love letters

Good old days

2012-01-29T12:18:00.000-08:00

Ever hopeful, full of dreams of grand adventures we celebrate our birthdays with drunken joy. How can we even begin to imagine the actual experiences we will live as we walk our paths? How can we anticipate the pain, the disappointment, the betrayal and possible reconciliation The parents of my friends continue to disappear, while mine wake up each morning wondering what to have for breakfast. And actually they are both pretty set on their ways, knowing their own preferences after these 80+ years. Divorced, they each fend for themselves. My Sauk Rapids mother, who is not a morning person, places instant oatmeal in the microwave of her senior apartment while still in her nightgown. After dressing, my Mesa, Arizona Dad eases himself behind the wheel of his vintage Cadillac and heads to the Red Mountain Cafe to order his ham and eggs, hash browns with crispy onions, wheat toast and a side of sausage gravy.

I remind myself how blessed I am to have my parents a phone call away. After singing at the funeral of my friends mother I called my own mother to go for pancakes at Perkins in the Pines. No answer. Called that evening with the same results. I sent her an e-mail. followed by text. There is some degree of dementia in play, very mild, but enough that she doesn't track information like she has in the past. I have to remind myself that this isn't the woman I knew when I was 28, celebrating with my friends, cursing my ill fortune to have this woman as my main caregiver. I resented her demands to assist her in raising my siblings. She had me feeding my younger sister as soon as I could manage to hold the bottle at the proper angle. Now I realize she was drowning and couldn't have managed my 5 siblings without my help. When something went right, she got the glory. When shit hit the fan, and it frequently did, I got the blame. So why wasn't she picking up the phone? There had been a few years when she wasn't speaking to me, however I didn't realize it and thought I just kept missing her. Finally one of my sisters clued me in. I had offended her and she had cut off communication without any confrontation or explanation. No wonder I have so few negotiating skills. I was taught it was all or nothing and expected to read minds, at least my mother's mind, and to anticipate her movements, desires. With unpleasant consequences when I failed. Once your identity is warped, can it be fixed? Full of conflicting emotions and beliefs how do you even begin to sort them out. Perhaps the secret still lives in not trying to sort and make sense of the craziness. Just live one day at a time, one moment, one conversation, one appointment and let all the rest fall as it may. And remember that it all has value, especially the painful parts, the parts we call failures and mistakes. My biggest mistake appears to be taking my life personally. I sometimes forget how big I am and get lost in the details, feeling small and vulnerable, helpless and isolated. In truth the ocean is smaller than we human beings. We extend far beyond the surface of our skins, yet we forget and limit our identities in ways we will one day remember is silly. When to quit? When I want something different to manifest in my life. Something more joyous, more satisfying, more authentic.

Dragon

2012-01-24T17:55:00.000-08:00

In a jet-lag fog this elegant sculpture caught my sleep deprived eyes. I stopped under it to examine the structure closer. It reminded of the snakes holding their tails in a well known dream which revealed the nature of the benzene molecule. Dragons have fascinated me for as long as I can remember and there was a time in my son's earliest years when he insisted I pretend to be the dragon from Mozart's Magic Flute. He, obviously, wanted to be Prince Tamino, with the cape and sword. We repeated the opening chase scene through the dance studio, dining room kitchen and out the back door into the garden. He continued this game day after day, perfecting his sword work and his fainting at the end of the scene before the hand maidens of the Queen of the Night slayed the fire breathing beast.

The Beach House

2012-01-23T20:37:00.000-08:00

On the other side of this house is the Sonoma Coast. The current owner has a kayak to paddle around the Russian River which opens out into the Pacific ocean. The house is just a little more fancy than a cardboard box., but it has amazing views from the floor to ceiling windows. And it was bathed in sunshine the day I looked at it. Half a million dollars and it's yours, or mine, or whoever gets there first. Yes, I want to live at the ocean. Yes I want to take my grandkids and their peanut butter and jelly sandwiches down to the beach and build sand castles and make a little bonfire for toasting marshmallows and eating s'mores while Georgia, the dog, runs after the seagulls. I want set up my laptop and write amazing stories about growing up poor in Sibley county. And eating pastries from the local bakery. Crispies and peanut rolls, doughnuts that melt in your mouth, and my Grandma's caramel pecan rolls. She made them from the water left after she boiled the potatoes. Leave it to the Irish to use everything in the kitchen. No waste. I'm reluctant to take on the financial burden of something like this property, my heart is already there with the sand and sun, but my brain keeps shouting "do the math sister!" So no one way plane ticket for me yet. My kids are still unstable enough that I want to hang around a little closer, just in case they need something. I can always say no, but the truth is that I want to help them when I can. Its tough out there and it isn't getting any easier yet. Which brings me to the subject of "butt-dialing", you know what I mean: you shove your phone in your back pocket with out locking the number pad, slide into your car, you are behind the steering wheel, sort of sitting leaning on your phone and you accidentally dial whoever is up on your favorites list. And you don't even realize it has happened until the person calls you back and says, "Hey, you called me!" And even though you didn't consciously call her, you had been thinking about her, and you are very happy to hear her voice because you find inspiration in her work, her perspective. That's the ideal butt-dial experience: sitting in a Minnesota snowstorm, waiting for the car engine to warm up enough to put it in gear without damage. And your whole day is ever so much better as you pull away from the frozen curb into the tire troughs of the cars that have passed before you on their way to work. I wonder if we would live on the same California coast one day. Except she would be in Southern California while I would be on the Sonoma shore. Maybe we would meet somewhere south of Monterey, Steinbeck country, for tea and almond croissants.

Arboretum Sunday

2012-01-15T12:00:00.000-08:00

All we have is today, assuming one is fortunate enough to wake up in the morning. Which also means you were lucky enough to fall asleep last night. In the past, I worked 7 days a week, without a break, unless I got a migraine or a really bad cold. Eventually I cut back to 6 days a week, a decadent feeling of ease. To have just that one day each and every week, without fail, to catch up on all those little maintenance chores that pile up like the dirty laundry in the basement, even just to change the burned out light bulbs was a blessing. Suddenly my life felt manageable. I could catch my breath and recharge, go to a movie or take a nap. And now, at this time in my busy life, I have actual weekends: two days back to back. That gives me one day to catch up and one day to simply be, breathing, and smiling, observing, listening. To have an opportunity to day dream, walk around the arboretum, smell the flowers, look for the wild turkeys, feel the sunshine on my face, and to lounge around in front of the fire is something I always dreamed about, always imagined, I simply hoped I would be doing it with a lover, the father of my children, rather than on my own.
Life is surprising in that way. You plan one thing and you get something else, not that this is an unpleasant thing, but I believed he was the love of my life. No, wait. I believed I was the love of his life, after all he told me that often enough, and I based on that belief I assumed he was the love of my life. After all he was the father of my children, that had to count for something, or so I thought. And now I realize that I lived in a relationship built on assumptions and fantasy. Until I woke up one day and realized I didn't want to live with the denial and violence.
What was the deal breaker for me? After all I stayed in the relationship for over 22 years even when our children got old enough to plead with me to file for divorce. Even after he left our 2 year old outside in the winter in a locked car, for an indefinite length of time. Even after he beat me up in front of them. When his rage got out of control, he shoved them into walls and stairs, I still stayed and believed he would change. When he made inappropriate sexual remarks to them, touched them in ways that made them uncomfortable, I asked him to stop, and I still stayed. When we separated with the understanding he would attend domestic violence training, I heard him agree.
I heard him say he would do anything and everything necessary to heal our relationship. I didn't make a "plan b" because I believed him. I trusted him, not just with my life, but the lives of our children. And it turns out that I was wrong! And now I look ahead and sit with myself and I can hear my own voice again. There is a kind of blanket permission hanging in the air. I notice my feelings, and do not have to do anything more with them, but watch them like the clouds passing over a sunny hill. The full range of my emotions are there and I don't have to hide from any of them. I don't have to give anyone my attention on demand or organize any one's life and then try to fit my life around theirs. I have a relatively free existence only limited by my revenue stream. And my imagination. My life is no longer a crisis requiring my constant vigilance the main drama in my life is the sunrise, and everything unfolds from there....

sometimes it's a gutter ball

2012-01-11T20:47:00.000-08:00

But sometimes it's a strike. So, do you stop and beat yourself up? Take off your shoes and walk away? Well, maybe, and then maybe you just don't. Maybe you stop, and breathe, and wait for your ball to come back to you, and try again. Or you get a different ball. One more suited to your strengths.

I recently crossed paths with an acquaintance who has a passion for hockey which I can only imagine in my wildest dreams. I am passionate about ice skating, hockey? Skating backwards? Dodging a hard, flying-at-your head? Thank you very much, but probably not in this lifetime. While we waited for the elevator I smiled at him. He said hi, began to fiddle with his equipment and appeared to be reluctant to make eye contact. Finally, I asked if he was a finesse player. He looked at me blankly, and there was a long pause similar to the one as I am waiting for something to load on my laptop.

"What do you mean?" he finally asked with a puzzled expression.

"As opposed to a power player," I explained, as my elevator door opened to carry me up to the fifth floor.

He said, "I'm all about slapping it in the net, as hard and fast as possible, so definitely, I'm a strength and speed skater." His elevator opened to take him down to the basement garage. We turned in unison, and wished each other a great evening.

It's important to identify your skills, goals and areas for improvement. Start young, have realistic expectations, and learn not to beat yourself up when you realize how far you can go and how growing changes your skill set. I wonder when "growing" with it's implication that you have so much more time left to develop, turns into "aging" with the suggestion that you are going downhill, with only a few more chances left. "Aging," with your opportunities diminishing like the returns on your investments. All the negative connotations: washed up, over the hill, swan song.

What could we do if we lived like someone left the gate open and the whole world was open to us for this one precious moment, this one precious day?

celebration

2012-01-08T14:22:00.000-08:00

Sometimes justice isn't blind: her eyes are wild open and her ears are hearing lies without believing them. I had the privilege of attending a recent meeting in a judge's chamber after two attorneys objected to my presence. It is an understatement to say that they had agenda. I had lain awake for many nights agonizing over the details of this particular case and second guessed myself numerous times through out the investigation. I felt like I was carrying the biological Mom, and her children, on my back for the past 21 months. The mother was a slippery character with undiagnosed mental health issue. Munchausen syndrome by proxy came to mind frequently as I observed her interactions with the other players in her story, especially as she talked with doctor's working on her son's case. She had fought to maintain her custody of her so in spite of his drastic weight loss. She had avoided all contact with me, repeatedly canceling appointments and refusing to pick up her phone or return my calls. When I left a message that I would visit her daughter at school if she did not return my call, she kept her home from school claiming that the bus driver had molested her daughter. She decided to change schools or simply keep her home until it was mandatory. 30 days after the testimony on her case was closed her parental rights were terminated. I was relieved, thinking everything was over and that I would not be required to have anymore contact with her. The next week I was informed that she had filed a motion for a retrial. Eventually denied, she filed an appeal. This was a woman who had no intention of letting voluntarily surrendering custody of her child. And following the child's death she insisted on having his embalmed body returned to her for burial. The craziness of sitting in a room with lawyers wanting to change the involuntary TPR to voluntary was a gross misrepresentation of justice. They were essentially asking the original judge to say she was wrong, and had made a mistake in her original TPR order.

English tea at the Biltmore

2012-01-05T21:01:00.000-08:00

Last year at this time snow was all we talked about, all we thought about. It was in every one's face and you could not avoid it without just closing the curtains and staying indoors. Actually that would be an expensive mistake as a homeowner. The city would clear your walks and send you the bill, every time they provided the service at greatly inflated rates. Last year I escaped to Phoenix and like it's name I felt myself resurrected from the ashes of the desert landscape. I motivated myself with the idea of High tea at the Biltmore, and I was not disappointed. The question now is: encore? Each day the plane tickets go up in price, each day I awake and the temperature is a little more temperate. There is no snow to speak of and it is a pleasure to be in Minnesota....

New Year's Eve Peach Margarita

2012-01-03T17:47:00.000-08:00

The last time I saw my friend D we spent a lovely evening at the St. Paul Hotel assessing our milestones for 2011 and listing our goals for 2012. We sail different ships but, occasionally,on a blessed day such as the last one, we end up in the same harbor, drawing inspiration from each other's fantasies and dreams. She talks about living in a RV and then the next day I walk by the perfect Vanagon with a for sale sign in the window. Immediately, I am drawn into the fantasy of traveling up and down the Sonoma coast with my laptop and a lapdog, writing and camping, drinking peach margaritas in front of a crackling fire on the beach. Or spending the day walking in the redwoods of Armstrong woods. We compare notes on the health of our aging mothers. Hers still has a daily gin martini. Mine has been sober for almost 30 years. It is a blessing that her daughter has settled, at least for the moment, in St. Paul and that is the motivation for her frequent trips to the Metro area. For myself, I avoid St. Paul like a doctor's waiting room during the flu season. My immune system is strong and I tend to not get sick easily. None the less, I do not seek out opportunities to expose myself to risk. Not to imply that St. Paul is contagious in any way. It simply isn't on my list of places I go without strong motivation, such as meeting a like-minded friend. And while I may not ask for her opinion straight up, I am always interested in her creative and frequently inspiring opinions. And I love the dreams of field trips to visit a newly married K in the summer. And I plan to drink plenty of Peach Margaritas before, during and after...

Bookstore

2011-12-15T19:09:00.000-08:00

Someday I would like to own a bookstore near this patisserie near Borough Market in London. People would stop by after shopping and sit and browse and peruse the latest selections. I wouldn't care so much if the weather wasn't sweet because of the books. All my favorites, and especially, ones that I have always wanted to read but didn't get around to opening. Perhaps we would have "tea of the day" and people could sip tiny cups of the hot potion while they decided which books to take home. I would pretend I was living in "Black Books" without being as rude as Bernard. In the meantime I am content to be where I am, providing massage services and speaking for children in the child protection system. It's a roller coaster and I used to self medicate with pastries such as these. Then I reached my limit. So I backed off the carbs, the caffeine and sugar. And fat, my best friend. And Surly Bender. I didn't think it was possible and I was wrong. And not for the first time did I realize I was mistaken. Tango class was on the schedule tonight and yet when I had an opportunity to work, I decided to do it. Now I am too tired to go to class. C'est la vie. One minute you are planning an inexpensive bookcase project and then, whoops, the whole wall needs to be re-wired! One minute you are planning to live in a brick house with a fireplace in Linden Hills and then, wham! You find yourself living in a tiny apartment right off the freeway juggling childcare with a man who beats you up after he leaves your two year old alone, asleep in the car, parked on the street, in the winter. And then he tells you your 6 year old daughter was watching the baby from the window. It was never my plan to live with a man who hit me across the face in front of our kids. But it happens.

Margarita Weds

2011-12-14T17:16:00.000-08:00

Fans of alliteration and tequila, such as myself, will try to find a tequila drink which starts with "W." They might end up here wondering about the benefits of mixing kahlua and tequila. And they might wonder about floating the whipped cream left over from a chocolate roulade. Sounds elegant to me, festive, a great way to dress up the Sauza for the winter. It could be garnished with chocolate shavings. Hey, you might even serve it with slices of the chocolate roulade garnished with more whipped cream and fresh berries. Reality is: I am sticking to the famous fabulous lemon fast. And I feel better, cleaner, lighter and more willing to look at some of my eating patterns. I do comfort and reward myself with sugar and fat, washing it down with jasmine tea. I look forward to the caffine rush, and many of my activites are centered around eating, snacking really. Not cooking healthy meals for myself, sitting down and then being finished with it, but grazing, nearly constantly and using food to mask my emotions. I tend to identify anxiety as hunger, which seems silly now that I am looking into it's deep dark eyes. And now I have a chance to sit still and look for the source of my anxiety.

Hibiscus

2011-12-14T16:33:00.000-08:00

After I brought it inside my hibiscus put out two more flowers as if to say "where am I?" It's a question I ask myself each day, more than once. When the drama is gone, I notice it's absence. It's like being in a bar with ear drum splitting rock music and then stepping out into the winter snow falling quietly, drifting down with something like reverence. I look at the empty space where the grand piano used lived with stacks of mail, music scores, half eaten snacks and presents from groupies desperate to ingratiate themselves with their instructor. Like many cult leaders he did not hesitate to use his position of authority to his own advantage. I do not wish for that scenario to return, but I did notice that it was gone.

Gone, like our dog left too long on his own, out of a crate, entertaining himself. While living alone, working 60 hours a week, I realized I could no longer manage our family dog as I had while living with a husband, available for his many ever growing demands.

My landscape changed again when I accepted a position at a chiropractic clinic. The work was grueling and satisfying at the same time. Mainly deep tissue work to repair auto injuries I would leave each evening to soak my throbbing hands in hot salty water before applying ice packs. And then it would start all over the next day. Gradually I learned to avoid injury while using techniques which were effective in releasing dense injured tissues. Seeking a position with opportunities to collaborate as partners in integrative modalities, I began offering in-hospital services for postpartum parents. And each day I come back to the question "where am I?" After working in hospitals all over the metro area, they are starting to look alike.

