Writing about mental and physical health, books, podcasts, music and anything that gets my motor running - and I hope yours too. Sharing tidbits of joy and maybe some serious things too. A few notes on travel, miracles and spirituality. When we we read, listen and connect from our hearts, we can continue to grow and learn! I look forward to hearing recommendations from you too! Let’s stay curious together.
Every morning, since I’ve arrived in Oaxaca, I’ve taken about 6-10 photos a day of the beauty around me. I would also do this in Queens; often finding beauty within the cracked paint that covered another Mary in a half shell, the homages to the Virgin Guadalupe with faux flowers in front of them, flocks of pigeons on the street feasting as though it was their final meal. There was beauty in all of it. Beauty is a strange word. Mainly, well, I don’t know about you, because I used to associate it with people, physical bodies and looks. And in this association beauty had to be perfect, flawless and pristine.
I met a lovely young woman on my walk to the market yesterday morning. I needed the walk, the therapy of picking out vegetables, the knowing I’d go home and make food into art. I was walking home and, admittedly, tried to take a selfie because I wanted to bottle up the moment - even if I was sweating and my hair was damp. I felt alive. When no one is around, selfies happen, and, so, this is the plight of being on your own. Maybe plight is dramatic but, nonetheless, photos can be a struggle.
I was sitting in front of my computer, another rainy Queens Saturday. Post yoga, post bath, post sushi take-out, post call with my friend - I found myself alone, with a cup of tea, scrolling through my photo library. Somewhere, buried within 14,756 photos, I saw a woman. I saw the evolution of life. I saw the life that I built, maybe, without even realizing it. The faces of my family, my friends, almost every meal I’ve ever eaten alone, or with someone, plated and cataloged. I could feel the love come back at me through the computer screen. Ice cream cones held up to the sunset with the Hell’s Gate Bridge, faded, in the background. Queens, my home. For so long.
Have you ever taken 3 hours to eat avocado toast and sip coffee, in public - while alone?
If not, I suggest you try it. You might think avocado toast would get soggy and your coffee cold, but it was perfectly delightful. The bread held up with its weight of grains and seeds, and the coffee was not piping hot, but remained pleasantly sippable at room temperature; warm in my mouth and palatable. A 3 hour avocado toast and coffee is nothing like eating a dreadful bowl of soup after it has lost its heat. A 3 hour avocado toast, in public, while alone and in Mexico - well, it’s a luxury.
My beloved fire escape is where I spent time tanning and drifting into books; drawing or writing for hours, eating meals and drinking wine. Often alone, I built a world here. I cried and wrote a world, all while getting tan. Alas, quiet morning coffee turned into longings as years passed by as life changed, my needs changed and so the story goes. Our only guarantee in this life is change. While I wasn’t ready to let you go, I knew in my heart that I outgrew you. We did our best. I wanted to stop writing and thinking about how different life could be and actually do something about it. A life beyond the fire escape of dreams. It’s time to walk. 14 years, you’ve been my longest romance. Thank you for teaching me how to be on my own and how to love myself. How to create and let go.
April 9th began as an ordinary Tuesday, actually, a spectacular one. I wrapped a fantastic work project on Sunday evening, Monday was the solar eclipse, and that Tuesday it was so warm, sunny and bright that it called for a walk and visit to Mr. Softee. A perfect NYC spring day after much rain and gray skies. I left the house wearing a billowy floral dress and brand new white sneakers. Starring in my own sitcom as I exited my building, cherry blossoms floating over my head, I popped in my headphones put on my favorite corny song, Unwritten. Don’t judge me, you know you have a corny walking song too - the one that gives you hope and inspires you to live your dream? Yes, that one. Reaching for something in the distance So close you can almost taste it Release your inhibitions
You know who goes to coffee shops on Saturday nights? Me and hormonal teenagers who are not yet of drinking age. I am currently surrounded by teenagers who are making out and will probably sneak having sex after they finish their croissant and iced tea, while I go home and think about how I have not had sex in almost two years and, then, will eat a piece of cheese. I mean, I suspect I will eat cheese. I can't be too sure. I think that’s the only thing I have in the refrigerator right now. On the other side of me sat a group of 15 students, I don’t know, it looked like a debate or activist group of marginally good looking teens who are not struggling with hormonal acne like I was at their age. I mean, come on, good for them. Getting out and not having to hide and use Clearasil at home.
