complicated candy

I am the office candy girl.

All three secretaries have candy on their desks. But mine by far is the most popular. The crayon-colored yellow, orange, blue and red orbs grab eyeballs as they walk past, trying to avoid their luring gaze, sticking to business. When I refill the bowl with fresh stock, they clank heavily against the glass like pebbles being dropped into a new fishbowl. In the room next door, the accountant's head pivots quickly, alerted to the arrival of her midmorning pick-me-up. I see her tempered excitement through the glass window, phone to ear, teeth biting over her lip as she ponders the moment of her brief reprieve.

"Does this mean I have to talk to you?" the husky partner says as he scoops up a serving of Peanut M&Ms, his third today. He always siphons out the Plains. "Only if you want to," I reply. There is no written etiquette around these things. Sometimes they're in a hurry, so they quickly spoon up a handful, unconcerned about the distribution of the colors or nuts -- 30 seconds til the conference call.

Everyone uses the spoon except one, who plucks one or two carefully with his fingers and grins like a kid who's found a forgotten carton of ice cream in the freezer. A kid with a bald spot, unmarried, too-long tie. Some, filling the brief quiet, ask me how I'm doing, how I like the place so far, what's going on this weekend. The conversation generally spans the time it takes to transfer the desired quantity from bowl to palm – and then we’re off into our separate orbits.

Mostly, I get smiles. And knowing nods. We share a moment of pure pleasure brought, uniquely, by a rainbow-hued, hardcased piece of milk chocolate, that great bite of crunchy-chewy-sweet. We feel, ever so briefly, like kids again. Sometimes we share a secret. "I went over my quota today," the accountant says, "but I'm OK with that, because I went running this morning." For the men, it's mostly fun, a forgetfulness of the rules; for the women, transgression. I comfort them in their time of sin. "It's OK," I say. "A little chocolate never hurt anyone."

The husky partner, scooping out his fourth, confesses, "I can't keep doing this -- fill it with dried fruit, or something!" We both know this feigned derision is all cover. A trust is formed. I will never take away his moment of late-afternoon joy.

The IT guy, passing by, points downward at the just-filled bowl. "That is evil," he says. On the way out, he helps himself. "Pure evil," looking me straight in the eye. Behind it, his happiness is winking.




photo credit here

new

listening to music from india, walking
(slowly or quickly, depending on my mood), to work, paying attention
to how i move and how others move.
reading up on feminism, bodies and perfectionism and how we got this way...
setting up novel ideas in my head, and
expectations -- an equal parenting family (never before knowing there was such a thing,
an alternative), putting together bits and pieces of philosophies on how
i am going to raise my daughter, and cultivate my son, and expect of my husband. finally,
finally finding a yoga class i like, learning that i can support my pointy knees with towels,
catching a glimpse of krishna running
through sherbet colored fields,
floating home on clair de lune, on at just the right time on pandora
(remembering a beautiful moment when my beautiful friend played it on piano on one of our beautiful [too few] nights together. how her eyes fluttered closed.). loving cherries,
cheese, pizza with my boyfriend, the olympics, our cat on the edge of the couch,
eating, without analyzing -- just tasting.
living, without analyzing, just tasting.
good god, everything tastes so good.

wisdom or vanity

I never had a yoga teacher know me so much, without knowing me.

She took her time. One minute after class was scheduled to begin, two, five... Everyone, several with iphones next to their mats,
looked on, as she sat there, breathed a bit, set up her music, situated her large blonde free curls around her ear, settled comfortably onto her haunches...
when is she going to start? She wore a long silver necklace with a round pendant over her black tank top and I wondered how she would stretch without it flailing around, hitting her face or getting caught somewhere inconvenient.

And then, suddenly and without hurry, she talked. It went something like this:
"I am so honored to be with you today. But before we begin class I want you to know what this is about. It is not about impressing anyone or even yourself. It is not about meeting an expectation.

It is not even about the poses. In fact, there is no such thing as a perfect yoga pose. All of our bodies are different, so the poses are going to look different, they are going to reflect our bodies.

What this is about is you being here. Just being here, and moving where your body takes you, where you need to go. It's about finding that place where you feel something. Not the place where you sweat or cry or hurt, but the place where you get a message that you're where you need to be.
The place between 'too much" and "not enough.'

And that place will be unique for everyone. But as long as you're here, and you feel something, you're exactly where you need to be.

Just like with life. You don't need to go anywhere. You're already there. Just be there."

There were wide eyes and skeptical eyes and squinted eyes and peaceful eyes, bored eyes and excited eyes. Faces that signalled they'd heard it all before, and ones that looked stricken with new wisdom. She asked for questions, and we all understood or we all didn't dare ask or maybe we all just wanted to get on with it. There were no questions.

"Let's begin," she said.

And as our differently shaped bodies started to move she watched them admirably.

And when some were off-center or half-bent, when some took variations, she nodded in approval but did not touch. No reposturing, no lessons.