For over 22 years I lived in an identity that no longer seems to exist. The definition of family has altered drastically for my children and me. And while it has been a relief, it has also been an unending (at least to this point) process of grief and recovery. Mostly wondering "where am I?" I trust my journey, just like I trust that you have to drive through Winnemucca to get to Tahoe on interstate 80. But you don't have to spend a lot of time there unless the freeway is closed. Some days I feel like the freeway has closed and I am stranded in a hotel with nothing much to do, but wait. So I write, or sleep, or watch silly TV shows like "The Big Bang Theory."

I am chipping away at the remodeling of my house. Bookshelves are in process even as I type. My precarious finances offer another opportunity to trust my journey. And I try to remember to stay present to my fears and shattered dreams. I build new ones with people who have a little more insight and interest in collaboration. Client consultations are important to me. and the possibility of building those kinds of relationships motivate me to make the effort. I am here, even not knowing where I am, I can be here. Over and over, moment by moment I can be here. Without knowing where I will be next, I can be right here, right now, as present as I am capable of being, for as long as I can manage.

Bowling for birthdays

2011-12-11T20:49:00.000-08:00

It is good to get an early start when it comes to building large motor skills. Some of my earliest memories are of the bowling alley in the rural farming community of my youth. tbc...

Rock Camp for Dads

2011-12-11T19:40:00.000-08:00

Handprints

2011-12-09T10:42:00.000-08:00

My daughter doesn't miss much. She is a champion at games where you compare two pictures and list what is different from the first to the second. So I wasn't surprised when she asked about the hand prints even before she was in the kitchen. Noticing them from the dining room she used a one word question, "Hands?" At first I wasn't sure what she meant, it had been two weeks since I had come back from the deathbed of my GAL child. And the drama that followed as the biological mom bullied her way into the directors office and demanded his body be embalmed and released to her rather than the foster mom distracted me from the memory of the child himself. After numerous phone calls and e-mails I was told there was a meeting set up for December 21st to find out how this happened. My daughter works in a school that this child may have attended, had he been returned to his biological mom. I described the nurses making the hand prints, watching them manipulate his hands, one by one, with the tubes and restraints, onto the ink pad and then to the paper. After repeating the process several times. The nurse kindly asked if I would like one. As she handed it across the table, I glanced at the form on the bed. In a few minutes the doctors would come in with the respiratory therapist and remove the tube that had kept him alive for the past two weeks. The last time I had attended a death I was struck by the simplicity of the process. It was just as Sogyal Rinpoche described: you exhale. And you don't inhale again. The biological mom keeps declaring her love for this child to anyone who is willing to listen. Yet over and over I see people so caught in their addictions and compulsions that love, if this is love beyond ownership, is not enough to keep their kids safe and healthy. I watch my daughter plan her wedding, pursue her teaching license, become a dog owner. With gratitude I listen to her in my kitchen near the bookshelf which holds my various mementos, including the hand prints of a dead child, a child I feel I may have failed. But for the moment, even in face of my possible failure, I feel complete.

Adopt Minnesota

2011-11-29T12:14:00.001-08:00

My friend D walks dogs waiting for adoption. It appears to be a noble activity and takes the place of stair master at the Y. Her dogs have passed and it fills the gap created by their new lives in another world. As I read her posts I remind myself to contact the foster kids I speak for as a Guardian ad Litem. It's an interesting relationship, something like the dog walking. I have to be careful not to get too involved in their lives as my time in their lives is temporary. I try to stay detached, and I avoid spending excessive money on them. But the truth is I think about them, I wish the best for them and when they succeed in their endeavors, I celebrate. I have know K for 3 years and he is a charming kid, bright, funny, creative. And he is on the website, but is still waiting for a "forever family". This is his second time in the waiting stage. He lost his mother when he was young, then lost his adopted dad about a year after I met him. I have learned so much about resiliency from him, he has become quite a master as he has been in three different schools since we first met. He loves movies and chocolate chip cookies. He likes animals and would love to walk a dogs for fun, like my friend D. I wonder about the dogs that end up euthanized, do they get to walk or do they go right to death row and then sit there? How long do they wait? I had another child, J, and he was waiting for adoption, too. But he was extremely ill. He got worse. And then he was gone.

Make Over

2011-11-02T20:54:00.000-07:00

During my younger years I would never have left the house without make up. At the very least I would wear mascara and concealer for the circles under my eyes. And my contact lenses. And my hair, my hair had to be good! Then all my attention went into my kids and I didn't even bother to put on earrings. Sometimes I didn't even floss! Time passed, my kids got older, and one of them agreed to marry her sweetheart. In a real, although non-traditional, wedding. She asked me about make up. Having been a devoted Clinique user I led her through the story to the cosmetic area. As we passed the Este Lauder counter we stopped to see if anyone there had time for a makeover with the wedding in mind. It was Labor day weekend around 5 pm and the store was almost empty. We leisurely learned about the product and the history of Este Lauder as my daughter became a woman under the brushes of a woman who had devoted much of her life to the line. I want only the best for both my children and there was no question in my soul as I purchase her first real makeup that I wanted to contribute to her celebration, her evolution in this way. After I dropped her at her apartment with her selections, including 3 wedding dresses from which she would make her final selection I was filled with gratitude. I remembered lying on the bathroom floor when she was 11 months old with a ruptured ectopic pregnancy determined to stay in her life. Fighting to recover so I might share this day with her. I drove home, looked in the mirror and started laughing. I had bought nothing for myself. In fact, I realized I didn't own one item of Este Lauder product. And that the closest I had even come was my aged collection of Clinique, owned by Este Lauder Co. This is how co-dependency manifests: we put others needs and wants before our own. And then we ignore ourselves, we live "without". And we don't question it. A few weeks later we went to look at wedding shoes. I left her trying on shoes and made my way to the Este Lauder counter to try on and purchase a modest selection of items. She met me there after finishing her selection in the shoe department. Beaming as she watched the transformation happen in front of her eyes, and curious, and empowered by watching someone else exercise her options. We can live a life of denial and scarcity, or we can bloom, open and trusting that the universe is smiling on us and is betting on our joy, our success, and our gratitude.

Perfect day...

2011-11-02T16:13:00.000-07:00

What is a perfect day? Sometimes it's getting together with a long-time friend and colleague to eat doughnuts. Not just any old doughnuts-from-the-gas-station-on-the-corner, but doughnuts to celebrate. rare and fresh, and lovely to behold; Look for these doughnuts at Mojo Monkey. Pictured here are the apple dumpling, red velvet, traditional buttermilk and creme brulee filled with vanilla creme.

The boy born from a peach

2011-10-24T20:27:00.000-07:00

Momotaro-san says "love me"

Warrior 1 ala Blooma

2011-10-22T17:52:00.000-07:00

Chair massage: a great opportunity to share a few quality moments with people who can't see any reason to get on a massage table unless they are in excruciating pain and want to avoid their doctors at all cost. Blooma is 4 years old and it was a pleasure to participate in the celebration. Lake Harriet brewery had an offering on draft and there were face-painters and cute clothes vendors in the mix. Many of us were set up outside, hoping the sun would continue to shine and the winds would keep it down to intermittent activity. The cakes covered all possibilities of taste: chocolate with white frosting, white with chocolate frosting, marble cake with white frosting and white with white frosting. On the same planet there are many living without cake or frosting, or face paints, or artisan beer, or prenatal yoga for that matter. And those who have that privilege, who exercise that option, also have the option of recognizing our incredible fortune. When we hit the bottom, and begin to drown in despair we still have our US citizenship, and our health care. We have a choice of hospitals to come to our aid in emergencies. I still remember traveling to France and being told how unbelievably lucky I was because stores were open on Sundays in the States. This photo was taken before kids came into the room and grabbed handfuls of cake and frosting, not even waiting to be handed a piece. Others just grabbed the yoga figure, licked off the frosting and stuck them back on the cake. Those precious little darlings, entitled to take whatever struck their fancy and use it as they wished and then dispose of it however they wished...It is always an ironic juxtaposition with the kids I see in the child protection system.

Ponder this:

2011-10-10T13:30:00.000-07:00

What is it about migraines that just throws you off base? Makes you feel crazy, depressed, suicidal? Is it the subtle sensation of impending doom which has a space for feeling like maybe it wont be that bad, that somehow it will pass over your house if you leave blood over the door. Or that if you could just eat the right thing, or take a solid nap, or stretch your neck in a particular way that you might avert the oncoming attack. Hot shower? Comfortable boots and warm sweater...Ibuprophen, sugar, coffee, chocolate... And then you are in the middle of it and there isno turning back, it is simply a matter of riding it out, and not knowing how long the ride will last. You aren't really sick, as in contagious, but you also aren't feeling great, so it's difficult to be around anyone even if they are your favorite person in the whole world. Or if you are doing your favorite thing in the whole world. Hopelessness sets in, and there is no escape, no permanent relief. All you can do it watch the clock, try to anticipate triggers, and relax. Look at the trees, listen to the birds, lay on the floor and be grateful you are not in some war-torn country struggling to find clean water.

Grape harvest

2011-10-08T17:48:00.000-07:00

Not exactly enough to make wine, but perfect for eating with cheese and some artisan bread. Maybe a few Haralsons on the side would complete the meal. It has been unusually dry. I finally broke down and turned on the hose, soaking the roses, the red maple and the surrounding plants. This past week has been an incredible gift of sunshine and warm temperatures. People have used their air conditioners, perhaps for the last time before it snows. It has been a slow descent into the passing of summer and fall has dragged its heels, stretching us into the coming cold season. I am working on painting the garage hoping to finish before it is just too cold. This week would have been perfect but I was occupied with a killer migraine for six days in a row. I finally gave up and went in for craniosacral work. It took a long time to release probably 3 times the usual amount of time and effort, and once it did break, I was dizzy and disorientated for the rest of the day. Luckily I don't have the frequency I experienced in the past, and I have discovered the effects of CST making it all that much more likely that I will finish painting before the snow flies!

plum jelly and brioche

2011-10-05T15:57:00.000-07:00

Rustica is too far for me to be a regular supporter. But, on occasion, I find myself driving through their neighborhood and pulling into the parking lot. And the brioche is always a motivating attraction. I hadn't had this particular shape before and it was irresistible to say the least. I let myself believe that brioche is actually a full meal deal because of the extra eggs and dairy in the dough. And I happened to have a jar of artisan plum jelly from a vendor at the Kingfield Market in my refrigerator. It was the perfect combination of sweet, chewy, crunchy and rich. When I move to Paris I will eat brioche everyday with chocolate and I will read and write and reflect. I will walk alot and never rush to get places faster and I will teach English to students and business persons. It will be so relaxed, just like my life now, but in Paris. I might even have a dog, but I will not have another cat after my Valerie passes on. I will be relatively free of responsibilities after a life of mandatory care taking. I will listen to music and explore the city, riding the metro, visiting friends in Brussels. Next year would be nice. I'm not sure how many more winters I can handle, and I'm not sure how much longer I want to take care of a house. Since my college trip to Europe I have dreamed of living in France. I thought it would happen after I graduated but I took a detour via marriage and dance to the west coast. My husband had no interest in Europe, and his interest in dance morphed into something much different: trees. Perhaps he would have been happier performing Butoh in and amongst the redwood forests. I imagine him somewhere along the Russian River not terribly far from Goat Rock Beach.

Waiting behind the finish line...

2011-10-04T13:16:00.000-07:00

We made a plan and I stuck to it. But the best laid plans are fated to be altered, often through no intent of our own. We arrived at the finish line at 4:30. My son transported my massage table to the Elite tent before walking to the buses outside Kelly Inn which would take him to the start line. He said he felt good and believed he could finish the race in under 3 hours. So did I, after all he had run Grandma's in a personal record, just over 3 hours. He had trained with devotion and had a good night sleep. So I stood here and waited while the elite runners recovered and waited for a massage therapist. Mostly we worked without a break, and this was the first time I had been so brazen to walk out for 10 minutes while the line grew restless. I was raised to be a compulsive caretaker, and the full ten minutes I waited was colored by an uneasy sense of shame. In spite of the fact I was a volunteer, in spite of the fact that I was exhausted and this was my first break. After 10 minutes I headed back to the tent where I resumed my position in the line of 8 massage tables.m I missed seeing him cross the finish at Grandma's and I missed him last year at TC, but I saw him at the start and at the finish of Phoenix and May Mpls, so not all is lost. Maybe next year...

Find your happy place

2011-09-17T12:16:00.000-07:00

Rarely photographed??

2011-08-25T15:29:00.000-07:00

The thing about doughnuts is that they have to be fresh. Super fresh. Obviously, I am fond of the brown butter version. I can resist the berry version most days. But the nutella filled doughnut is my Waterloo. Difficult to share, I was tempted to go back and buy them out. Instead, I just added Kingfield Farmer's market to my ical. Most doughnuts are not fresh enough for me, I have been blessed with Fat Tuesdays rose filled doughnuts in Krakow, hot from the fryer with a thin glaze dripping down my fingers. I wandered from bakery to bakery with my 2 children eating the amazing puffs of fluffy sweetness. At the time, 1987, certain meats and chocolate were still rationed. The shock of martial law had eased, but the economic situation had not improved significantly. Living with my kids grandparents was a window into a lifestyle I could not have imagined. Yet, there was something so seductive about the slower pace of their difficult lifestyle. And there were the paczki, fresh everyday except Sunday. The first time I ate them my daughter was 18 months and it was our first trip to Krakow. We had flown to Frankfurt and then taken the train across West Germany, through East Germany and then into Wojciech Jaruzelski's Poland. Jet lagged, relaxing in the the garden with her Polish relatives we sipped tea and ate hot paczki as she splashed in a basin on water. I felt I had been transported to another planet. A place where my American dollars opened a world of endless treasure in the midst of common scarcity. What a relief that on Sunday mornings I can, again, simply walk down the street, to the Bogart Loves Bakery stand, and eat my fill of warm, sweet doughnuts. And without carrying my passport, or struggling with my embarrassingly unimpressive Polish language skills. And there is no homeland security, no customs declaration. My mantra: go early, buy as many as you can afford.

Get out of the way!

2011-08-21T13:12:00.000-07:00

There are days I wonder if it is worth it to get out of bed. I lay there listening to the birds and looking at the sunlight coming through the lace curtains, forming lovely patterns on my wall. I have a copy of Nadine Gordimer's "None to Accompany Me" and a cup of hot Jasmine tea within reaching distance. These are the moments it is easy to stretch out, yawn, turn over and return to my dreams. So, I guess that makes me normal. However, yesterday, I did get out of bed at 6 am, with the intention of walking a 5k race. Appropriate clothing waited on a chair near my bed, a cup of tea and a hot shower. My son registered for the Naked Foot 5k invited me to participate. I had trained for a total of 4 days and felt unprepared but willing to go along with it up to the point the announcement: runners to the starting line. At that point I realized I wasn't ready and stepped back to catch my son on video. Am I a quitter? Is that a bad thing? Is it important to know when to quit and when to push harder? As I stepped back there was a shift in my attention and the focus changed to my son and the other runners. Suddenly I wasn't worried about myself, my performance and I was more in tune with the emotions of the others who had really come to race, to place, to win. And I was okay with myself. I felt okay about letting myself off the hook. If I been more diligent in my training, I would feel differently. But there will be other 5ks and perhaps I will cross those starting lines. Until then I rejoice in the enthusiasm of my son, who finished 3rd and under 20 minutes. He has trained hard and will continue to train with devotion for all the upcoming events he can afford. I will be there to cheer him across the finish line and take him to brunch at Lowbrow!

Lost in Cyberspace

2011-08-09T13:09:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I wrote a lovely piece about the good old days (1974) when I lived in Calistoga, California and drank a lot of Sauza tequila. I described my divorce recovery program which included significant amounts of Sauza, Stolichnaya, and Glenlivit. Of course they were, used moderately, responsibly and not all on the same day. I shared how I eventually moved back to Minneapolis, became pregnant and started to eliminated anything that might compromise my health. Those 300 words were probably the best thing I have ever written anywhere, or ever will produce. It was such an incredibly sweet piece, and I reread it with more than a little satisfaction, eager to hit "post". Then it disappeared somewhere into cyberspace and I could not recover it. I was too shocked to cry and too tired to remember the exact words I had typed. I decided to just give you all the photo and forget about the narrative. There was a bit about my ectopic pregnancy, which turned into a near death experience with lights and an angel and waking up on the cold bathroom floor in a pool of blood. I included a poignant part about eschewing all alcoholic and caffinated beverages due to chronic killer migraines which eventually disappeared with my beloved, violent husband. The piece finished with friends sitting around my gorgeous kitchen, laughing, eating amazing multi-grain bread from Patisserie 46 and homegrown heirloom tomatoes from the Kingfield Farmer's Market while sipping grapefruit margaritas, wishing they were watermelon or cantaloupe. And then the screen was blank, except for the photo and the half full blender container in my freezer waiting to console me. Oh, and the part about the time I jumped out of a birthday cake, that was in there someplace, too.

