Coffee-to-Chamomile

A few of my favorite things.

2010-02-09T22:40:00.000-08:00

Rain drops on roses and whiskers on kittens... bright copper kettles and yadda yadda yadda... Indeed, all very lovely. But I can't believe they hold a candle to a few of my favorite things that have, in the last week, made me laugh out loud, and nearly tingle with excitement in their simple and basic elements of truth.

Favorite Thing #1: Early last Thursday afternoon, my keenly insightful and ever-aware four-year old hollers from upstairs with utter glee and excitement, "Mommy! Mommy! Come up here!! There's something magical happening in the guest room...!!" Ne'ermind that she and my undeniably angelic, awe-inspiring and equally as captivating two-year old are not supposed to be in there without adult supervision (heh. For the purposes of this endearing story, I will not dwell on that part.) Sho' nuff, as I walk into the guest room, my Angelic Treasures are standing by the window, with uncorrupted and bona fide wonder in their eyes, each enthusiastically pointing to the microscopic blades-of-grass looking shoots coming up from a planter of dirt and fertilizer they'd deposited seeds into with their Daddy not but a week earlier. The simplicity. The truth. The utterly grounded reality that, Yes, Darlings, you're right! It is magical! It reminds me then and there, that that our whole lives are nothing but magical. That the magic is in the littlest moments, and in the time taken to appreciate them.

Favorite Thing #2: Late last night, in watching some post-game sports show, I remark candidly to my extraordinary husband how, "is it just me, or are professional football players getting much better looking?," and how, "Sheesh! I didn't used to think they were so hot!" In his ordinarily extraordinary way, he smirks and says, "Honey, they're just younger than you now." Haa Haaah HAH!! Oh yeah. Right! And I realize how utterly hilarious, yet how utterly wonderful, that is. I am getting older... I get to get older... and wiser, and stronger... and more resilient... and better and better every day. I realize how I wouldn't repeat my past for anything. That the people in my world now, my husband as he is today, my undeniably priceless daughters and the fact that I still get to soak in nearly every minute of my day with them at this age, the inspiring role models I'm meeting and the passion growing inside of me as a result, the light-air-love-joy-everything-that-is-dance that has seemed to magically and effortlessly appear into my existence again, the new friends in my life that remind me of who I am eternally becoming, the old friends in my life that remind me of the parts I'm continuing to embrace, the lessons I'm learning and the lessons I'm appreciating that I don't have to learn again, the growing and stretching, the basics, the complicated, the in-between. It's all enormously awesome, and I wouldn't give up a single thing to be young again like those hot football guys.

Favorite Things #3 and Beyond: My girls asking for, then singing (um, rapping) along with, and dancing to, hip hop music. And though I have to wonder if the lyrics aren't just a leetle bit inappropriate at times (...no, I am not clueless to this concept...), it truly is just the most hilarious and adorable thing. It makes me laugh. The whole body hugs & innocent full-mouthed kisses from the two of them that actually physically make my heart grow bigger, because of the basic notion that they just can't get, or give, enough of the lovin'. I love that my girls love to "play mommy," because they admire me and admire what I choose to do... and because they know what it is that I do. How anything can be a "baby," even a stray sock found on the floor, and how as they pretend to tuck said sock lovingly into bed, under the covers, and kiss it good night, there seems no moment was ever more important to them than that very one right there. They are amazing, pure-hearted, gentle-handed, spirited, hilarious, endlessly entertaining beings with the most amazing and contagious laughs, and are priceless daily reminders of what is important to me in this life. It catches me off guard every single day how lucky I am to be a part of their world that centers around the simplicity of every moment, and the natural inclination to appreciate where we are at every turn.

Rodgers and Hammerstein, you had the right idea in writing your version. I just love mine a helluvalot better.

... and a five, six, seven, eight...

2009-11-09T14:48:00.000-08:00

Have you ever loved something, needed something, lived and breathed something so much, that it feels like this something has literally come to life as a supplemental organ in your body, requiring you to breathe for it? Like this Something is so much a part of you, that it feels like it has actually and officially set up shop, and is sorta just nestled in there now, living right alongside your heart and your lungs and your liver?

I am certainly not alone in this, but do happen to be painstakingly aware of this phenomenon at the moment.

A year ago, after about a ten or twelve year hiatus, out of the seemingly clear blue sky one day, I needed to dance again. Not "dance," like at a club or out with friends, or even in our living room, though all of those ideas sound just fine and dandy. But really, honestly, truly dance again. I mean like, four and five hours a day, every day of my life, for the rest of my life. My heart wants it, my soul wants it, my body wants it. I want to be pushed and trained and coached and then pushed and trained and coached all over again. Until I get it perfect. And then start all over. I want to sweat and ache and feel like I just can't go on... and then go on. I want to feel the music in my bones, in my muscles, in my heart, in my head, in my feet through the floor. I want to somehow anticipate the next steps in choreography, before I have even seen it.