And while we moved to more and more challenging poses and our limbs shook and the sweat dribbled onto the mat she posited, "Wisdom or vanity. You choose."

And when I, perhaps overly ambitious, reached too far and fell to the ground, she whispered, "There's a good lesson."


When I ignored an instruction and sunk into child's pose, my left thigh shaking, I felt safe.

The place between too much and not enough. The ever-chased balance. To seek it just not on a yoga mat, but in life, as well. To be at peace and feel love and presence in every moment. This is my ultimate goal. It was refreshing and beautiful to hear someone put into words and to believe so deeply in what I want for myself.

glass half full

I am so, so tired of being a nobody.

Ok, I am somebody. I am a curvy body and a brilliant mind and a deep heart. I have wide thoughts and can paint vivid pictures with my words, I feel the vibrations of people, pulses beat in my ears, new songs fall on my lips, I dream of guitars and tambourines and sometimes I have realizations -- what those in churches or religions might call "epiphanies." I can also hear the breathing of flowers, I can sing on key, and I think you and you and all are/is beautiful.

... but you wouldn't know it.

... because I am afraid.

I know I am meant to add a chapter to the big Book of all the men and women before me but I don't know where to start. I don't know, exactly, what to say. What. to. say. So many ideas, but where are the Ideas?

Fear of imperfection, long within my veins. Since I came out of the womb with black hair and wincing, skeptical blue eyes. The big birthmark on my milk-white skin that called out that I was different, that this was a unique and marked child. My quest, all my life, to cover it up. To do all right, but not great. To sing, but never into a microphone. To climb, but never to the top. To look, but never leap.

To live, but in peace -- do not disturb.

And while I know there is maturity in peace and thankfulness for the daily breathing and blessings -- the waking in the morning, the set schedule, the available food and roof, the decent sleep and the accepting love -- there is equal pain in denying what you can possibly be. A dissonance and an easiness. At night I am not tired. My resources are full and unused. I fall into my pillow instead of collapse.

But the words and phrases and ideas keep coming in. The stir to get them out gets stronger. I don't know what it will look like, in the end. I don't know it it will help anybody. I don't know if it'll stand on bookshelves for years or simply be stumbled upon by a few random Internet explorers.

I don't know, I never will. But I'd like to try anyway.

this man is amazing



Phoenix Police Officer Jason Schechterle's life changed forever when his patrol car was struck from behind by a taxi going over 100 mph. His car instantly burst into flames, and 50 percent of his body was scorched by the fire.



I can't imagine the reconstruction of faith it must require for someone who is able to go through an experience like this and come out with this perspective. I speak solely from observation, but I think humans can take extreme tragedy in two ways -- they can take it as a grave and bury in it with an extreme, all-questioning exhaustion, or they can take it as a beginning and be reborn from it with a profound new wisdom. Simply continuing your life as before is not an option.

Those two processes are not mutually exclusive. I believe it takes a lot of time and a lot of grief before you get to the point of acceptance of something truly life-changing, and I believe that, once you are there, the fight is not over -- you must constantly restrengthen yourself and realign yourself with what you want out of your altered life. The inner resolve that must take, day in and day out, battling with loved ones, strangers, your faith and yourself, with your own questions and doubts and anxieties, must be exhausting. I can only hope that, should I ever face such an experience, I would possess such fortitude.

Please watch the story of Jason Schechterle and share your thoughts. Like NieNie, whom I have been following for years, he amazes me with his strength.

folk music

i love folk music. i love simple words about simple experiences everyone can relate to. i love the bearded boys, grizzly, manly but slim and kind of spindly, awkward with their gestures of emotions, singing out these words with voices that crack sometimes. i love the girls with bird tattoos strumming the ukelele in the background, and the other guy on the side, hardly in the shot, haphazardly hitting the tambourine on his knee.  i love that someone's wearing suspenders like it's not unusual, and the crowd's not singing along like fans but just nodding, nodding, "yeah, i been there before." it's almost accidental music, a story being passed around by friends, like we used to with fireside chats, back when we got to know one another.

mine and yours

all the talk about babies and weddings and all the updates on facebook, friends and friends of friends -- yeah, they're pretty far removed -- and then GOOD friends, like my roommate from a couple years back, pregnant, due in late july with a little girl whose name they're keeping secret and whose room they want to paint blue, who she insists will be a giants fan and he a redskins fan, who they're buying a "family car" for and giving up the hot vw convertible we used to drive down rock creek parkway with the windows down and tom petty playing... and then he sends me pictures of rings and asks my opinion, time to make their little family official... in the next month or so he'll ask the question and she'll say yes and then it'll be three, their dog, their condo, with the new hardwood floors and the blue nursery...

the wholeness, the comfort of it, the THIS IS MINE,
the smell of baby cheeks,
baby kisses,
baby fingers,
looking at something that your love created it and loving it more than you love each other and even yourself,
deciding -- enough playing,
you are mine, i am yours,
forever.
here is our baby
our house
our dog
this is where we live
this is what we like to do
this is how we love.

i can't wait for that feeling.