Watermelon Margarita

2011-08-08T15:40:00.000-07:00

Tuesday Cucumber & Key Lime Margarita

2011-07-19T18:44:00.000-07:00

This will make you want to dance! I wasn't sure how cucumber margaritas would taste so, I made a very small batch. And I regret it as I gaze at the empty blender in the sink. The skins could have been bitter (they weren't) the flesh could have been full of seeds (it wasn't) and it might have just tasted too healthy or too green or too something. In any case, I just didn't want to make a full batch and then end up pouring it all down the garbage disposal. Tonight was a time when I was so happy that I was so wrong. Something about the newborn size of the cukes and their freshly picked status gave them an intense, cooling sensation, which would have been wonderful anytime. But today, with the heat index at 115, it was like the most incredibly insightful gift our beloved Mother Earth could bestow on her children. The tartness of the key lime, the fragrant jasmine flowers mixed with green tea and a sweet touch of raw honey were the perfect companions for those newly picked cukes. Some fresh mint, leftover from Mondays' creation, were next to the cukes in the refrigerator. I tossed that in at the end, right before I added the heavy whipping cream to adjust the glycemic index. Garnished with a slice of cucumber and flowering oregano, this is the perfect foil for a day like today. And if it weren't so blooming hot I would never have tried to concoct something with cooling properties like this treat. As I sipped the liquid cucumbers through the sea salt on the rim I was reminded of the cold soups of summer I have eaten over the past 50+ years. Which led me back to the cucumber fields of you youth. My father insisted we plant acres of the darling and sell them to Gedney to make a fortune. My siblings and I were not nearly as compliant, or as enthusiastic, as he had hoped. 95% of his babies grew as big, and as orange, as small pumpkins before we managed to harvest them. By that point we couldn't even give them to Gedney and they ended up in the pig trough. We loaded a few bushel baskets, mostly full, in the dusty Ford family station wagon and drove them to Winthrop. Arriving at the drop off site for Gedney we emptied the baskets into the sorting machine and the attendant turned it on. As the bed of slats rocked back and forth the smaller cukes fell through the openings onto the conveyor belt. But the larger, orange ones stayed right were they fell until they were swept off and fell into the large barrel with the other rejects, on their way to the pigs. We were only paid for the smaller cukes and it was just about enough to cover us at the Dairy Queen if we got the cheapest things on the menu: dilly bars or single dipped cones. Luckily, I had money from my babysitting business and we also stopped at the Lyle's Cafe for pie. We sat at the counter so we could see the pie lady, Mina Peterson. I loved watching her roll out the crust, studying her technique and imagining how wonderful it would be to spend all day making pies. No one was in a hurry to get back to the hot and humid cucumber patch. As far as we workers were concerned the grasshoppers, crickets and spiders were welcome to claim the produce, we had better things to do: swimming, reading, drinking cherry cokes. On the drive home with tummies full of blueberry pie, cherry pie and Dairy Queen treats, we joked about our Dad's "get rich quick" scheme and plotted how to avoid his pickle patch picking plans. By the end of our "pickle summer" of 1970 he realized his expensive mistake. He told us that we were ungrateful, and spoiled rotten, just like the soft orange cucumbers left on the ground. He said he bought the tractor and planted those seeds for us, so his kids could make some money, be independent and have something to do over our summer vacation. And then, after telling us we didn't deserve the opportunity he had provided, he solemnly vowed it would be a long, long time, if ever, that he would try to do something like that for us kids again. And, so far, thank you, Jesus, he's kept his word.

Monday Mango Margarita

2011-07-18T19:12:00.000-07:00

Oh, yes, it's a heat wave. After sweating it out all day it is so time for some thing salty, icy and full of beta carotene, with just a hint of fresh mint. Something that says, "I love this life-no matter what!" When pressed for time I go for the frozen mango's that you can find in oh-so-many freezer cases in oh-so-many stores. I would rather pick them off my own tree, like I did with the sour cherries, or buy them from a local grower but that just isn't happening until I move to the tropics. I like drinking my margaritas out of a martini glass which some people will find offensive. But I honestly haven't found any margarita glasses that feel right in my hand. They are either too big, too thick or too ugly. I almost passed on these striped glasses but once I actually picked them up, held them in my hand, and closed my eyes I was sold on them. That and the fact that it was the 4th of July week, a week of fireworks and streamers. They are festive and I want a stronger sense of celebration in my life. This recipe is an original combination of fresh lime, lemon, calcium added orange juice concentrate and frozen mango cubes. I love using frozen fruit rather than ice as it is just plain more flavorful. I was generous with the sea salt around the rim, as I felt I needed to replace the electrolytes I lost during the sauna-like weather today. My secret ingredient: extra strong jasmine tea. I made enough of this batch so that I have some left-over. Tomorrow morning I will add Greek yogurt and drink it for breakfast. Or pour it on top of granola and enjoy the complex flavors which will develop during the night. On an increasingly rare occasion such as an engagement party, wedding or job promotion I might add a shot of tequila or dark spiced rum. But the sugar rush and the caffeine are my drugs of choice. As I placed the half full blender in the refrigerator I noticed a hand-full of lovely fresh cucumbers from yesterday's trip to the Kingfield Farmer's Market. Consequently, I am leaning toward cucumber/lime margaritas tomorrow, which means chopping the cukes and freezing them tonight. Check back here for the results.

Brioche with plum jam

2011-07-12T09:10:00.000-07:00

There is a common human habit of noticing what's wrong with our lives, the painful things that suggest we're bad people, or maybe just plain stupid, undeserving. The world is misperceived as an unfriendly place filled with all kinds of dangers we need to avoid. We start to think that with enough planning and plenty of caution we can prevent painful things from happening. Yet there is plenty of evidence to the contrary, if we are willing to look clearly at everything that is around us. From the fragrant, flowering plants along our paths to the fluffy clouds overhead, we are surrounded by the living manifestation of lovingness. The relaxed ease granted to us during these warm summer months is just such a blessing. I personally get caught worrying about my financial instability and hope that it is a temporary situation for me. Trying not to worry, I set out for a morning run. Then, as I pass Patisserie 46, the little bakery on 46th and Grand, I notice an older Chevy camper and it abruptly interrupts my "worry pattern." I realize that, if necessary, I could sell or rent my house and live in something like that vehicle. I could travel, write and be very inspired. I became so absorbed in imagining my new writing life in the back of a vanagon that I forgot about monthly revenues, assets, and profit and loss reports. I started to select which campsite I would use when I got to Wright's beach on the Sonoma coast. By the time I reined in my imagination my cells were flooded with dopamine and other "feel good" hormones. I realized that my financial status is a small part of my life, necessary, but more of a puzzle than a curse. As I turned back toward home I stopped at the bakery to purchase one of their signature baguettes. Entering the tiny space I was enveloped by the aroma of freshly baked bread and pastries. I was reminded of LaDuree and the time I spent in their London location. The image of an unforgettable, cold and rainy afternoon eating pastries with my daughter and her boyfriend popped into my memory. But there are a fair amount of people living in Minneapolis who never think about LaDuree. There are probably some people who even think LaDuree is over-rated and pretentious, not worth the trip or the effort. And, considering my current financial resources, I am happy to find myself carrying baguette and an unplanned brioche with creme fraiche back to my kitchen. I eat the Brioche with sweet butter from Hope Creamery, home-made plum jam and Mrs. Kelly's hot Jasmine tea. And I remember that everything in life is amazing, sometimes painful, but undeniably blessed.

Queen of Trailer-land

2011-07-11T15:49:00.000-07:00

When my mother sold her trailer she gave up a garden she had spent many years creating. There were hedges of bridal wreath, every kind of spring bulb, day lilies, peonies, ferns, magnificent prehistoric looking hosta and unusual iris. But the queen of this paradise of the trailer park was this golden lady slipper, gleaned from the boggy woods near her son's lake "place." It thrived in her tiny lot and was the envy of the area. She had planted it close to the trailer so that it was protected from the winds and uninvited eyes. It seemed uncommonly happy even though the soil was primarily clay. Plant thieves were known to visit the park where her trailer was situated. As she looked for new homes for her treasures the lady came to me. I replanted it in a somewhat shady area in my back yard and marked it so I would know where it was and avoid mistaking it for a weed. Sometimes plants rest for a time in their new homes, sort of recharging their batteries and adjusting to the different combinations of moisture and sunlight, at a new time of the day. In any case, when I looked for it in late April, it had not appeared. May came and went without a trace of my mother's favorite. Her pink and white trillium flourished, as did her hostas and mock orange. I grieved the silence, the disappearance of that beauty and calculate the odds it may reappear next spring.

sour cherry margarita

2011-07-11T14:04:00.000-07:00

My friend D lives in Margarita-ville. I want to visit her there, but I don't drink, which means that I actually live in Slurpee-ville, or Smoothie-ville, or maybe just Icee-ville, depending on your childhood tradition. I pretend it's a margarita or a daiquiri, and with that sudden rush of sugar, I feel like I'm bouncing off the walls. I tried adding whipping cream to slow the sugar rush, but that was simply too decadent. Now I'm back to straight fruit juices in a blender, occasionally adding a scoop of protein powder or a little tofu. Not very romantic, but I am "overdrawn" at the romance store. It did not serve my purposes in the long run. Like worrying, romance is over-rated. And seriously, it's not something which will pay my mortgage. When push comes to shove, we call it domestic violence. How do we learn to recognize the various and subtle forms of domestic violence? For me, it was only by wading out into the middle of the pool. And the deeper it got, the more I tried to ignore it, until I was drowning. Lucky for me, someone threw me a line and pulled me back to shore. Now I sit on the deck, overlooking my backyard, sipping my wanna-be Margarita and smile. It is quiet except for the sound of the wind in my cherry tree. The flowers are reaching for the sky. Summer is in full bloom and will be over before I'm ready to say good-bye. Nearly the middle of July, I wonder if it is too late in the season to get a bike. Many of my clients are on vacation, nearly all of them at the same time, leaving me with a lot of time on my hands and no impending deadlines. The trial for my latest GAL case has finished and we are waiting for the Judge's decision. I feel like I am at an intersection, wondering which path to try next. I ponder the options: which direction will be the most interesting, and the least unpleasant? The sun shifts and I move my chair ever so slightly, following the shade. In another hour the mosquitoes will take over my back yard. I will be forced inside to preserve my blood supply. Thinking about dinner I try to remember what I saw in the refrigerator. It is too hot to cook anything so I focus my attention on the selection of eateries in the immediate neighborhood. I am fortunate to have a generous selection of options with a variety of price ranges. I decide on Singapore Noodles and call it in for "pick up". I'll treat myself to a new color of nail polish and those blue foamy things to hold your toes apart while the polish dries. Last week at this time all I could think about was the trial. Following this family for over 13 months, I made myself ridiculously available to the Mom, hoping she would be able to organize herself so that her child could be returned to her safely. But it never happened, and now, I had to testify, leaving my opinion on a public record for eternity as to the best interests of her child. I didn't look forward to being on the witness stand, and had lay awake at night, going over the information in my reports to the court. I wondered if I had missed something. My compulsive perfectionism reared it's head with sharp, poisonous teeth. There are few guarantees in this world, and people make mistakes, but to continue to make the same mistakes, hoping the results would be different is madness. It could cost this child his life. The Rescuer appears, yet isn't clear regarding who is actually being rescued from whom. Now it is out of my hands, and I am relieved that the trial is over for me. The boy's case isn't closed until he's re-united or adopted, and I will stay with him until then, learning everything I can from his situation. Obviously, I intend to accept another assignment in the future, but this time I will not rush. I will wait until I am recovered, both emotionally and financially. This case has me well over budget on both levels. I have learned how easy it is to be drawn into someone else's panic while developing some skill in staying present to someone else's panic without mistaking it for my own. I have learned not to over-react, getting absorbed, over-identified really, by the adrenaline present in the situation. And there is no other way to figure that out than by wading in, and standing in the middle of it, watching and listening, for as long as it takes.

thorns

2011-06-24T14:31:00.000-07:00

Roses the color of the cardinals grace my garden. My peonies and mock orange are finished allowing space for the roses to move into the spotlight. These are not expensive, fancy roses with a guarantee. These are simple roses for the working class, purchased from bulk bins where they are stacked willy-nilly in their plastic bags. I found them on my front porch one clear, sunny Mother's Day as a tribute to my devoted mothering. I opened the card to discover they were from the "celebrity" husband-who-cheated-on-me, to cover his adulterous sexual activities. After I discovered his duplicity, I was tempted to burn the three offending bushes or chop them into little pieces and dump them in his gas tank. But mainly I hated myself for believing his seductive lies of contrition and his vow to stay with me, as long as it took for us to reconcile, working through our differences "even if it were ten years." It only occurred to me recently that believing his lies was not an indication that something was wrong with me. He has seduced more people than could be counted with his deceptions and half truths. It is more about him than it is about me. The compassionate, wise words of a friend convinced me to put the plants in the ground, water them, and to love them into life and abundance. My earliest childhood memories are of roses, and I have always loved them, especially the yellow varieties. I planted expensive bushes of Peace roses when each of my children were born. Each year I tend these bushes reminded of the bittersweet nature of our meeting. Like the darkest chocolate I savor their lesson without forgetting the circumstances of our first encounter. They bloom for all to see. Without judgement or demands, my roses provide inspiration for me and hiding places for birds, squirrels, slugs and worms until the day they drop their petals and sleep.

Goodwill: Duluth

2011-06-20T14:55:00.000-07:00

It was so cold in Duluth and we hadn't packed for the rain. So as we passed the Goodwill for the fourth or fifth time, I pulled into the parking lot, as close to the front door as possible. We ran to the front door through the rain shivering, looking for warm sweaters and sweat pants. But the first item my eyes fell on was a sugar bowl matching the Noritake China my mother gave me so many years ago. It was elegant and lovely without a flaw or chip. I held it delicately as my memory moved back to my child hood. We rarely used that china. It was reserved for special occasions which never arrived. Graduations, funerals, marriages, births all passed without the special china gracing the table. When she passed it on to me I was determined it would not be hidden away. I had a special display case built with glass doors and spot lights so I could catch a glimpse of it every time I passed. And we used it often, holidays, Sundays, birthdays, special teas, children's accomplishments. new friends for dinner. And at one point a guest recognized the dishes, turned over a plate to verify it's origin and then insisted I reset the table with something more ordinary. I pointed out that they were dishes first and forever, and that we were celebrating our new friendship, but she wasn't convinced. When I read her obituary, detailing her long, slow dance with ovarian cancer, I took out one of the paper thin porcelain Noritake cups and a matching saucer, filled it with jasmine tea and drank it slowly, thinking only of my friend and celebrating her life.

http://www.noritakechina.com/

http://www.goodwillduluth.org/shop-locations.htm

a recovering life

2011-06-16T14:19:00.000-07:00

What I'm really interested in is recovery. How do women move on after a violent marriage crumbles? How do we learn to trust, to love, to allow myself to be vulnerable again after the man to whom I devoted my life and my dreams disappears? I remind myself, over and over, that I can trust myself and my life and m journey. I didn't deliberately, consciously choose someone who would beat me up, and leave my son locked in the car during the winter. It wasn't on his CV and those kinds of questions never occurred to me during courtship. Even if I had asked them he wouldn't have been able to answer honestly. And, like all his other women, I was swept up in the romance of the moment. The possibility of happily ever after, seduced me, still does. We all grew up on that fantasy and it simply never dies. And I loved him. I believed in him. And I believed the stories he told me of our future together. I always said yes, until the cold winter day he left my son in the car. First time I said "no" to him. And it nearly cost me my life. It did cost me life as I knew it. Were there hints of his violent nature? Red flags? Hindsight is so interesting and memory plays tricks with us...I saw how he treated other people, but I thought I was different, and that he would never treat me with that cold arrogance. His unshaken sense of entitlement, he allowed himself to behave inappropriately no matter who would be hurt, even his 2 year old child. It was difficult to live with him, but it was even more difficult to break the spell woven by my desire to believe his words. I looked at his actions with disappointment yet magical thinking convinced me that it was just a matter of time and that we were a work in progress, learning how to communicate. I waited, at first patiently, and then my patience wore thin. One day he began screaming at me, slamming chairs around the room. I was grateful that it wasn't our kids he was throwing against the wall, as he had in the past. And I still had hope, even when I requested that he live somewhere else, temporarily, while he sorted out his issues. I said "anger issues" because I had learned that the term "domestic violence" was a trigger for him. Insane, but not a deal breaker, yet. In fact the whole time we were separated I continued to believe he was in outpatient treatment and working hard on his program, his case plan. And I had a copy of "Assessing Risk to Children From Batterers". The July 2006 Newsletter of the Commission on Domestic Violence. I was still more concerned about the effects on my kids than myself. And I used the check list: assessing change in batterers. There are 8 points on the list, none of which ever changed as far as my observation was concerned.