Not for the fame, though performing on stage is a right proper culmination, as any dancer will tell you. The applause and recognition are undoubtedly appreciated. Not for the money. Dancers don't make much to talk about. Dancers dance to dance. Just to dance. Because they have to. And, I completely and utterly, fantastically in my core, understand that. It's food. It's air. It's love. It's all the components that one truly needs to survive. And I miss it.

I need it.

My solace, my lifeline, has arrived in the form of an aerobics class, of all things, in the last six months. A few times a week, I now eagerly walk into a Latin-infused, funky, raw, and sometimes exhausting shakeyo'groovethang sort of class, complete with gyrating hips, shimmying shoulders, fast footwork and arms hurling in the air, where much proverbial caution is encouraged to be thrown to the wind. Inhibition and modesty should be checked at the door, as there is no judgment within the four walls. It is decidedly the best part of any dance class; warm up and cool down take a total of about ten minutes, and there is no time to be spent on technique or "across the floor" training... which leaves just the dancing, for one hour, just for fun, as many times a week as you can find a class. The better the teacher, the better the class, and the better the class, the more fulfilled this particular writer is.

Like I've profoundly and properly fed the aforementioned Something.

The problem with the better the class, however, is that the better the class, the more I want it, and the more I need it. The more I need it, the more I do it, and the more I do it, the stronger I get, and the stronger I get, the more I need it... do you see where this is going?

It really is a most fascinating phenomenon.

I know in my soul that dance has a place in my world. I've always known that, I think. And it probably holds a place more prominently than just in taking these classes, as fulfilling and as fun as they are. I don't yet know exactly what form all this will take, but I am eager to find out. I truly believe that if Something comes back to you time and time again, lovingly reminding you that it's there... and probably more accurately, that it actually never left... then that Something is an honest meant-to-be in your life, and that you should probably listen to that, or it'll keep knocking on your door, distracting you, until you do.

And of course, that door will be answered in time, one way or another, and I'm gonna guess it'll be most fun on our terms, and while we're young enough to dance through life anyway.

History is Simply Who We Are, So Far.

2009-02-01T23:14:00.000-08:00

There are certain traditions one generally subscribes to during the course of an annual Superbowl game. One generally indulges in copious amounts of crunchy snack foods, drinks ice cold beer out of the bottle, is filled with anticipation to view the next latest and greatest multi-million dollar soda pop commercial (which is just so wrong, on so many levels, is it not?), rocks out to the uber-superstar-filled half-time show, and occasionally cheers on the players of the game. One, generally, does not wax philosophical in the midst of so much superficiality. Though, maybe one should. At any rate, this year, out of the clear blue, there it was. In plain English, a most basic belief of mine wrapped up in one tiny little red bow.

"I believe we are best defined by where we are going, rather than by where we have been."

Proud, and a little bit tickled with myself (I haven't always felt so existential while watching football, after all), I wrote that down in my journal, then proceeded to post said brand new little ditty on my Facebook page, on my Skype account, and when I can figure out what the heck this Twitter phenomenon is... oh gracious, it'll probably end up there too.

There was a period of time about seven years ago, when I visited with a therapist once a week, for about six months. His name was Dr. Diamond, and I always referred to him as my "Diamond in the rough." I was the rough. At the time, I was mind-boggled, nearly, with where I was in life. I needed to figure out who I was, where I was going, what I was doing here, and why I'd made some of the decisions that seemed to royally backfire. I dreaded these sessions, yet at the same time, I lived and breathed for them. I learned that growing pains hurt like hell, but I also learned to take solace in the fact that these pains actually (gasp!) get me somewhere good. Somewhere truly worth going.

Dr. Diamond was adamant about how history can teach us everything we need to know about ourselves. He and his fourteen-year old son drove three hours north every weekend to reenact the Civil War, for crying out loud. I don't remember if they belonged to the North or the South side of things because it never impressed me very much. (Honestly, I'd be hard pressed to remember the name of even one General from that war, which I realize is pathetic.) I've not since known anyone as passionate about history as Dr. Diamond, and although I truly cannot comprehend how exactly he gets to the level of passion surrounding it, I can respect and appreciate it. It works for him.

I am, however, left wondering how it is even remotely plausible to craft our own futures, our own lives, our own happiness, if we are constantly looking backward in time? It seems like that is just watching things from the wings, instead of taking action & responsibility for ourselves, out in the forefront. And not even in the forefront, necessarily... what about just Stage Left, even? As long as you're acting on something.

