their cartoons are as fabulous as their food, if you're not vegan).  Props to you, friends.

*Except for the fact that I realized I was jealous of Mel's tripod headstand today, having only ever been able to do a headstand of my own against a wall.

Falafel Pie


1 c. falafel mix (which is on the one hand totally cheating, and on the other hand, just a prop)
1/2 c. water
1 c. (or so) hummus
1 cucumber
1 c. plain greek (or soy) yogurt
1 T. lemon juice
1/4 t. salt (or to taste)
dash garlic powder (optional)
1 tomato, sliced

Preheat oven to 350.

Mix falafel mix with water, and spread evenly into a 9" pie plate.  Bake 15 minutes.

Meanwhile, cut the cucumber in half.  Blend one half of it with the yogurt, lemon juice, salt, and garlic.  Slice the other half thinly.  Set aside the blended cucumber mix.

Remove and let cool a bit; spread with a thick layer of hummus, and layer the sliced cucumbers and tomato on top of the hummus.  Pour blended cucumber mix over the top, and serve.