empty bench

2011-06-07T08:57:00.000-07:00

Either he was lying then or he is lying now and either way he ends up a liar, and living a lie for the convenience of not having to be uncomfortable or grow up and look at his dark side. On the other hand I end up living in the dark, the secret that must not be explored. The first time his fist hit my face my glasses went flying across the room. Suddenly I couldn't see and I felt indescribably vulnerable. I tried to cover my face and upper body, to tuck my chin so the following blows would land on my head rather than my face. He advanced as I tried to back away and avoid the impact of his fists. Tripping, and catching myself, I looked down at the floor. Our 2 year old son had managed to get between his Dad and I. He was pushing against his Dad's thighs as if he could stop the assault. His Dad didn't even notice that his son and daughter were in the room. His total concentration was on my face. I dropped to my knees and grabbed my son. It was enough of a surprise to give me an opportunity to run out of the room with my children and shut the bedroom door, locking it in shock. I felt numb except for my throbbing head. I had no idea where my glasses were and with out them I was nearly blind like many with nearsighted vision. How had this happened? I reached for my daughter and son. She was shaking with silent sobs wrapped around my waist like a python. Younger, not much smaller than his sister, my son was sitting on my lap wrapped around my neck. I rocked them, sitting on the edge of their bed. There was no sound from the next rooms as I tried to comfort and reassure them. I had no idea what had just happened, but I had watched my parents violent struggles enough to imagine how my children felt. I was shocked as the truth sunk into my awareness: I was living with a man I couldn't trust. I had left my children alone with him all day while I was at work. And he had left our 2 year old son alone, restrained by his car seat, in the car, in the Minnesota winter, indefinitely. Visions of child protection danced in my head as I took their shoes off and laid down in bed with one child on either side of me. They were exhausted, it was very late and as I quietly sang their favorite lullabyes they fell asleep. I waited until they were soundly asleep before creeping out of the bed, I covered them as usual, as if it had all been a bad dream. When I had watched my parents struggle, I vowed I would never stay with a man who hit me. It was a no brainer as far as my younger self was concerned. But I was totally unprepared for what had just happened. I had spent the past two years traveling with a newborn and a 3 year old to follow my husband's dream of artistic success and celebrity. I was unemployed, isolated from my friends and estranged from my family. I didn't know where to turn. My world had become a black tunnel with no sign of light at the far end. Nothing was broken beyond my trust as I shut the bedroom door behind me. He was in the other bedroom, the one we had shared until tonight

Ladies Tea

2011-05-07T19:34:00.000-07:00

When you don't get out of bed, here's the kind of opportunity you miss: a high tea fundraiser for Community Emergency Services. Of course, you can always just send them a check, but you'll miss an opportunity to savour goodies provided by the ladies of Bethlehem Lutheran Church. The lavender cream scones were rich and flavorful. You could eat them alone or slather them with whipped cream and strawberry jam. The cranberry scones were a different texture, moist and sandy with a crunchy sugared top, also perfect for cream and jam. But, of course, we started with the sandwiches: cucumber topped with a large prawn and dill, or cucumber with a creamy garlic hummus, chicken salad on white triangles, and a cream puff filled with ham salad just like the ones my Mom made for my graduation reception ever so many years ago! There was the traditional sandwich loaf and last, but my favorite, olive rolls. We were encouraged to take be generous with ourselves, and most of us followed the suggestion. It is so easy to be a little more brutal than necessary with ourselves and it was liberating to be supported in our attempts to be more gentle, more loving to the one we see in the mirror every morning. The poppy seed bread was the perfect balance of sweetness, the lemon curd tarts were the kind that puckered your lips for a second, and the flakey pecan tarts were filled with chewy caramel and nuts. Brownies melted in your mouth. Fresh strawberries were dipped in milk chocolate. Cherry filled cheesecakes, more selections than I could fit on my plate. Many women had dressed in vintage dresses and accessories with hats and white gloves. We looked like a flower garden of colors and textures. We had a special black tea flavored with black currant to accompany our meal and a musical backdrop. People took turns with a portrait photographer to remember the day, we all left the tables with smiles on our faces and happiness in our bellies.

yellow robe

2011-03-14T23:33:00.000-07:00

She woke to the sound of dripping water and smiled. There was a chance it was inside the house, but it was more possible that the ice dams on the roof were finally melting. Winter, her least favorite time of the year, appeared to be winding down. But today, when her Mom's name came up on the caller “identicus,” She assumed the worst: cardiac arrest, broken hip, probably not a car accident unless she had been hit while walking. Not that her Mom walked outside much in the Winter: too darn cold for her old bones. It was surprising to hear her voice. Her mother called rarely, she couldn't remember the last time, and was rarely in a friendly mood. Expecting to hear the voice of a nurse or EMT, her mother's voice bubbled into her ears like a pleasant brook in springtime, full of melting snow. In fact, it was her opening remark, “Is your ice melting?” Neither woman was fond of Winter. They agreed it was better than nothing, but it certainly wasn't as enjoyable as Spring, or Early summer. They were both avid gardeners although neither had all the time and inclination once at their fingertips. Each gardened more in their fantasies, and a few small containers, enjoying other people's efforts, as much as they had one time enjoyed their own. Their relationship had never been easy, her mother preferred her sons. She had grown up with the message-on-a-loop that her brothers came first, that they could do no wrong, and they were exempt from certain responsibilities. Yet her older brother grew up to be a single Dad and could cook, clean and sew with the best of her sisters. Yes, their relationship had always been turbulent as long as she could remember. Maybe they were just too much alike, consequently her mother tried to prevent her daughter from repeating her mistakes. But the mistakes had made her who she was: courageous and fiercely protective of her children. And Jill had lived much of her life wondering what was wrong with herself. Not realizing that the turbulence, the disagreements were evidence that something was very right with her. She was right on track, exactly where she needed to be to become the person she was meant to be since the day she was conceived. Their relationship had brought every out-dated, useless belief they shared into question and at the same time provided a foundation for pushing away from each other. A platform to launch themselves into this next stage of their lives. Now Jill was sitting on the lower stairs as they chatted, about 5 feet away from her new piano. Her new, used piano was a “hand-me-down” from her singing teacher. Now, they could meet for lessons away from her teacher's eccentric, hyper-active bulldog. Her mother had been J's first piano teacher. And she had lobbied the high school choir director to take Jill back into the group after she had stopped showing up for rehearsals. Her mother encouraged her singing; even insisted that she sing. When she wanted to buy a guitar, after saving her babysitting money for weeks, her mother supported her. Her mother was an accomplished pianist, organist for the Catholic Church and choir director. She had grown up in a small town in North Dakota, a few miles from the Canadian border and played piano from childhood. Her mother had given all her children piano lessons. A little heavy handed at first, but by the sixth child, a boy, she had mellowed. And when they didn't want to take lessons from her, she paid teachers for the ones who agreed to practice. She started playing simply for herself, her own enjoyment the main concern. There was a long period of time when they didn't have contact, didn't speak at all. Her mother was silent, disapproving perhaps judgmental. And maybe just down right scared. There was a time Jill was convinced something horrible was wrong with herself. Not just that she lacked significant value, enough to justify her existence, but that she actually had some sort of negative value, as if her assets could never measure up to the expense. One of her earliest memories was of a delicate yellow bathrobe, trimmed with lace, satin ribbons, and pearl buttons. As the oldest daughter she got new clothes, the other girls frequently received her clothes second hand, and many times, before she was done with them. The pain of handing her favorite dresses over to her younger sisters, and watching them spill, stain, and tear was difficult to bear. And she cherished the yellow robe, feeling like a princess when ever she wore it. She was tempted to save it for special occasions, so it would stay crisp and clean. But she had already tried that clever plan. she grew out of the special item, and had to hand it over to the next sister in line before she was ready, simply because it was too small for her. After she started buying her own clothes, she was allowed to wear them until they fell apart. Her flannel shirts and denim jeans were soft form many washings, in the days before pre-washed was available. Perhaps the yellow robe sticks in her memory because she was wearing it the night her older brother called Grandma and Grandpa to stop their parent's fight. Their Mom and Dad were downstairs screaming. She could hear the sounds of hitting, slapping, and punching even though she was all the way upstairs with the door partially closed. Her sister was in the next bed, silent, but definitely not asleep. Then her Mother was standing at the bottom of the stairs, screaming for her brother to run to the telephone, behind our Dad and call Grandma Mary. He was fast, and did it without hesitation, without thinking. Then he flew back upstairs into bedroom his sisters shared. He was shaking, and appeared terrified. Crying, he begged his sisters to come into his room, to his bed, a place he normally guarded as unquestioningly off limits to girls. His explanation for this unusual request convinced Jill, the older sister with the beautiful golden bathrobe. He was afraid their Dad would attack him for making the call for help. And he knew he was safe hiding behind his sisters. His Dad never hit his daughters. So, there was the big brother with one sister on each side, crying, scared, confused. And Jill, wrapped in her precious robe, as if it would protect her from harm. Eventually they heard sounds of their Dad's parents' voices drifting up the stairwell. Both Grandma and Grandpa had come to break up the fight. Then all three kids were crying in nervous relief, as if they had woken from a very unpleasant dream. Jill called out loudly for the comfort of her Grandma, the woman who brought them fresh hot home-baked carmel rolls every Sunday when her Mom was playing organ for the early service in church. But tonight Grandma was occupied with her violent son, and their more reserved Grandpa appeared in her place. He took the sisters back to their own room, quietly, calmly assured them they were safe and tucked them into their beds. Exhausted, they fell asleep.

Migraine

2011-03-13T21:40:00.000-07:00

Her migraine woke her up. She lay in bed wondering at the intensity of the attack. Her migraines had steadily declined and disappeared since she had left her violent husband. Yet here it was, back with pain beyond her memory. She was convinced it must be a brain tumor. Judging buy the location it must be in her frontal cortex. There was nothing in the occipital area or perhaps it was simply less intense and consequently less noticeable. The old feeling of “I-wish-I-was-dead-so-the-pain-would-stop” came back to visit. She lay there trying not to move, trying to will it away, trying to relax and release. All the new age articles she had ever read came back to her as she tried to figure it out: where it came from, and how to prevent it from happening again. Slowly it dawned on her that she could stop wasting time blaming herself, telling herself that she was a bad person with a million things wrong and get an ice pack, eat some yogurt and take half a vicodin. Every muscle in her body hurt and her skin itched as she lowered her feet to the floor. That wasn't so bad, she decided. Slowly she made her way to the stairs. Descending step by step, trying not to jar her head, she noticed the waves of nausea reminding her of the Japanese tsunami she had watched before falling asleep last night. Could they be connected? It didn't matter, she still had to deal with the pain. Opening the refrigerator, the sun streaming through the eastern windows, she grabbed the non fat greek yogurt. She held the first spoonful in her mouth until it seemed safe to swallow. The last thing she wanted was to start barfing on an empty stomach. It was staying down. She tried another spoonful of the creamy, thick goo. How do they get it to taste so good without fat? It was staying down, so she cautiously swallowed the vicodin left over from her car accident two months ago. Remembering the ice, she selected a bag of frozen peas from the freezer and wrapped it in a tea towel. In slow motion she carefully flopped down on the kitchen window seat just for a moment, with frozen peas draped across the top of her head, hoping to feel the vicodin to kick in. 10 minutes and no relief yet. She shifted the pea pack slightly to avoid frostbite. She made her way back upstairs and rubbed peppermint oil on the worst, most excruciatingly painful areas. Reaching for her phone she canceled her plans for the day. What if she had to cancel the whole week? What if she had to cancel her trip to the West Coast?! Although, if it were a brain tumor, maybe this would be her last chance to do something like travel with her daughter. Convincing herself that the migraine was indeed symptom of a brain tumor, or worse, perhaps an aneurism, she planned how she would use her remaining time. She really didn't want to pass during the Winter, that was just too depressing. Late summer would be good, as there would be all kinds of fresh produce available for parties and gatherings. Her daughter would have a break before the school year started and she went back to work. Her son would be available as he was working part time in August. As she fell asleep, thanks to the vicodin she reminded herself not to give attention to dying least she created it as reality. Images of her grandchildren's birthday parties flowed through her dreams. She saw herself in her BMW convertible driving them to the lake for swimming and the roller garden for skating, packing snacks and sipping tea outside Turtle Bread Shop. When she woke, a few hours later, the pain was gone. The heaviness was still there between her ears, but she was pretty sure it was NOT a brain tumor. Listening closely she could hear her son downstairs, probably doing his laundry. An avid ultra-marathoner, he worked just enough to allow himself ample time to train. This left no money to wash clothes in the laundromat under his apartment, so he spent Sunday evenings using her washer, dryer, soap and water. At 23, she reminded herself he was a man. His Dad was married with a baby at that age! She cautiously made her way downstairs where he was sprawled in the dining room. In a great mood, full of self esteem, he had run 15 miles and was treating himself to a pizza. Drinking a glass of water and listening to his description of his morning run she was relieve that the migraine seemed to have disappeared. Her schedule for the week could remain intact. She might even eat some pizza, and drink hot tea. The day was mostly gone, but it was the first day of daylight savings so the sky was sunny and inviting. The snow had melted around the edges, and cardinals were clustered around the feeding tray. The pain was gone, but not forgotten. They went to pick up her taxes, she asked him to drive as she was still feeling dizzy from the vicodin. It was silly to take chances when she was pretty sure she didn't have a brain tumor, or even an aneurism.

Krakow

2011-01-28T09:38:00.000-08:00

She was in the next room, nursing their baby when she heard him hitting his mother. And she realized he wasn't the man she assumed he was: gentle, loving, devoted to his beloved mother, incapable of such an act of violence. She heard her mother-in-law's door wrenched open and then slammed shut. He burst into their room, face flushed, breathing heavily. She hesitated to speak, the baby had been nearly asleep, but was now anxiously sucking, wide awake with round eyes darting around his mother's face. Their 4 year old daughter was playing with her favorite dolls in the safety of her brother's play pen. At 9 months he was a skilled crawler and clever at figuring out how to get his sister's interesting toys and books. Consequently, the play pen was a place she could safely entertain herself with worrying about his intrusion. She had stopped dressing the dolls and was sitting quietly, while listening to her beloved Babcias's quiet sobbing from the next room. No one spoke.

"Did you hit your mother?"

"She wouldn't stop talking," he defended himself.

"It's her fault, she was asking for it. I told her to be quiet but she wouldn't. She got what she deserved."

The woman was shocked at his lack of regret, and his conviction that he had done the right thing. He busied himself at the piano, shuffling through papers without noticing their daughter

watching him. She was nearly motionless, simply listening as if invisible. Her mother caught her eye and held her gaze. How many times had the girl been told not to hit her brother, even when he tore the heads off her dolls. Even when he grabbed her toys and destroyed her doll house. Wasn't that why she had set up her things in the play pen, originally bought to contain the male toddler.

"I'm not convinced that hitting your Mum was your best option."

"She's not hurt. She probably didn't even feel it through all her layers of fat. All she had to do was stop talking. She was asking for it."

The woman spoke softly, gently, hoping he would calm down, and notice the child listening intently.

"An apology seems like a good idea."

I'm not sorry!" he snapped slamming musical scores down on the piano. "And it wasn't my fault: I warned her to stop talking."

"It will be a long time before she talks to you again."

He looked up, directly into his wife's eyes, "Good, then I've accomplished my goal."

Silence.

He left the room.

The little girl with blond ringlets crawled out of the play pen, away from the dolls and her mother scooped her up with her free arm. The baby was drowsy, nearly asleep in spite of the drama unfolding around him. These two children were her whole world. Homeless, living in Krakow with her mother in law. Confused by the language and the customs, her children were her refuge, her precious jewels, her chance to confirm the value of her existence. Until they entered her life she had passions, dreams mixed with self doubt and more than a little self hatred. When she first held her daughter, all her self doubt melted away, leaving only love and devotion. This amazing creature enchanted her, made her want to be a better person, more gentle and kind. She was determined to be my conscious about parenting than her own parents had been with their opportunity to parent. She shifted the sleeping baby to the old sofa and took the girl on her lap, enclosing her in her arms. She was shaking. Sensitive from birth, she appeared to be able to read her mother's mind. Rocking her tenderly, the girl gradually relaxed and closed her eyes.