Isn't it direly important to figure out what we, as individuals, want, and then go out and get it? To create it for ourselves, in the ways in which we want it, and not how people did things two-hundred years ago? My gosh... the freedom in realizing that we get to make it up.

It is blatantly obvious that Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln, Albert Einstein and Martin Luther King, Jr., are just a few of the amazing players that undoubtedly have had some of the most brilliant minds, and have made some of the greatest impressions, of all time. There is no arguing that. However, is it presumed that by looking backward to them, that they have therefore crafted the one and only way to ever do anything, ever again?

I believe that the measure of a person's greatness lies in what we see individually in ourselves, and in where we individually see ourselves headed. It seems to me that the greatest and most influential people of our time saw it in a similar way. They were the ones that broke the mold... they did not follow it.

That is why we know them. This is why they were so great.

Along with a slew of others, I, too, believe that we are who we are because of where we've come from and because of the various experiences we've had. However, that is just who we have been up to this very point... so in a sense, the "where we've been" nearly ceases to matter, because at any point in our lives, we can choose to make things entirely different. Or, we can choose to keep them the same. Either way, it becomes a choice. I've come to believe that it is that level of awareness and conviction about it, that truly defines who we are. It is indicative of where we are intentionally going, instead of where we've been by default. And, when you are intentionally going somewhere, each step is brand new, because it's being created in that very instant.

It takes courage to see beyond what you (think you) know, or probably most painfully, what you've been told you know. It takes courage to see what hasn't been written yet, and it takes the most courage to act on that. To truly and honestly listen to your self. To have faith. And it is that courage to change things on a dime, if you so desire, that speaks volumes about a person's character and strength, I think.

When I say that it's where you are going that most defines you, it's because it is conscious and intended and purposeful. It is the true and "active" you, and the you that you are choosing to be, not something you're resting your laurels on, or just trying to repeat because "it worked for someone else the first time." If you are choosing to only define yourself by where you've been, or by where someone else has been, then you cannot keep moving forward. By definition, it is not possible. What is life, anyway, if not to be lived, and gone after??

I have become goosebump-inducingly aware that what works for me is to reach for what it is that I love, for what makes me happy, for what offers me freedom and peace. It is all that which, therefore, best defines me, because I am quite intentionally crafting my future, and along with it, my present.

Dr. Diamond imparted a lot of profound and life-altering lessons in those six months, but the one that stuck with me the most was this. "It's what you do when no one is looking, that matters the most." And so, it's the individual choices you make when no one is looking, that is, at its core, how you define yourself.

And your future life, right along with it.

Monday and the Slug

2008-10-06T16:49:00.000-07:00

I had insomnia last night. I took a sleep aid. It's a natural cal-mag drink, and there's nary a drug about this thing. Except it works.

The wonder that it is, however, means I am extra groggy this morning when our 17-month old rooster with the wispy blonde hair and rapidly developing lungs declares her state-of-awakeness at 6:05 am. We've run out of our green tea-acai-uber-duber miracle of a wake-me-up concoction. Coffee is too heavy and sloshing around in my stomach, so I stop drinking it. I proceed to let the dog out, at which point my bare feet encounter a slug the size of a banana. Maybe it is a Banana Slug, I don't know. My three-year-old squeals in requisite disgust. It is cold and damp and gloomy outside, and the start of what, I fear, will be a very long, wet, dark season here in the Pacific Northwest.

A proud member of this regionally web-footed community, I obligatorily force down the throats of my Southern Californian friends and family the bit of elementary trivia that the rain is "the reason it's so lush and green here." True enough, quite obviously, but that just SO doesn't matter when you're at Day One, of Two-Hundred-and-Six of them staring you in the face. Testing my strength, my will, my focus. Just begging for a showdown, like in the old Wild West gun slinging days. Laughing at me. Antagonizing me. I think how I would like to whip out my pistol right here and now without even taking my ten paces. Cheater.

The cable box blaringly reads just 6:17 am at this point.

The morning marches along at this uncharacteristically sluggish, albeit, rocky pace. A tantrum here. A tattle there. An episode of Curious George. A subsequent episode of Clifford, mostly because Mom still needs a cushion of time to wake up. The vocalized horror of a missing sippy cup here. A blatant refusal of warm oatmeal there. Then, Dear Child, just tell me what is it you plan to eat this morning??

It's now 7:14 am, and I'm ready to go back to bed.

Eventually, we leave the house as usual, for my daily morning bootcamp-like exercise class. Nevermind that I have a sprained ankle. I seriously need to pound the pavement today.