The faint hum of the coffee grinder came from the kitchen, followed by the fragrance of freshly ground coffee. The whistle of the tea kettle sounded next. The late afternoon sunlight faded and she quietly sang her children's favorite lullaby, wondering, and praying they were safe.

run, run, run, as fast as u can

2011-01-20T20:13:00.000-08:00

He did it! He cut 11 minutes off his best time! What an accomplishment! It is so easy to feel good about out successful "doings" and completely miss the value of our being, our "not -doing". I noticed this everytime I sat soaking up the sun in my swim suit. I felt like I should be exercising or swimming or exploring, horse-back riding, eating lovely things, buying a car, in essence: doing and getting things done. I didn't notice the sound bite on the billboard until I uploaded my photos, I was all about the man running, his hair, his joy and ease. Later I realized that parts of me which chronically hurt, didn't hurt so much and others not at all. I realized I had pretty much caught up on my sleep. And that I am chronically sleep deprived, dependent on caffine to keep me going. I relaxed deeply, and trusted that it was enough for me to just be outside, with minimal clothes, smiling at the "no-snow" parts of the trip.

christmas eve

2010-12-27T21:14:00.000-08:00

This is the first whole Christmas eve I spent with my kids. It felt enchanted, healing some part of me that was grieving. A part of me that had been silenced for too long. I remember when they were younger and sent to a friend's house so my ex-husband could have my complete, undivided attention. And without considering what I wanted, I always agreed to that plan. After all, I reasoned, when others were happy and satisfied there would be time for me to consider my own happiness and satisfaction. I was wrong: guilty of self-neglect I have only now, this year begun to ask myself: what do I want? what makes me happy? what fills me to the brim and overflowing with joy and gratitude? Slowly I realize that I was just surviving. Focused on the dreams of other people around me, I had lost touch with my own dreams and possibilities. They had all morphed into the familiar habit of wanting to please other people, people I wanted to love me. When I talked with my kids about our celebration we shared our ideas, and tried to imagine all of them happening at sometime during the weekend. We wanted to allow time for plans to change if necessary or desired. And we wanted to allow plenty of space for simply "hanging out", being quiet together. Time to say good bye to last years nonsense, and resentments was included. We want to start the new year as light hearted as possible. Remembering how much freedom we have in our worlds. How much joy and space for growth. All the opportunities open to us, the value of our contributions to our communities and friends.

paradise happens

2010-11-28T10:29:00.000-08:00

Imagine: you're exhausted right down to the insides of your bones, but you keep plugging away over-riding your natural inclination to stop. And imagine that you do not injure yourself, so that when you say "thank you" and "good-bye" to the last patient there is a space in your life that stretches out and feels like the Grand Canyon. You can do anything you want with the next 36 hours before you start the whole week all over again. And you have a car, the snowy Minnesota roads are clear and dry, and the sun is shining full of promise. I headed to the Landscape Arboretum. And realized as I pulled into the parking lot that I have never been here alone. Walking into the building I melted into a crowd of people I had never met, looking through items in the gift shop, sitting in the tea room, watching the wild turkeys, preparing for a wedding, laughing, fighting, missing their naps to look at the gingerbread house displays...The fireplace was inviting and I plopped down on the empty couch just for a moment to decompress. 3 hours later I was still curled up with a book, a cup of tea, and thinning crowds. Stretching my legs I wandered into some areas I had not explored on previous visits. Finding myself surrounded by blooming orchids, I gazed at the colorful birds of paradise. There were two blooms right next to each other as if they were dancing together, mirroring movements in flight. Seeing them growing with their leaves in a generous pot was stunning to watch. Easy to see where they acquired their names. I felt like I was in paradise especially after spending so many hours with patients living with chronic pain of auto injuries. It surprises us to experience such excruciating pain, yet listen to a doctor reading an MRI or X-ray report confirming that there is no significant damage: no broken bones. One starts to feel a bit crazy as the pain moves around, and there is no relief in sight. Prescription drugs simply mask the symptoms. Desperation quickly sets in. Various options are explored and discarded. With luck their auto insurance covers massage, bringing them to my services. Thus my exhaustion. And my devotion to self-care. Being around plants, out in nature, watching the critters, or curled up with a pet are all effective tools of self-care. Just the simple act of walking around the block, noticing the changes in landscape, gardens, and creatures jump start my process of rebalancing.

milestones

2010-11-22T21:11:00.000-08:00

Some milestones are easy to recognize. The first tooth, first kiss, first steps, first haircut, first day of school, graduations, driver's license: all are noted and celebrated and become a part of one's identity. On the night my ectopic pregnancy ruptured, my past life didn't flash before me, but my future life, the one I would be missing if I bled to death, my daughter's milestones I would consequently miss, flashed through my consciousness. I was overcome with a longing to be part of her growing up, graduating, flowering. I wanted to observe her creating her life, holding the reins and riding her journey into her future. It was delightful to sit in the waiting room at the Southdale DMV as she registered her first vehicle. With new confidence, new competence we celebrated with another first: Happy Hour at "Salut." As a Virgo, it is possible my daughter has as over-developed sense of perfection. And no matter how valuable this aspect is when she is writing or editing it seems to cause her some anxiety in other areas. How does one recognize and let go of the less helpful, unreasonable expectations, yet maintain the high standards necessary to succeed in one's area of professional endeavor. And pay the bills, to produce the revenue to explore one's creative process? To integrate abundance with discipline is not an easy task. It requires practice. Perhaps lifetimes of practice. As I watch her explore cross her milestones, I feel my heart open a little wider with longing and gratitude.

companion

2010-11-22T20:33:00.000-08:00

Dark chocolate cake: not the best, not the worst, but the one with me today. Indulgence, or necessity, I hadn't planned on this purchase. But the shop was right next to the hardware store where I bought 50 pounds of "ice melt." AIt was a kind of indulgent gesture of enjoyment in the face of my changing, aging body. Am I doomed to die thinking, "whoops, I wish I had eaten more cake"? So much of my life has been spent counting calories, working out, pumping iron and a lot less has been simply trusting my own longings, and intuitive desire to taste, to savor for my own personal enjoyment. And I am trying to teach myself something new: a healthy enjoyment of the opportunities I have in my current situation for expressing a moment of sheer delight, and minimizing the guilt. An opportunity to short circuit my sense of shame around the circumstances of my current life to deal directly with my inaccurate belief that I am a bad person for eating chocolate cake on a icy Monday afternoon in November...and that bad people don't deserve pleasure. Or that I am a person who still hasn't managed to follow the rules or use her common sense when it comes to my family history of heart disease and diabetes. I brought this piece of cake back home, where my son was working on his MacBook. As we shared it, he commented on the pleasing moistness of the creation. I explained that this was the first piece cut out of the cake, so naturally, we could expect it to be moist. That's when I noticed the cake itself, instead of being caught in my emotional baggage about eating cake for lunch without any explanation, excuse or justification. I confess: it was an impulse buy, totally unplanned, shared with someone I love, who loves me...on the first day of the week of Thanksgiving, after teaching an inspiring Yoga class, and before working for the rest of the afternoon. And I am so grateful for that opportunity, with a full set of my own teeth, and the ability to taste the subtle flavors, to smell the aroma, to look at some of my own issues again, with a measure of compassion and gentle humor, perhaps healing some part of myself that is overly, unnecessarily identified with an obsolete past. I hugged the man who is my son. This man who is so carefully respectful of waiting until I have the first bite. And then I went back outside, to sprinkle kosher salt on the icy front sidewalk and steps, as fresh snow drifted around my Sorels.

love this time

2010-10-26T15:21:00.000-07:00

"I chose to love

this time

for once

with all my intelligence"

We are deep in transition what was and what will be: between knowing what is coming, totally unable to control it. Last week I longed to be outside, running in the loving sunshine, knowing it would be gone. A fierce wind has replaced those sunbeams shaking every last leaf from the trees. Last week I ran through a fairy forest of gold and bronze, today I am inside looking out. Rain comes down in sheets and it is difficult to love this time. I dress in layers, but my nose is still cold. My monarchs are gone, enjoying the warmer southern climates where temperatures are more inviting. There is a sense of grief that permeates the cells. An inconsolable grief I am unable to comfort with promises of spring. Can I love this cold wind? Can I find glory and gratitude in it's efforts to sweep away the illusions we harbor of a mild winter, and a seductive autumn. I rely on the collective intelligence, far more knowing than the puny intellect. The intelligence intrinsic to my very being and loving in it's ferocity. The same intelligence which repaired my ankle and M's collarbone and turned my backyard into a jungle paradise filled with butterflies. What is the wind talking about? Is it clearing the way for another season of wonder? Normally I would crank up the heat, check the airfare to warmer places of endless summer and resist the place I'm in, resist the wind, and pretend it isn't happening. I would chose to disassociate from the event and my feelings. But today I refuse these givens, these old habits and patterns born from an instinct to survive, to individuate. I chose to be with this fierce wind because it is here and now, rather than live in the memory of last week's sun or next summer's butterflies. This moment is enough time, the perfect time, to love in glory and gratitude.

Splittings

2010-10-25T16:03:00.000-07:00

Splittings

from The Dream of a Common Language

by Adrienne Rich

My body opens over San Francisco like the day –

light raining down each pore crying the change of light

I am not with her I have been waking off and on

all night to that pain not simply absence but

the presence of the past destructive

to living here and now Yet if I could instruct

myself, if we could learn to learn from pain

even as it grasps us if the mind, the mind that lives

in this body could refuse to let itself be crushed

in that grasp it would loosen Pain would have to stand

off from me and listen its dark breath still on me

but the mind could begin to speak to pain

and pain would have to answer:

We are older now

we have met before these are my hands before your eyes

my figure blotting out all that is not mine

I am the pain of division creator of divisions

it is I who blot your lover from you

and not the time-zones or the miles

It is not separation calls me forth but I

who am separation And remember

I have no existence apart from you

I believe I am choosing something now

not to suffer uselessly yet still to feel

Does the infant memorize the body of the mother

and create her in absence? or simply cry

primordial loneliness? does the bed of the stream

once diverted mourning remember the wetness?

But we, we live so much in these

configurations of the past I choose

to separate her from my past we have not shared

I choose not to suffer uselessly

to detect primordial pain as it stalks toward me

flashing its bleak torch in my eyes blotting out

her particular being the details of her love

I will not be divided from her or from myself

by myths of separation

while her mind and body in Manhattan are more with me

than the smell of eucalyptus coolly burning on these hills

The world tells me I am its creature

I am raked by eyes brushed by hands

I want to crawl into her for refuge lay my head

in the space between her breast and shoulder

abnegating power for love

as women have done or hiding

from power in her love like a man

I refuse these givens the splitting

between love and action I am choosing

not to suffer uselessly and not to use her

I choose to love this time for once

with all my intelligence.

Lite Bleu

2010-10-24T15:03:00.000-07:00

Is it a coincidence that it's the same color as her first bike? I remember how she struggled to master the two wheeler, with her Grandmother's encouragement and guidance. It seemed like she would never get the hang of it, find her balance and master her fears. High expectations stood in her way. And at 26, after breaking her collarbone and 2 near brushes, she has graduated to 4 wheels and 2 gas tanks. A truck with room to spare. Imagine her, with canoe on her rack, headed for the BWCA. It wasn't an impulsive decision, there was considerable research, like a well crafted paper. Pros and cons turned over and over before falling asleep. Encouragement from outsiders, input from friends, until it became as easy as falling off a log. And once she was behind the wheel, she melted. We never forget our first car, our first truck, our first kiss. The look on her face as she took me for a ride, as she offered me her keys was unforgettable. An obstacle removed from the journey to her dreams. New responsibilities in exchange for freedom, comfort, and convenience. Another great opportunity for growth.

Swaddling the roses

2010-10-17T20:05:00.000-07:00

A day for deep healing:

went to the arboretum with M, to run a little,

picnic a little,

and say good-bye to the roses.

Those beauties are all wrapped up,

ready for hibernation,

yet it hasn't frozen yet

and they are all still blooming.

M compared them to swaddled babies...

A is excited about the Phoenix Marathon

on 1/16/11.

I will plan to go with him

and hope for some sun and inspiration.

He is moving out on November 1st,

not far, maybe 5 blocks.

We had brunch together this morning

at Lucia's Bakery

Not St. Honore but, decadent chocolate cake.

Until today

I could pretend winter would skip us this year

Now it's pretty obvious it has us on it's list,

closer to the top than comfort allows.

The heat is on and I will fill up the humidifier before I fall asleep.

dead heads

2010-10-11T17:50:00.000-07:00

Is it too late? The truth is : we don't know when it will freeze, snow or how much more blooming will happen before cold occurs. All we know is that the mums and asters need water and that they still have buds-just like the roses-and they are not afraid of lower temperatures. I move through my day, hoping this is not the last, refilling the birth bath and removing the faded flowers, the dead heads, the make room for the new buds as they unfold. My feet are saying good-by to summer as I crunch through the leaves piled on the sidewalks and take note of my neighbors decisions to drain their fountains for the new season. I watch as they bag their leaves and plant next Spring's tulips. Like my friends, I add new bulbs, a ritual for me that turns my attention more firmly to the future. I imagine myself on the other side of our Minnesota winter. Yet I look forward to the magical landscape of ice and snow. I savor my plans to eat roasted root vegetables and buttery squashes, the fragrance of harvest filling my cozy kitchen. I plan to take longer, leisurely lunches with lovingly prepared food and a glass of crisp chardonnay, as if I were my own private chef preparing a meal for my beloved child. Dreaming menus, shopping in my imagination, relaxed and at ease in my own body. After years of restricting my food consumption to maintain performance weight, I am so grateful to be at peace with food. No more weird diets, senseless self-denial and tasteless empty calories. Gratitude and joy are my guidelines at the table.

Patisserie 46

2010-07-19T15:43:00.000-07:00

Patisserie 46 was anticipated with delight. When Rustica left the neighborhood I felt betrayed and abandoned. I had come to depend on their scones to appease my longing for London. I know clotted cream will be more difficult to replace, but at least I had access to heavenly scones like the ones we ate in the basement cafeteria of the Tate Britain. Patisserie 46 held the promise of decadent pastries like the ones eaten at LaDuree on a drizzly evening ending a day of retail therapy at Harrods. It was the first full week of July that I noticed people sitting outside the south Mpls location, suggesting to passers by that it was open for business. I recruited my son to assist me with an initial assessment. The pastry case held a limited assortment of selections, but there were many breads from which to choose. I decided on a coconut cream creation with a traditional macaroon on the side. Sitting under the trees on the East side of the building was a welcome moment in my adjustment to the boot cast weighing down my broken left ankle. I swung my heavy metal and plastic contraption, secured with 5 wide bands of Velcro, up and onto an extra chair next to the rose colored impatiens. The metal running up each side of the cast hit the iron garden chair with a satisfying clanking not unlike a jail cell door slamming shut. Looking at my iron braced broken ankle propped awkwardly, I slowly leaned back to catch the sun filtered through the leaves on my face. Sipping iced mango green tea, sharing my maiden voyage to eat pastries in a new rival for my LaDuree loyalty, I listened to a man who loves me and relaxed. It is easier to let go of my resentment around Rustica's move when I have a choice like Patisserie 46. Perhaps that is the secret of letting go: noticing what you have now, in this breath.

crabgrass isn't crabby

2010-07-09T16:01:00.000-07:00

A broken ankle slows you down. It changes your perception to the world, especially your world, and your activities. And the value you place on the things you do. Some are obvious like your gross weekly income and itemized expenses. The others are subtle, with value which is easy to miss, like watching the butterflies in the garden or releasing the flies that have gotten into the kitchen but do not know how to get out. They find their way to the screen and bang their bodies against the net until they are exhausted and drop to the sill. I can almost hear their whimpering, "let me out, someone, anyone, help me." I think poorly of them. Scornfully assessing their intelligence as less than the butterflies caught in my front porch. I notice that I am more eager to assist the hysterical creatures fluttering against the glass in confusion-and I do not blame them for their mistake. I'm just as convinced of their virtue as I can guarantee that those flies are up to no good, simply waiting for an opportunity to bite me. I have no photos of flies or their younger siblings, the maggots. I rarely acknowledge their value. Images of English roses, cardinals, monarch butterflies, French pastries all have space on my hard drive. Yet a broken ankle provides an opportunity to observe what has been unnoticed, not worthy of noticing, for so long-and to compare monarchs to houseflies, and roses to crabgrass.

Like a Bridge...

2010-07-08T19:43:00.000-07:00

Each of us is a bridge spaning destinations. We are not the destination itself, although we may pause to catch our breath part-way across. But then we move on. I was quite fond of the story about the 3 Billy Goats Gruff as a child and never tired of hearing the descriptions of the horrible hungry troll perpetrator and the innocent goat brothers trying to get to the other side. The guardian ad litem program has crossed a bridge of it's own. No more independent contractors, and the kids previously assigned to contractors have been re-assigned to volunteers. Like me. The United States and Somalia do not recognize children's rights, and we have no plan to cross that bridge in the future. Kids in the child protection system rely on guardians ad litem to speak for their best interests. In the meantime, when they are lucky, their parents are willing to whole-heartedly work a court ordered case plan to prevent their parental rights from being terminated. And the kids receive services to help them recover from sexual abuse, violence, and neglect. Most people look the other way, missing impressive ability for resilience our children exercise. Our children, not those children, those people. These kids are my kids friends, they interact with each other they will carry the world on their shoulders together when it is their time. They will build bridges and maintain our communities. And they will find a place for the hungry, desperate trolls in our lives so that all the goats can eat.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Three_Billy_Goats_Gruff

Broken Ankle at Chez Jules

2010-07-07T11:16:00.000-07:00

"When I got divorced many years ago, I wondered whether I had just made everything up -- including myself."

And that's exactly what we do: make it up. Sometimes alone, but mostly our creations overlap other people's creations and these creations change at different rates and in a variety of directions. It feels little like "Calvin-ball", with the rules changing and no notice. And we make up our own reactions to other people changing their rules, breaking their contracts, wanting something more, or different. If this is true, then we also make up constipation, broken ankles, and child slavery. Sometimes it isn't intentional, it's just a side effect, but it can still be uncomfortable. Not a problem if uncomfortable is something to which you are acclimated. Take DV. If domestic violence is your lived reality from childhood, you will believe it is normal and perhaps inevitable, and make up a life that fits into that system. When you reexamine the belief you may replace it with something different. A broken ankle is a horrible thing, painful and inconvenient. Loss of income i rides shotgun. No one would want to make up something like a broken ankle. I wouldn't, and I didn't, but I did want the summer to slow down and seem to last forever. I wanted a stay-cation, to watch DVDs,and hang out with my peeps. I wanted fires in the fire pit, less time on the road, and daydreaming. I wanted someone else to clean my house, buy food, and make pitchers of iced tea. I wanted to read for fun, be in the garden without gardening, and go over my accounts without falling asleep. And I wanted a pilates personal trainer to tell me what to do for a change. I wanted to write for hours instead of squeezing it in between tasks on my to do list. I wanted to sit on the back deck and watch the goldfinches in the bird bath. And I wanted to be free of guilt, shame, and self-reproach.

Do we make up our marriages, our divorces, our relationships, ourselves? We certainly make up our own parts, and hope they fit with what other people around us are making up. And then, if they don't work together, if we are unhappily cast as a domestic violence victim, instead of a respected business partner someone's identity falls away. Usually some measure of pain is involved, like with my broken ankle. But, as usual, it could have been so much worse.

Crema Cafe Chocolate cake a la mode coconut

2010-07-06T14:14:00.001-07:00

The day I broke my ankle I was on my way to Crema: June 20th, Father's Day was especially lovely. We were walking. As a single parent my kids celebrate both Father and Mother's Days with me. After sharing a meal we were on our way to dessert. Visions of cakes and a generous selection of Sonny's premium ice cream danced in our heads. There is something so right about dark, dense layers of chocolate cake held together and sealed with chocolate ganache. Some of us like the ice cream on the side, barely touching the cake, forming a pool around the slab as it melts. My personal preference is ice cream on top, so it soaks into the cake as it melts. Carefully moving the ball of frozen cream, eggs and sugar to the peak of the cake slab, I wait until it is soft enough to spread. It melts evenly, more or less, and is absorbed, and consumed slowly. After each bite there is a pause to notice the explosion of flavors, textures, temperatures. Five of six bites is enough for the moment. And, as I pack the remaining portion "to go" I bring my attention completely to the present moment. It is more than enough: sitting in the late afternoon sunlight, across from the man-boy who loves me. I relax, sensing the underlying value and truth of being. This experience is enough, we have enough, I am enough. It seems so obvious and easy in this kind of situation, but I am not always aware of my incredible privilege without comparing situations. Lucky me, I broke my ankle and discovered I am still enough. In pain, frustration, and limited mobility, I am still surrounded by sunshine, flowers, and

the people who love me.

Cherry Pie from Chez Jules

2010-07-06T09:47:00.000-07:00

Where I come from cherry pies are a big deal. And pie crust is made from scratch. My dwarf Montmorency cherry tree is nearly 20 years old-slightly younger than my kids-and overshadowed by a nearby birch tree. The tool to remove the cherry stones reminds me of a stapler, reminds me of the sexual imagery associated with cherries and reminds me of the three million+ daughters who are victims of genital mutilation each year, violence against women by women, grandmothers, mothers and daughters; elder sister against younger sister. Visions-impaired, the pattern continues. The natural state of a woman's body becomes taboo. Sexual pleasure and gratification become entangled and confusing. Childbirth occurs with increasing discomfort and pain. All births are surgical procedures in the most primitive form. Female mortality rates increase as women bleed to death. The red juice, blood of the cherries, spatters my skin as I work my way through the over-ripe fruit. Then cornstarch and sugar sweeten and thicken the juice which cannot coagulate on it's own. Rolling out the butter dough for a flaky, melt in your mouth crust we move from middle to edge, turn, repeat, turn, repeat, turn, repeat, occasionally flipping it over and sprinkling with flour. It becomes a meditation; this becomes a prayer: tender pie crust, tender mercies, tend our children.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2010/jul/05/female-genital-mutilation-kurdish-iraq

Breakfast at Victor's 1959 Cafe

2010-07-05T10:49:00.000-07:00

"This old man, he played one, he played nick-nack on his thumb with a nick-nack, paddy-whack, give the dog a bone, this old man came rolling home."

This 83 year old man came rolling into my home after celebrating his cousin Bill's 80th birthday. Bill's living in long-term nursing care at the present moment: wheelchair, diapers, seeing impaired, hearing impaired, speech impaired, eating impaired. I remember him from his earlier years with the St Paul police department, but haven't seen him for 35 years. The two cousins had lost track of each other until a lovely day in late June. It rocks the world as my Dad watches his generation drop away. Each funeral triggers his inner alarm clock and brings him to the state of awareness, grace, and gratitude: last meal, last trip, last embrace, last chance. Our time together is often at a table with food. Last time we were together we decided on Victor's. Cuban. His first time. Maybe his last. My Dad takes food and meals very seriously. He grew wondering when the next meal would appear. He was blessed: he didn't actually miss many meals except by choice. And to this day he makes an effort to show up at the table, not just on time, but a little bit early. Not eating is an indication of ill-health, decline or deterioration. "Off your feed" is his expression. Eating out enhances the ritual. There is a playful reverence in the gesture. Picking the restaurant, selecting your meal, choosing companions. Witnessing his cousin's limitations caused anxiety, increases his awareness of the present moment. and intensifies his gratitude. "I'm older than he is," he reminds me. "Please don't let that happen to me."

http://www.victors1959cafe.com/food.html

Turtle Cake from Cafe Latte

2010-05-08T21:48:00.000-07:00

Maybe it's a second child thing: a familiar cafe, familiar selections, and yet, he says, pointing, "I've never had that in my whole life." And thinking back I realize it's true! He's 23, a food-a-phile, and never tasted Cafe Latte's signature Turtle Cake! A downside of domestic violence is that everyone's attention is focused on the perpetrator. We watch for signs of coming rampage: the quivering lip, increasing volume verbal abuse, tension in the throat. We walk on egg shells when he's in the house and we are so skilled at anticipating mood swings that we don't even know we're doing it: enabling the violence with the illusion that we can control it by eliminating the triggers. Allowing it to shape our activities and dreams, we stop exploring and growing, repress our natural flow of emotions and impulses to create. We avoid trying new experiences. And we lie to ourselves and consequently to the people around us. People we love and wish to nurture. I refused to see the world from my son's eyes. As we shared a generous portion of turtle cake, drenched in caramel, fudge and pecans, I sipped Jasmine tea and wondered in awe at my blessing, my great good fortune. We are alive, recovering and loving every moment of freedom.

Chocolate Fondue Chatterbox Cafe Mpls

2010-04-20T20:56:00.000-07:00

Hot, dark chocolate ganache. served with two kinds of cookies, two kinds of bars and ripe strawberries. How do we celebrate life? How do we create joy and meaning out of trauma. Loving and letting go: how do we balance those two actions/ideas so they are one? My primitive idea about love is to protect the one I love from all everything my ego defines as unpleasant: emotional abuse, rejection, injustice, bullets, biking accidents...Yet I'm not willing to be with her 24-7 (Nor she with me) Si all I can do is be available, within reason, and be confident in her ability to grow and trust the process. The chocolate fondue celebrates the bittersweet reality of our changing relationship. When she said, "I had a bike accident", I imagined the worst case scenario. Consequently, watching her dip slices of juicy strawberry in hot ganache was reassuring. It fascinates me how each new trauma reopens past experiences. Like an almost forgotten dream or a sense of deja vu. Sharing food provides ingredients for comfort and healing at every age. It is an opportunity to reestablish a sense of security. All is right with the world and we are exactly where we need to be to experience the confident awareness of the value of our lives.

German Chocolate Cupcake

2010-04-06T09:56:00.000-07:00

German chocolate creations take me back to 1973, my wedding reception at the La Playette, St Joseph, Minnesota USA. My boyfriend and I had eloped on Oct 9th, my sister's birthday. It was a short, simple ceremony in Waite Park, west of St Cloud, with a justice of the peace and two witnesses. The JP lived in a trailer/mobile home with her husband and two perfectly groomed standard poodles. There are no photos of the event and I don't remember exactly what we did after our vows, aside from eating and drinking together in our tiny apartment. At the time his drug use didn't concern me. I assumed it was a passing phase and he would grow out of it. When our friends found out about our marriage they insisted on organizing a reception. The wedding cake was 3 tiers of German chocolate, dripping with caramel, coconut and pecans spread generously between the sweet, dense chocolate layers and crowning on top. It was a magnificent creation, and, at that point in my unsophisticated, low-budget life, it was the peak of decadence. It was very fresh, seemed to melt in the mouth and creamy milk chocolate, rather than the deep, cloying dark chocolate so popular now. It was a truly festive occasion filled with the innocence of youth and care-free life ahead. We planned to travel, working along the way and dance was our primary connection. We improvised and choreographed together, playing and experimenting more than intellectualizing about the Art. We didn't have a business plan or even a clue about how to proceed toward financial stability, We believed we would simply model our teacher's example and duplicate her success. I realize now that he was stoned most of the time and had no intention of changing that part of his life. In fact, he was an active advocate for the legalization of marijuana, his substance of choice. He was fascinated with the Native American traditions, learning and performing many of the dances. He had a solid sense of rhythm in addition to an intrinsic musical approach to movement; a flair for comedy; every one's silly little brother. He reminded me of my beloved younger brother. My family commented on the similarity of the two relationships. Our 3 years of play ended on the West Coast: he became violent, and perhaps that alarmed him. It was too easy to blame me for his anger. Was I someone who was fascinated with overturning rocks, watching the creatures who live in cool darkness scurry for cover? Did I feel more powerful, believing I could provoke that kind of violence like the lion tamer who believes he controls the beast within the cage. Meanwhile the beast simply waits, watching for an opportunity to destroy or escape, or both. Yet my charming husband knew he had free will. He packed up his drugs, got into his pick-up truck and drove away, carrying his violence buried in his soul, sleeping until next awakened.

chocolate source

2010-03-20T16:15:00.000-07:00

After doing a fair amount of research on the cacao industry and the sources of the beans I moved to the fair trade sources. This is one of my favorites and the Wedge coop has it in the chocolate section. The website is linked to their partners and supporters and has an appealing online shop. As a Wedge member, I get an automatic 10% discount on a case of 12 bars: my purchase for lent. I am watching the movie "Chocolat" this evening, story within the story, or stories, everything including domestic violence, children's rights, homelessness, vandalism, religious fanatics, paganism, globalization, and creativity. "Equal Exchange" also offers coffee and tea, both attractive products.

http://www.crsfairtrade.org/2010/02/18/its-lent-so-why-think-about-chocolate/

Flourless Chocolate Espresso Cake from Gigi's

2010-03-13T19:57:00.000-08:00

Late afternoon, low blood sugar, long workday and grey skies. Tomorrow brings daylight savings time and we lose an hour until we find it next fall. This purchase was lovely, although my companion was more critical than I of the flavor. He claimed it was too bitter, that it tasted of burnt coffee beans. We agreed that the texture was melt in your mouth so we did find some common ground. My practice seems to be bearing fruit in that today I ate two bites and then put my fork down and retrieve a "to go" box. The second portion, over half is sitting in the refrigerator and I feel content, simply to know that it is there waiting for me while I research the slave trade on the Ivory Coast: 12 year old boys indentured to harvest the cacao beans consumed by an impressive percentage of the world. Yes mixed into our chocolate consumption is the monster we call child slavery. At 12 my mother insisted I babysit her friends children. I was paid fifty cents an hour. The boys work for about a year to pay off their contracts of $38. Monstrous. I paid $5.50 for this slice of cake. I wonder how much of that made it back to those boys, assuming the chocolate wasn't fair trade, organic and that the source was unconfirmed. The irony of slaves imported to the new world to harvest various crops and the crops, such as cacao, imported to Africa to be cultivated and harvested by slaves in their own back yards. Perhaps we decide it was less expensive to take the cacao to the labor force than the brutality of bringing the labor force/forced labor to the New World. The chain from source to product makes it a challenge to be certain that the laborers have been paid a living wage. And unless you are purchasing a product from a place like the Wedge how do you know where those ingredients have come from to reach your plate? And how does one simply trust, with confidence that personal happiness, and indulgence has not been the source of someone else's suffering? The garnish of whipped cream, the woman behind the counter, the dishwashers in the back room: no separation, each holding the hand of the one next in line all the way back to the origin, where ever you choose to define the beginning. Intimately connected in our experiment, across oceans and back again. Looking forward to breakfast and sending those boys my concern. Is it safe to assume that the girls are involved with other services?

Chocolate Hazelnut Praline Cake from LaDuree in Harrods London

2010-03-12T23:18:00.000-08:00

In November 2008 my daughter wrote to me about LaDuree at Harrod's. Her actual move to London was different than she had anticipated. More challenging, less profitable. And I missed her more than I imagined possible. My heart strings were stretched to their limit and I lay awake at night, listening for her psychic voice whispering across the miles of ocean. I stalked the LaDuree website constructing a new order each day, working my way through the entire menu. I described the weather and the circumstances of my meal on this blog, convincing many readers that I was actually writing from factual experience rather than my over-active imagination . This exercise was my way of dealing with my desire to participate in her experience without wanting to live it for her or influence her decisions. Mid February I boarded a plane, crossed the Atlantic and floated through the Heathrow gates to her smiling face. She carried herself with complete confidence, directing me to purchase an Oyster card. In no time at all I found myself holding a plate of chocolate hazelnut praline cake, sipping jasmine tea while sitting across from my beloved daughter, In a dreamlike state my virtual visits and blog entries mingled with jet lag producing a sense of Deja-Vu. To be able to just reach across the table and touch her seemed miraculous. Photos are forbidden at LaDuree, forcing us to exercise our artistic licenses. This document was accomplished via the creative neural pathways of my daughter's companion, giving a visceral understanding of the phrase "under the table".

Triple Chocolate Cheesecake from Chang Mai Thai

2010-03-12T23:17:00.000-08:00

He was fascinated by food: my son was born with a discerning palate. Shortly before his third birthday he began to request the latest issue of Gourmet magazine as his bedtime story. Our list of "firsts" are predominantly food events. From his first meal at Chez Panisse and his first trip to the Napa Valley to his first time at Chang Mai Thai for their "Happy Hour". This triple cheesecake followed a full selection of appetizers, enough to cover our tabletop. Half of the filling was dark richly colored and flavored chocolate, the other half delicate, subtle white chocolate surrounded by a puddle of warm milk chocolate sauce. Gone are the days when he stubbornly insisted on eating exclusively milk chocolate. He now consumes a wide range of dark chocolate with a wide variety of cacao proportions. He has followed the product from pod to bar through each messy, painstaking step. He is a veritable walking encyclopedia of chocolate, highly opinionated and his cacao curiosity is boundless. Perhaps one day, he will move out of my basement, heading for more adventures in chocolate. Until then, and sometimes impatiently, I continue to savour our relationship over chocolate.

Signature Turtle Cake from Cafe Latte

2010-03-12T23:13:00.000-08:00

Chocolate Raspberry Dacquoise from Bakery St Honore

2010-03-12T23:11:00.000-08:00

Double Chocolate Cupcake from Butter Bakery

2010-03-12T23:08:00.000-08:00

Chocolate Rollup from La Chocolaterie

2010-03-12T23:05:00.000-08:00

Flourless Chocolate Cake from Rustica Bakery

2010-03-12T23:03:00.000-08:00

Chocolate Mousse Cake from Whole Foods Bakery

2010-03-12T23:02:00.000-08:00

Chocolate Raspberry Cake from Patrick's Bakery

2010-03-12T23:00:00.000-08:00

Spoonriver Flourless Chocolate Cake with Passionfruit Sorbet

2010-03-12T22:57:00.000-08:00

German Chocolate Cupcake from Butter Bakery

2010-03-12T22:56:00.000-08:00

Mexican Chocolate Cake from the Wedge Coop Bakery

2010-03-12T22:55:00.000-08:00

Double Chocolate Cake from Gigi's

2010-03-09T10:36:00.000-08:00

As a child I "gave up chocolate" for the time leading up to Easter. It was difficult and not very successful. My heart simply wasn't in it and my motivation was low. This year I decided to eat chocolate cake for lent. Mindfully. With great awareness of it's sensual pleasure and history as an aphrodisiac. To paraphrase Virginia Madsen in the movie "Sideways": With each slowly consumed morsel I like to think about the life of chocolate. I like to think about what was going on when the beans were growing., how the sun was shining if it rained. All the people who tended and picked the cacao, and the sugar cane and if it's older chocolate, how many people might be dead by now. I like to think about how chocolate production has evolved and how the flavor changes with temperature and manipulation. Sometimes I cut a slice of chilled cake and leave it on my desk and eat it throughout the day noticing the changes as it warms to room temperature. It appears to be alive and constantly evolving, gaining complexity.It peaks with the first bite so by savoring, and spreading out consumption of that one piece I feel like each bite is the first. Until I reach the inevitable last crumb. I try to vary my selections and the sources, thinking about the bakers and service people who make my experience possible. And the countries who build their economic structure on the ingredients. I try to buy fair trade, organic and wonder about the cows and chickens who contributed to the product. Were they treated humanely, with dignity? When possible, I walk to the "bakery of the day" so the purchase becomes a pilgrimage for me, too. Silly perhaps, but much better than the fasting and self-flagellation of my previous years.

(See: http://en.wikipedia.org/wi ki/Flagellation)

Chocolate Caramel Cake

2010-03-09T10:33:00.000-08:00

incentive

2010-03-04T10:40:00.000-08:00

On the way to Country Manor, where my mother is currently a resident of the long term care center, I pass the Puma store. And usually I fantasize about leaving the freeway, parking in the glorious Spring sunshine and finding my favorite shoe in a wide selection of colors at a fraction of the retail price.

But I don't.

Until today.