Feeling worked out and oxygenized, yet surprisingly still exhausted (I mean, who yawns during push-ups, really?), we return home for lunch and naps. Usually, this is the confidence-boosting point in my day where I silently and proudly muse, "I can't believe how fast that morning went! It's naptime already?? Where does the day go?" Honestly, I usually feel like a competent, capable mother. A competent, capable human being, really. Today, however...

... are you kidding me???

I feel like I am living in one of those sitcoms where the heroine has to answer to one tiny thing after another, until it all adds up and she's about to blow. Eventually, though, we all know it works itself out in perfect time, and in perfect harmony, at which point the studio audience enjoys a nice laugh, and offers the players a robust round of applause and the credits roll, leaving you wanting more.

...More?!

Ironically enough, the turning point of my day occurs while changing one giantly poopy diaper around three o'clock this afternoon.

My three-year-old is writhing around, trying her darndest to wrestle herself away from the horror that is the diaper wipe, on her tiny little diaper-rashed tushie. (Why this beautiful child hasn't an ounce of interest in using her perfectly pretty, pink, princess potty, I have no idea. But, it is what it is, and I'm okay with that.)

Nonetheless, she's writhing and wrestling, and I say to her, "Darling Girl, the more you fight it, the tougher this becomes, and the more it's going to hurt. Let go, let me help you, and you'll be surprised at how easy this is."

Duh.

In that split second, I realize that during this day to beat all days, I'd been fighting the changing of my own giantly poopy diaper. I choose, then, to let my guard down, to surrender to the day, to stop trying to control things, to escape things, to change things... to simply stop fighting against.

I'm not about to declare the day a total victory. Not by any stretch. But the girls are now peacefully asleep in bed. The day is over. I am snuggled up with my Honey, our tummies happy, having just finished feasting on homemade soup and bread, made with copious amounts of love and attention on a day -- just yesterday -- not at all like today. I reflect on that, and how "yesterday" wasn't so far away. And then I realize that "tomorrow" isn't too far away, either.

I'm learning that some days you're just not meant to be in control. That the simple act of being, of simply letting go and hanging on for the ride, is really all that's ever required. There are some days, that no matter how hard you try to guide it, ...well... it's just not gonna happen for ya. That time is going to move forward, whether you like it, or not. That you can choose to be okay with things how they are, or not. That you can allow life's hiccups to make you a stronger person, or not. But that life is always going to move forward.

As for that slug this morning. It occurs to me that he was a pretty blatant symbol of what the day was to hold in store, I suppose. Slow-moving and slimy. I go back to look for him later this afternoon, after my post- poopy-diaper-epiphany, and he is long gone.

Tomorrow morning, I'd like to see a Bald Eagle when I let the dog out.

Why I Love the Bead.

2008-09-04T12:38:00.000-07:00

My husband regularly jokes with me about my "feeling the need... the need to bead..." (à la Maverick & Goose in Top Gun. Of course.) The funny this is, it's SO true! I have always had this "need" to get the creative juices out of me, & in to something tangible, whether through dancing, acting, painting, or any other vehicle for creative expression.

Something about the freedom that comes with feeling completely present in your body.

Feeling wholly connected, yet utterly fluid, at the same time.

No, crafting a bracelet is not like giving yourself over to a brilliantly choreographed Contemporary dance routine.

To me, there is nothing in the world like that.

However, by intentionally creating something - anything - and in taking direct control over your actions, all while letting the almost-spiritual inspiration flow from the inside to the outside, and then seeing the resulting outcome, especially worn around a part of someone else's body, is so insanely gratifying, one might feel they deserve a standing ovation and a bouquet of ruby roses after the curtain falls. Even if it's from oneself!

At this particular point in my life as a Stay-at-Home Mom, where my world (most happily) revolves around my two beautiful toddlers, I am thrilled to have discovered an outlet that is relatively "contained," and localized to our kitchen table. No messy acrylic paints that take 24 hours to dry, no 8-foot by 6-foot canvas to walk around while it dries, and no paint stains to Spray 'n' Wash the heck out of, on a pair of size 3T denim shorts. I don't need to leave my family to drive to dance classes, attend acting rehearsals, or to hole myself up for hours at a time in private practice.

I sit at our kitchen table... and bead.

My Three-year-old really enjoys stringing a bracelet or two with me on occasion... I mean, how great is that?! My One-year-old, however, finds great pleasure in chucking fancy glass beads and the tiniest of jump rings onto the floor, never to be found again. This, therefore, demands that any jewelry creations are completed during this Momma's "me time."

And, this has proven to be a perk, actually.