Motivation is an elusive thing. Sometimes I discover that am motivated by fear, confusion, a desire to procrastination, to gain peer approval. And today, as I approached the exit, I heard my old inner voice saying there was no time for this Puma detour. And today I took a moment to simply relax and trust the journey. I could feel a shift in my motivation from wanting to "do it right" to "resting in joy", feeling the sunshine on my face and in my hair.

snicker salad

2010-03-02T09:42:00.000-08:00

Overhearing a discussion about snicker salad I wondered how salad greens and snicker bars came to be paired up in the same dish. What kind of dressing would be the most suited for such a concoction? Is it served as an appetizer, a first course or as a palate cleanser? And is it accompanied by champagne or a lighter still wine? Or a shot of Jack Daniels, but no, probably Cuervo gold would be the wiser choice. As I tuned into the culinary conversation other questions came up. Who would make (and serve) such a concoction and is the recipe open to adaptations: Perhaps Kit Kat or 3 Musketeers instead of Snickers? I was given the recipe: Cool whip, chopped green apples, and broken up Snicker bars, mixed together and chilled until serving, or transporting to the annual family reunion. My sister is the Queen of snicker salad and all similar creations. With a family history of diabetes, alcohol and breast cancer it is easy to glance down the road and predict her future fairly accurately, assuming there is no deviation from the current path. No intervention. No wake up call. We are free to make choices which shape our experience and this is hers: the snicker salad lifestyle. At one time we were "facebook" friends, "cafeworld" neighbors. Her daughter stayed with me for the weekend when she was 3 years old. Growing up in Gaylord, MN, we shared a room for a time. And now, with our mother in "long term care/skilled nursing" she removes me as her "facebook" friend. Silliness in the midst of trauma, possible elder abuse of our mother. What is it about family relations that prevents healing, recognizing the benefit of diversity and insists on blind compliance or imposes the sentence of abandonment. How is her identity threatened by my desire for a more compassionate approach to our parents aging? Has she simply worked in family law for too long? Is there a way to reach the same conclusion without objectifying our mother's existence, and simply warehousing her body?

Wild Mind

2010-02-28T17:30:00.000-08:00

Parenting gets more complex as I continue to let go. The process reminds me of flypaper. I am so impressed and inspired by my kids and yet, I get so tangled and drawn into making contributions to their projects without really examining too deeply whether my contributions are appropriate and healthy. It certainly isn't healthy for our adult relationships to be centered around constantly helping them at my own expense? Before I think about my own needs and enjoyment. One thing I neglect is what I call "wasting time". Taking a nap falls into this category. So does reading for pleasure, and playing cafeworld. And my personal quest for the perfect chocolate layer cake. Yet I love participating in the accomplishments and milestones of their attempts into creativity. I just haven't learned to be more demanding of their financial stability. Is it too early? Am I wrong? Do I have unrealistic expectations of them, and myself? Last year I was in London at this time. And that was something of am assessment trip: wanting to see if rescue was in order. And what measure or kind of rescue was appropriate. Like my mother: is a wheelchair too much? Is a walker enough? Assisted living or long term care? The process is subtle and self contained. And there are moments of partnership or parentship in these two very different relationships that are blissfully satisfying. In spite of the conflicted feelings, in spite of not knowingness, in spite of my self-doubt and tendency to second guess my decisions. I have an opportunity to recognize my old feelings and respond to them with trust and confidence in the creative process. Knowing that there is some good, some beauty, some of freedom in each of these decisions. I look back at the beginnings of Quartet with awe and recognition of the importance of timing. And the changes that needed to happen for that performance to occur as it did two weeks ago. What a surprise! I felt so relaxed and trusting. So satisfied with the imperfections and limitations of the dancers. And our schedules; and my budget. I remember productions where I was so stressed and obsessed and over worked trying to be everywhere and do everything all at once. This was a huge improvement over the old approach. Yet I am still as demanding as ever, it just doesn't bother me as much when I don't get everything. I feel like I am more realistic in my expectations.

snow laden foxgloves

2009-10-11T21:44:00.000-07:00

It feels unfair. Leaves still on trees, foxgloves blooming, rose bushes with opening buds and yet pillows of snow on every leaf, every blossom. I didn't expect this, and so it has caught me by surprise. In the midst of my growing grief this has taken my breath away like an unexpected blow across the face. Undeniable, I reach for my scarf and winter coat. For the past months the weather has been saving grace in my life. I felt a kinship with the untidiness of my garden and it flourished without human direction. Since closing my office in Bryn Mawr I have felt a sense of loss of that dream of the" Wellness Collective". It was such a lovely idea to have a group of practitioners working in the same space, offering services to enhance and maintain wellness. It was an idea worth working toward. Investing our hearts and our time we just couldn't sustain it for long enough to pay the bills. I'm not sure where to go from here...There is value in pausing for a moment and allowing the journey to unfold in it's own time. And so, I remind myself to trust the process, to be the process and to savour this period of incubation, or relaxation, enjoying my free time to catch up on accounts, take a long walk, and day dream. My life has changed so much and so quickly over the past six years that I haven't had a chance to adjust or integrate the new opportunities I have been offered. I remember the fall 25 years ago, with an undiagnosed, ruptured ectopic pregnancy: the pain, and recovery. The realization that I had experienced a near death episode and the second chance I had received with wonder and delight. My determination to devote myself to parenthood and my ignorance about what that might bring over the course of my life. I'm still not sure, but I have a sense of the cycles, with the surprises like this morning. Waking up to snow covered flowers, something of the poppy scene from Wizard of Oz. Perhaps this will wake me up to the fleeting responsibilities of parenthood and the changes occurring over the next months. And the possibility of each day, each conversation being the last.

plum jam

2009-10-11T12:52:00.000-07:00

Growing up in southern Minnesota had it's pleasures. We had plum trees laden with fruit which were made into plum jelly and jam to last through the winter. We had no sense of what a treasure those jars contained. And now I search specialty stores for a similar product. The price tag slows me down, yet the flavor of rich ripe plums on a scone from Rustica Bakery takes me back to the few pleasures of my childhood. We were poor and many, yet we had what we needed for the most part. And as a popular and available babysitter I had a little stash of my own personal funds to turn to when I found something I didn't want to live without... Like my guitar. Purchased in New Ulm for around $100 it was a ticket to another world. A world of independence and charm, popular music, classical, flamenco, and funny improvisations. It was a place where I could escape my younger sibling encroaching my territory. No privacy, only chaos. With tension an underlying element of my parents relationship I grew up thinking that was the way all marriages worked. It was a mark of success. However it is simply a mark of having successfully duplicated the model I observed. I graduated from high school vowing to never marry. To never enter into that contract which would rob me of my personal identity, compromise my values and tempt me into a submissive role where I would shrink and cower like so many of my female ancestors.

rainy saturday

2009-10-03T17:06:00.000-07:00

Am I in love? With someone besides myself? Am I in love with myself? Will I ever manage to love myself in all my aspects? All the different parts of myself that I try to hide from the world, and especially from my kids, and especially from myself. The fat parts, the aging parts, the ugliness, the horrible thoughts of self-doubt, second guessing as if there was a right answer and I had missed it. In an unexpected conversation, this unexpected question: am I in love? I wonder if she meant am I living with someone. Or perhaps: am I in an exclusive intimate relationship with someone. It's a common question, yet I wonder what is behind it. Is it am I identified as being in a relationship, or am I identified as a partner, identified as my partner whomever that might be...and what the partner does. I felt obligated to answer. As I felt obligated to attend a social function this evening. After realizing that I didn't want to go, and that my internal conversation was bullying me towards going with great reluctance, and out of a sense of obligation, I stopped. I gave myself permission to skip it, without an excuse or explanation. So I walked through the back garden and lingered in the cool rain listening to a distant cardinal checking out for the night. He wasn't going anywhere either, and he wasn't shaming and blaming himself either. I noticed the progression of my birch tree changing color. She knows it's time to prepare for winter and just does it, no nonsense, no questions, no mind games. Perhaps I can learn a lesson from her natural wisdom. Perhaps I have and I'm not giving myself credit for it. I keep those less attractive parts of myself in a glass jar and when I hear their voices chipping away at my self esteem, my confidence I put the lid on to take the volume down a bit. The truth is that after many years of anorexic type behavior, compulsive exercise, attempting to conform to cultural expectations, and approaching dance from the stereotyped definition of a dancer, my goal is to be well nourished with nutritious food. My somewhat compulsive work habits are becoming more relaxed as I am less interested in my role as a rescuer. My financial status stable and I have discovered a growing trust in my ability to generate revenue I live in a growing abundance which replaces my identification with the word poor. I have not abandoned myself: I am successfully thriving. I appear to be learning from my mistakes. When I choose to spend time alone I don't feel isolated. I give myself permission to be less than perfect, to practice detaching in non violent ways without beating myself up for needing to learn new or more advanced, effective skills. I'm entitled to enjoy the fruits of my labor. I can say "yes" to my life even when it means saying "no" to someone else.

chocolate and kiwi

2009-09-20T15:57:00.000-07:00

And Jasmine tea. I have been haunted by the chevre cheesecake from Rustica. Each time I return, hoping to meet it again, I find other selections available, but nothing comparable to the cheesecake. On inquiry I learned that they cycle through their dessert selections every 3 months. It seems like an awfully long time to wait...I googled for a recipe, but nothing quite the same as the creation living in my memory. There are so many variations of the chocolate tart and after a fashion they all begin to taste the same. I am eating more Zespri kiwis to strengthen my immune system. And the combination of the chocolate and crunchy fruit was satisfying. Complex. Worth pursuing, but....always "but." I kept imagining the kiwis with the chevre cheesecake. And frustration set in. I've put myself on the waiting list, requested the recipe, and notification when it is next available. Worst case senario: I will ask to special order one for Sunday brunch. Until then the photo must sufice.

http://www.rusticabakery.com/menu.php

Brunch

2009-09-20T15:23:00.000-07:00

Sunday brunch has come to be a high point of my week. All events lead to this one meal. We've tried many venues with great success but decided to give it a try at home. Adam exchanges his services for massage time, which supports his running recovery and I provide the ingredients. We limit the budget somewhat and come up with a menu as if we were offering it for a catering. I invite guests, let him know the numbers shop with him if appropriate and sit down at 11:30, ready to relax and enjoy. Maggie and Gabe, Jonathon, Adam and I shared this arrangement of fresh figs, Zespri

Kiwi, and St Andre. It was bliss. The nutty seeds of the fruit and the triple cream of the cheese were a perfect compliment to the more savory selections. Individual blue cheese and green onion quiches, cucumber and chevre sandwiches, and scones preceded the fruit and cheese. Jonathon brought an Indian desert and real chai tea. It was an experiment worth repeating and the goal is simply to get together and share ideas, and stories, and relax. Try new ideas, and not create a lot of stress around eating and food. Last Sunday we ended up at Grand Cafe eating Eggs Cocotte. Always fantastic also a little pricey. So we will try to get the recipe and the ramekins, and do it here for ourselves. It is my idea of luxury to have a personal chef, even if it is only for one meal. And as I am still working 6 days a week, this Sunday commitment is part of my self care routine. So far it is working. As important as the food is the conversation. And our conversation today led me back tho the memory of the first time I read "Gabriela, Clove and Cinnamon". I moved back from beautiful Napa Valley, post divorce, having lost an important friendship, I was experiencing some anger and grief. Cynical, feeling unlovable, my failure inescapable Jorge Amado and his lovely characters came into my life and seduced me back. They convinced me that love triumphs. endures, and finds a way. So when my Brazilian friend spoke about his country, and particularly the area of Bahia, the longing cam flooding back. We discussed going there together. To be continued...

turtle flower

2009-09-10T17:12:00.000-07:00

A lovely creature, looks like a member of the dragon flower family. I was drawn to it immediately as it seems so happy in the shade and not all of them are so content to be in limited light. Something of a wallflower, I guess. Next year they will grace my humble garden and that is something to look forward to during the cold and frosty winter. The seasons are so dramatic here, yet it doesn't seem to bother the flowers, they just nod their heads and smile. Their confidence is inspiring, yet it doesn't seem to be contagious. I wish to possess such incredible trust and security. Never second guessing themselves, they bloom where they are planted, without a lot of fuss or demands. On the other hand, I have become high maintenance, constantly seeking reassurance that I am acceptable, and loved, if not by me then by someone wiser with more prestige or notoriety. Someone with a touch phone of one kind or another. I am going through a whiny phase, I'm not sure why, I'm not sure if it matters why...It's just there and I'm trying not to pay too much attention or give it too much air time. Station KFKD is so busy handling requests from other listeners that they really don't need my song and dance. It's impossible to be in the flow when you are busy complaining about it. Too cold, too hot, too fast, too big, there is just no limit to noticing what something is not, and a huge distraction from what something actually is...and it's value...and it's meaning. And even then it's easy to stop and get all stuck in it and miss the movement of the musical phrase. Give those notes only the indicated value no more, and no less, without being seduced by the interpretation or the texture or the quality of the sound. Go for the big picture and your contribution to the tapestry. So it is with the turtle flower, up close it has individual grace and personality, distinct from the other varieties in the garden. But once it joins the chorus, it's power is magnified exponentially.

http://www.ehow.com/how_13994_grow-turtle-flower.html

chevre cheesecake

2009-09-10T01:39:00.000-07:00

A creation of Rustica Bakery, served with fresh blackberries. Slightly sweet, definitely tangy and so creamy that you can't stop, or in most cases you won't want to stop. I wondered how it would taste with other berries, perhaps raspberries or huckleberries? The blackberries were not as flavourful as I imagined. They were layer on the sponge cake crust and garnished the top of the generous individual portion I purchased. I couldn't finish in one sitting, and my family helped devour the creation through out the day. The next day I decided to go "sugar free" just to see how I would feel. Would I have headaches? Uncontrollable cravings? It is the end of my second day. No headaches but unexpected depression and a feeling of failure, or deprivation, or sensory deviation. I just don't feel as happy as I did three days ago. And I'm beginning to wonder if this isn't more than a little too extreme. I think of my friends sitting in LaDuree in Paris eating rose cream pastries and I wish I were with them. The longing, and the memory permeates my dreams and I wake to the new day determined to join them. Imagining their surprise when I arrive, I brush my teeth. Planning what to pack, I drink my Jasmine tea. Greeting my first client, my fantasy slips away, simmering somewhere on the back burner, or stored in the freezer. I have bills to pay, appointments to honor, and a week in Arizona around the corner. Rose cream will wait, and in the meantime, there is Rustica.

marigolds

2009-09-10T01:24:00.000-07:00

In a pot decorated with fish, petunias and marigolds co-exist. As we move into fall I am happy to have their hardy blooms in my life. Inspiring me to trust the wisdom of the unfolding universe. And to stop messing up with the flow of grace, to just allow the sun to rise and the moon set without stressing over my part in it's progress. Surely I can manage to stay out of the way, and participate by observing, by receiving. How hard could it be? For some of us active busybodies it is an effort of sheer strength and endurance. We are more comfortable jumping around, rescuing, adjusting, and re-arranging with delight and abandon. And where does it take us? Soon we are exhausted, depleted, and somewhat bewildered. Wondering how we arrived at this point, with a few regrets, and shattered dreams. Pausing, remember those marigolds growing with the petunias...not needing too much but simply soaking up the sun and waiting for moisture from whatever source appears. Until the cold arrives, and it is time to drop seeds and let go.

Jack in the Pulpit

2009-09-07T22:51:00.000-07:00

I never knew what happened to Jack until Saturday. And now I can see how stunning he becomes...Perfect for a relatively moist shade garden. I was inspired to go back to my own little patch of dirt and clean it up. This was shortly before I read an e-mail from two college friends on their way to Paris. They had told me they were going. And they had told me the dates". And they had invited me along. I just didn't believe they were serious at the time and then I forgot about it, I made a vow I wouldn't travel before Christmas and put it out of my mind. Then last week I started reading about Messiaen's composition of "Quartet for the End of Time" and someone suggested I visit St Gervais in Paris to study chant, and I ate a lovely Chevre cheesecake that melted in my mouth and I thought of LaDuree and French cakes and I had Paris on my mind. And while my timing is off, I think I must go there soon. In the meantime, my nose is to the grindstone, while I hope I will end up with more than a bloody nose. I am tempted to go on sabbatical, but how would I be able to afford it? After all, I am not married to a doctor! Not that that is the only way to get to Paris, of course! And not that Paris is the only place I would like to go visit...However, first things first and that means Quartet for the End of Time: February 14th, 2010! First movement: nightingales and blackbirds, masks and wings!

franklin bakery

2009-08-30T21:50:00.000-07:00

This was my 'hood when I moved back from San Fransisco. Ther was a 7-11 where the bakery now stands perfuming the air with the aromas of bread and pastries. It's not Buchon, and doesn't pretend to be anything close to it. There are no fancy french creations with hazelnut fillings. No eclairs, truffles or chocolate ganache. A carrot bread, cupcakes, brightly colored American cakes are always available. Merangues and macaroons which quickly disappear. Ho-hum cookies, nothing to dream about, somewhat plastic looking doughnuts. Not tempting, easy to pass up. But the pleasure of sitting in the sunshine in between clients cannot be measured. The perfect late summer day, a week before school starts, not a cloud in the sky. The breeze caressing your arms and shoulders gently, just enough to keep you interested. Just enough to make you wish for one more moment in the sun, with no demands, no questions, no responsibility but being here. Breath and smile. I can do that...with my eyes closed.

birthday princess

2009-08-30T21:19:00.000-07:00

marzipan and cream: what could be more perfect on your 26th birthday? sleeping late? weather we dream about for 10 months of the year? flowers? friends cooking dinner together? dressing up? the celebration stretching out over 10 or more days? all this and more says "yes" to life. Live your life, if it isn't in your own backyard, you might have never really lost it in the first place. There is a little bit of Dorothy Gale in all of us. And that is helpful to remember when you hit a rough spot, a little temporary whitewater in the river of your life. When your daughter's a princess, that means you are a Queen. And you've got the privilege to rule, and with great privilege comes great responsibility.

She's always watching, always checking, always copying, practicing, re-assessing. Wondering how this works, what has been tried, what were the results. She remembers things that have faded form my memory long ago. Reminding me of a chance comment, a remark, a piece of advice. My hope, my dream is to one day be as wise as she sometimes thinks I am. And to always be as generous as we both deserve...which is unconditionally generous. If she had two lives she would give me one, it isn't a matter of half empty or half full. Overflowing, without measure, like Big Anthony and the pasta pot filling the whole village with freshly cooked, tasty noodles...My runaway bunny, I will come after you with my last breath. I had two lives, so I gave you one. Then I found that I still had two lives. So I gave one to your brother...My plan is that, when I am gone you will have each other.

ponder, wonder

2009-08-24T09:06:00.000-07:00

....dream. And dream some more: when I grow up. This is the beauty of living here and now: you can do anything you imagine if you are willing to make the effort. To do the work. Set a goal and move toward it. Ask for help. Ask for more help. Keep asking and be patient. Make a plan, break it down and approach each step with enthusiasm and determination. Like surfing, not the net, but real surfing, with the undertow and sharks. Finding your balance waiting for the wave, your wave, the one which will carry you back to the beach. And I will be watching you, celebrating your success.

post celebration

2009-08-23T22:01:00.000-07:00

Something about the farm feels so safe, so familiar, even though it's not the same since my Uncle's death. It's not a "working farm" like it was when I was a kid. Yet, there is something so reassuring walking out in the field of soybeans listening to them grow. Seeing those fuzzy bean pods hanging down like ornaments, earrings and knowing their story. Sensing the nitrogen moving into the soil and the nutrients moving into the beans. There is a sense of theprocess of photosynthesis making music with the sun. The air is filled with a loving presence as if there really are angels moving up and down the rows singing to the plants, "grow, my darlings, grow". It's not a real farm simply in the sense that it doesn't have to make money in the same way it did when my Aunt and Uncle first started out...There is a relaxed atmosphere as if it were a museum or an out-of-the-way theme park. You can walk in the fields of clover and look down to find a "cow-pie" as if it were treasure or memorabilia to be noticed, rather than avoided and shunned. I watched three young cousins hanging around on the trampoline, quietly chatting in the sunshine. They looked so blissful for the moment and pleased to have the time to spend in each other's company. While their elders relaxed on the front deck, waiting, wondering who will be next to cross over the threshold; to move to the next station. And how? Will it hurt? Will people cry, and remember? Or shrug and forget...A couple of weeks ago I went out to dinner with my Dad. Inadvertently I selected a place that was a little pricier than I remembered. But he didn't seem to care. He said he considered that we were spending my money, since he was planning to give it to me anyway and that this way he could see what I spent it on, and enjoy it with me. It's the thing that really bothers him about dying: missing the party and seeing how his money is spent. It's important for me to remember him like this: generous and easy. And when I said good by, he held me fiercely, tightly and for a long time. Right in front of his widowed sisters. And I let him, maybe for the last time, because he's still here. And, sooner than I care to imagine, he won't be...

scoliosis: exercise your options

2009-08-23T00:35:00.000-07:00

Over 35 years of working in the fitness world it has been my privilege to work with numerous people aspiring to the goal of improving their quality of life . People interested in taking responsibility for their health, willing to consider and utilize the services available in the traditional medical community, and learn about their most recent scientific developments. Yet, they were, and are, willing to seek second opinions, and explore holistic approaches to healing and wellness. Many people have begun to recognize how our emotional lives affect the functions of our physical bodies, especially the immune system. In the past we have perceived the physician as a god-like figure, all knowing, infallible and benevolent. And in those “good old days”, scoliosis was frequently treated with spinal fusions, braces and body casts. There is increasing evidence, based on research, that both Pilates and Yoga are effective, non-invasive methods of retarding, and in many cases reversing the progression of this chronic spinal condition. The combination of gently extending, lengthening the spine, and strengthening the abdominal, back and pelvic floor muscles is the foundation of both pilates and yoga. These exercises counter act the effects of gravity and allow the spine to open and unwind. Scoliosis is more than a simple side to side curving of the spine it is actually a spiraling motion of the bones twisting in on themselves for no discernible reason. There are theories related to latent viral infections hiding dormant along the vertebrae. And speculation around emotional disturbances, perhaps abuse issues, domestic violence, intimidation a sense of the body attempting to protect itself. In any case there appears to be an emotional component which is important to consider and examine. It is common to find some degree of degeneration in the spine over the age of 30. We have developed habits of sitting for unhealthy lengths of time with minimal stretch breaks. Many of us are not properly hydrated and reach for water only after we notice we are thirsty. Even then we may chose carbonated, and/or caffeinated beverages, sometimes loaded with corn syrup, hardly the wisest choice. In the process of helping so many clients develop body awareness, increase sensitivity to structural weakness, improve balance and postural alignment, I have come to believe methods like pilates and yoga, or , even better, a combination of the two approaches are preferable to surgical options. The most successful cases also incorporate rehabilitative massage to support the optimal structural integration of the postural changes of the body. Currently, there are excellent DVDs available to rent, borrow or own with selections and sequences of simple exercises which identify and address the various lateral curvatures termed scoliosis. Physical therapy is another valuable resource for those who wish to utilize other options before surgery. As spinal fusion is irreversible, it is best reserved as the last choice. A group class, another inexpensive option can be effective if you take time to inform the instructor prior to registration to identify your concerns and limitations. This will also help you determine if the particular instructor is an appropriate choice for your needs. I suggest you look for a class described as “restorative” or “rehabilitative” taught by someone experienced in modifying the standard exercises for a variety of conditions. Another terrific option is to work one-on-one for 2 or 3 classes to get started safely and to develop a personalized program for your individual needs. Over the past year I have watched a determined pilates enthusiast as he slowly, methodically lost 80 pounds and rebuilt his body by working on the pilates apparatus called the “reformer”. His muscles are now long and lean. His scoliosis is largely undetected. The physical discomfort he experienced is gone and he carries himself proudly, full height, no apologies. His emotional change is dramatic. Previously bullied, he is now positive, creative and full of enthusiasm. His self esteem has flowered carrying him into new adventures and projects. Like so many of the people I am honored to assist, he is an inspiration to anyone on the path to better health. http://www.easyvigour.net.nz/pilates/h_pilatesscoliosis.htm http://www.ehow.com/facts_4828544_pilates-exercises-scoliosis.html http://astore.amazon.com/wwwcurvedspic-20?_encoding=UTF8&node=1 http://www.muellermassageandpilates.com/pilates/ http://www.accelerated-wellness.com/raindrop_therapy_technique.htm

losing sight

2009-08-20T20:45:00.000-07:00

We just can't always see where we are going, where the path is taking us...and if I were brutally honest with myself I would just admit that it's all something of an experiment, taking me into areas of interest and curiousity. Writing an article about scoliosis I am holding an image of the spiraling movement of the spine not unlike the curving movement of this path in the Japanese Garden at the Uof M Landscape Arboretum. Even if there was a definite destination there could be so many detours that the arrival time is unrealistic. And if we allow extra time for detours, and getting lost, we may easily arrive earlier than expected. Staying alert and attentive is helpful advice in any case. All we really have is our present location: standing under the cherry tree with a waterfall on the right, a tea house on the left, and the hosta garden somewhere behind me. And a cell phone, in case I get lost...

mango cheesecake

2009-08-07T20:56:00.000-07:00

A rainy August Friday afternoon and canceled clients. They canceled, not me...a wise man once reminded me in the face of devastating disappointment that it's all good. While driving to Broder's Italian Deli with my daughter, in a '98 convertible Z3 to eat mango cheesecake and drink jasmine tea I remembered his words: it was all good.

http://www.broders.com/cucina-italiana/index.html

The summer had been incredibly dry and all vegetation had suffered. But after 24 hours of slow steady rain, everything was vibrantly colored. My tiger lilies were neon and the silly little petunias looked like velvet. Daughter was pensive, and relaxed. She was looking forward to a little retail therapy after tea, and had spent time working at the community gardens in spite of minimal sleep the night before...Her friend's mom, younger than I, had recently died of pancreatic cancer. Her friend's mother refused treatment and died within two months of diagnosis. Her friend claimed she deliberately decided to "wean" herself from her Mom in subtle ways. I have vivid memories of weaning my daughter. It was one of the most painful things I have ever done, right up there with her birth. I thought of the time we had spent at Tate Britian last February, eating the best scones and drinking jasmine tea made in teapots like the ones at Broders's. It reminded both of us of the time we spent in Krakow in coffee shops hanging out eating cream cakes, warm ponchki with rose jelly filling and "Lody Bambino." My own mother, her grandma, is a cancer survivor. I wanted her to skip chemo and radiation. I was silent, no one can make that decision for someone else. At 79, a heavy smoker for much of her life, a recovering alcoholic and DV survivor, the process left her fragile, toothless, and disorientated. The tea was scorching hot, too hot to drink. The fragrance of jasmine steamed in our cups, and we smiled, happy to be together.

Crust

1 1/2 cups graham cracker crumbs
1/2 cup sugar
6 tablespoons (3/4 stick) unsalted butter, melted

Filling

3 large very ripe mangoes (each about 13 ounces), peeled, pitted, coarsely chopped
3 8-ounce packages cream cheese, room temperature
1 1/4 cups sugar
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
4 large eggs

Sliced peeled pitted mangoes

preparation

For crust:
Preheat oven to 325°F. Lightly butter 9-inch-diameter springform pan with 2 3/4-inch-high sides. Stir cracker crumbs and sugar in medium bowl to blend. Add melted butter and stir until evenly moistened. Press crumb mixture firmly onto bottom (not sides) of prepared pan. Bake until crust is set, about 12 minutes. Cool completely. Maintain oven temperature.

For filling:
Puree mangoes in processor until smooth. Set aside 2 cups mango puree (reserve any remaining puree for another use). Beat cream cheese, sugar, and vanilla in large bowl until smooth. Add eggs 1 at a time, beating well after each addition. Add 2 cups mango puree and beat until well blended. Pour filling over crust in pan.

Bake cake until set and puffed and golden around edges (center may move very slightly when pan is gently shaken), about 1 hour 25 minutes. Cool cake 1 hour. Refrigerate uncovered overnight. Run small knife between cake and sides of pan to loosen. Remove pan sides. Transfer cake to platter. Cut into wedges and serve with sliced mangoes.

Kellerville, Napa Valley

2009-08-07T20:11:00.000-07:00

By the time we reached Bouchon I couldn't eat another bite of anything. The pastries were beautiful. So tempting and at another time I could buy a box full to go and devour them slowly over a longer period of time. But for this day, I passed them by. And I have no regrets. Tomorrow is another day...

Ingredients

Filling:

2 cups whole, 2 percent fat, or 1 percent fatmilk
1/2 vanilla bean, split lengthwise
6 egg yolks
2/3 cup sugar
1/4 cup cornstarch
1 tablespoon cold unsalted butter

Pastry:

1 cup water
8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 teaspoons sugar
1 cup all-purpose flour
3 eggs, plus 1 extra, if needed

Egg Wash:

1 egg
1 1/2 teaspoons water

Chocolate Glaze:

1/2 cup heavy cream
4 ounces semisweet chocolate, coarsely chopped

Directions

Filling: In a medium saucepan, heat the milk and vanilla bean to a boil over medium heat. Immediately turn off the heat and set aside to infuse for 15 minutes. In a bowl, whisk the egg yolks and sugar until light and fluffy. Add the cornstarch and whisk vigorously until no lumps remain. Whisk in 1/4 cup of the hot milk mixture until incorporated. Whisk in the remaining hot milk mixture, reserving the saucepan. Pour the mixture through a strainer back into the saucepan. Cook over medium-high heat, whisking constantly, until thickened and slowly boiling. Remove from the heat and stir in the butter. Let cool slightly. Cover with plastic wrap, lightly pressing the plastic against the surface to prevent a skin from forming. Chill at least 2 hours or until ready to serve. The custard can be made up to 24 hours in advance. Refrigerate until 1 hour before using.

Pastry: Preheat the oven to 425 degrees. Line a sheet pan with parchment paper. In a large saucepan, bring the water, butter, salt and sugar to a rolling boil over medium-high heat. When it boils, immediately take the pan off the heat. Stirring with a wooden spoon, add all the flour at once and stir hard until all the flour is incorporated, 30 to 60 seconds. Return to the heat and cook, stirring, 30 seconds. Scrape the mixture into a mixer fitted with a paddle attachment (or use a hand mixer). Mix at medium speed. With the mixer running, add 3 eggs, 1 egg at a time. Stop mixing after each addition to scrape down the sides of the bowl. Mix until the dough is smooth and glossy and the eggs are completely incorporated. The dough should be thick, but should fall slowly and steadily from the beaters when you lift them out of the bowl. If the dough is still clinging to the beaters, add the remaining 1 egg and mix until incorporated.

Using a pastry bag fitted with a large plain tip, pipe fat lengths of dough (about the size and shape of a jumbo hot dog) onto the lined baking sheet, leaving 2 inches of space between them. You should have 8 to 10 lengths.

Egg Wash: In a bowl, whisk the egg and water together. Brush the surface of each eclair with the egg wash. Use your fingers to smooth out any bumps of points of dough that remain on the surface. Bake 15 minutes, then reduce the heat to 375 degrees and bake until puffed up and light golden brown, about 25 minutes more. Try not to open the oven door too often during the baking. Let cool on the baking sheet. Fit a medium-size plain pastry tip over your index finger and use it to make a hole in the end of each eclair (or just use your fingertip). Using a pastry bag fitted with a medium-size plain tip, gently pipe the custard into the eclairs, using only just enough to fill the inside (don't stuff them full).

Glaze: In a small saucepan, heat the cream over medium heat just until it boils. Immediately turn off the heat. Put the chocolate in a medium bowl. Pour the hot cream over the chocolate and whisk until melted and smooth. Set aside and keep warm. The glaze can be made up to 48 hours in advance. Cover and refrigerate until ready to use, and rewarm in a microwave or over hot water when ready to use.

Dip the tops of the eclairs in the warm chocolate glaze and set on a sheet pan. Chill, uncovered, at least 1 hour to set the glaze. Serve chilled.

say "yes"

2009-08-03T22:40:00.000-07:00

Another thing to remember, is to say "yes." "Yes" to life. To getting out of bed in the morning. Step by step, one day at a time a life is created and celebrated. It isn't always easy, it isn't always fun but it is always an opportunity to grow and evolve into somone more loving, more giving and more grateful. Easy to forget to love ourselves, until we meet ourselves in another person, a courageous soul who will do whatever it takes to live in the face of fear. Without illusions, without hair, overweight, underpaid and hungry for more time with her young children. Surgery, chemo, radiation, whatever it takes...for as long as it takes, until the last dance, the last drop, the last crumb, the last breath.

roll-up

2009-08-02T20:43:00.000-07:00

In Pilates terms "roll-up" is a powerful exercise to strengthen core muscles, train alignment and traction the spine. Some enthusiasts consider it to be the most important exercise of the Pilates tradition. In another world, a culinary world, it is a spongy cake rolled around a creamy, sweetened and flavored filling. The sponge cake can be yellow or chocolate or any flavor you wish to attempt. The filling may also be diverse. This particular variation hold hazelnut cream and the cake is a dense dark chocolate, a little heavier, slightly more moist than the traditional sponge. The recipe is a close relative of our favorite brownie. Garnished with three kinds of berries, what could be better. I remember making jelly rolls as a kid. They were usually filled with strawberry jam and didn't last too long at our house. Sometimes I would make two: one to eat right away, fresh out of the oven, spread with jam before the cake was cool and rolled immediately. The second was was also rolled but without filling and saved for a thicker, creamy combination of fruit and cream Chantilly. On a summer evening, with fresh blueberries, there was nothing more comforting than watching the stars from the front steps with a slice of roll-up melting in your mouth.

dance lesson

2009-08-01T19:37:00.000-07:00

The first thing to remember is that it's brief, over before you know it. The undeniable truth is still that: this just doesn't last very long. And even if you are lucky enough to get some borrowed time, it might not include everything you have today. Like an invitation to dance. To find ways of moving together, perhaps not in unison, but at least in love. We take so much for granted, and then it's gone, and we can't get it back together again. Like Humpty Dumpty.

There is a fleeting series of present moments, the frames of a video clip. And when you add them up, you have a story. A young woman struggles with her identity. Talented, energetic, skilled in so many different areas she cannot choose easily how to shape her life. Her priorities shift like the landscape she inhabits. Her aging grandfather watches her evolution, her growing pains, he sees her pain, he has advice but he cannot live her life for her. He knows he may not even witness much more or her process. And his cataract surgery has literally opened his eyes to the beauty and wonder he had been missing. Out of practice, out of shape, he asks her to dance. Something easy, and not terribly aerobic: a waltz. Then, a rumba. A few minutes at a party, with his grand-daughter's friends. He had spent the day with his dying brother-in-law. His hunger for contact, for meaning, has grown out of that meeting. Maintaining the quality of one's life, savoring each moment, each sensation, each joyful exchange. This dance was a rare gift on a beautiful, sunny first day of August, almost 26 years to the day of his grand-daughter's birth, ...the beginning of good-bye. An opening of heart. Alleluia, Amen.