I can permit myself to become completely absorbed in the work, focused beyond anything, and utterly lost in my thoughts. Designing and crafting jewelry has become a beautiful way for me to see something through, from start to finish (a rarity in the "Stay at Home" world), while feeling meditative, contemplative and just plain constructive.

So, why I love the bead is really quite multi-faceted (pun intended), as you can see. Most specifically, the beads I am drawn to are quite unusual, hand-crafted glass numbers; strong yet fragile, dainty yet bold, gritty and earthy, yet magnificently sparkly! Personally, I think the best part about being a girl is dressing up; feeling great in a pair of really smart heels, a kicky skirt, and a really twinkly piece of jewelry that, every so often, catches the light just so. A flicker of a reminder in the midst of whatever you're lost in doing, that you're still there. And still fabulous.

I truly enjoy every second at our kitchen table, just creating, relishing in meditative me time, getting some of the creative out, feeling whole while doing it. If I get to do all that, AND help someone out there feel sexy & fabulous because of it... wellthen.

The bead might just have been the best thing ever invented.

Mommoga

2008-08-19T17:31:00.001-07:00

"Mountain Pose... Tadasana..."

Those three beautiful words have been echoing in my brain since I last heard them around 4 o'clock this afternoon.

I was, yes, in theory, practicing yoga this afternoon... but, the entire "Hatha Yoga" movement might more aptly be termed "Mommoga" around this place. Downward Dog rather ceases to rejuvenate the body and calm the mind. Instead, it becomes an instant bridge for toddlers to try and (more often that not) successfully knock over. Proud Warrior perhaps ceases to elongate the spine or to strengthen the knees as gracefully as the original Hindu practitioners might have intended, but the pose does do a great service as a blissfully soft jungle gym.

One might assume the circumstances of my at-home yoga practice could be mildly anxiety provoking or simply frustrating, but in fact, it's quite the opposite for this loyal student of "Mommoga." This particular genre of practice seems to offer more of a challenge in developing one's balance & concentration, which, I'm sure, makes up for that whole "peaceful centeredness" thing.

Actually, can we just pretend for a second that that's overrated? No?

Truly, as if all the giggles surrounding Mommoga isn't enough to keep us at it, what I particularly love is when we arrive at "Mountain Pose... Tadasana..." This happens multiple times in a session. The girls suddenly stop their horsing around, stand still, and are centered. Their keen focus & utter intent on what they're doing is beautiful. Legs straight, feet even, hands in prayer position at their hearts. They are grounded for a moment. Rooted and peaceful.

And in a blink, the instructor on the DVD guides us into the next pose, and they're off again. Or, "on" again, as the case may be.

Namaste.

The Maiden Voyage

2008-08-18T21:53:00.001-07:00

Hello, World! If someone were to ask me why I'm suddenly starting this blog, I wouldn't much know how to answer. I have no real concrete make-the-world-a-better-place motive behind it.

Just seems like time.

Journaling was always something I found surprisingly healing and emotionally liberating, especially in my tween & teen years... and oh yeah, in my twenties, too... something about slowing my brain down enough to write, to actually hear, and to be able to process, what the heck was going on in my sometimes-overactive brain.

God forbid I should ever let my guard down, but the "inner me" was just never something I thought I'd intentionally share with the world.

On occasion, however, when I was about 12, I'd fantasize about all these journals being discovered by my Great-Grandchildren some 150 years in the future, in some dusty old dingy cardboard box, tucked away in some dusty old dingy attic, and how they'd discuss for hours about how they wished they'd known me, and simply marvel at all the insight contained within (i.e., which classmate had a secret crush on me & how I was too shy to ever admit I knew, or more importantly, just how serious a crush I had on Ricky Schroeder, & how surely I'd be able to tell him someday), and how these amazing, fire-underneath-them Great-Grandchildren of mine would rush to a publisher to have my prized journals put out to the masses. Surely the world would become a better place for having read them. Like something out of a movie.

But, I guess that was the whole point. It seemed too completely far-fetched, and in that sense, it made my journaling, even at the age of 12, feel very safe, because no one would ever read them, or could ever get inside my head, much less, my heart.

So, why am I here now, knocking down this shield, this wall, this invisible protective layer surrounding my heart and emotions and my intensely personal life, writing to anyone and everyone out there? The answer remains...

Just feels like time.

I have no urgent need to work through any major event, nor to have any sort of emotional breakthrough right now. My life is good. My simple intention here, is that this be fun to write, and fun to read. That it become therapeutic and cathartic and helpful... and healthful. To me. And maybe even to others. Other than that, I have no idea what I'm doing here yet.

And, I am choosing to love that!