Easter holds a special place in my heart. Most would say Christmas or Thanksgiving, but Easter has always been my first holiday love. Do you see me in that blue dress? It was Easter morning - 1988. I loved that fish tank in our dining room too. And, despite that dress, haircut, and an expression which could only indicate my thighs were already chafing and on fire under that blue dress … I am still capable of believing in springtime renewal and hope. So, why, you may ask, do I love Easter? Well, growing up, it was not about the candy because I was chubby (see above photo) and received fruit baskets (in lieu of candy) a few years in a row. Likely, why I also look angry in the photo (aside from the thigh friction). To be quite honest, I was 7 years old and I was all in on this holiday for a few undisturbed nibbles of pink, supple, juicy, lamb.
This week I finally leapt into 2024 fashion and purchased wide leg jeans because my thick thighs have rubbed out my skinny ones. Congratulations, thighs! You did it! You two are a force of nature, I tell ya! I also couldn’t more highly recommend GAP Factory high rise wide leg jeans. The fit is perfect for those of us with an ample bum and meaty top thighs. Try ‘em. You may like ‘em. And, here I am smiling. I was smiling because it was a sunny, early spring day in the Hudson Valley and I was out with my best friend. We were on our way to lunch and, after, a psychic reading. I mean, what was there not to smile about? But the truth was that all I had been thinking about for the last few weeks (and on and off for months) was how my body suddenly did not feel like my own - nor did my brain.
It's mental work to detach from a number and make choices because they feel good for us. Even if you want that number on the scale to budge it begins and ends with starting from a place of kindness and care for yourself. We have to want to see ourselves and our lifestyle differently; that's how health changes begin. As a woman who prides herself on “healing a relationship with food, a mindset, and eating from a place of joy” this scale game was the ultimate dip shit move. Do you relate to any of this scale BS or am I the only one?
Throughout the week I journal, daily, rarely to never missing a morning because it’s become so routine. After I pee, after I brush my teeth, after I put on the coffee, after I make the bed - I settle in to write. What comes up in my journal is varied; reflections on the day prior or a trend of overarching themes like love, loss, lust, counting down the months since I’ve had sex, and wondering if life is a trick. It’s easy to count what we don’t have and to get attached to an idea. An attachment is often invisible, and it can make us unconsciously miserable. It can feel as though somehow, somewhere, some way - we’ve lost our light.
This morning I was thinking about how all things in life are temporary. The good moments. The terrible times. The pain. The joy. Work. Love. People. No matter what, nothing lasts forever, and remaining present is where our lesson lives. Today, in yoga class, our teacher asked us to open with downward dog. What ended up being a 5 minute plus hold of downward dog. One can learn a lot about themselves in a 100 degree room, with 49 other people, holding downward dog for 5 minutes. If you don’t think so, stand on all fours and try it now while you hover over a heater.
Have you ever woken up, day after day, and felt unmotivated, confused, frustrated and anxious? Everyday you rise at a different time and move from one task to another without feeling a sense of calm? Maybe without a sense of accomplishment? Do you have a routine? Um, probably not if you’re feeling that way. In which case, I am sorry and I will say “get thee a routine now!” You might think routines are boring, for nerds, or children and that your grown-ass does not need one, but you do.
I am my home. Home is where the heart is, right? I mean, the phrase was coined with reason yet when I deconstruct the phrase itself (because I pick apart words like I would pick my childhood scraped knee scars), I think about how truly layered it is. What does home mean to you? For me, home is a not specific place but my whole person. I work to make her beautiful everyday and no, no day is ever perfect. Home is my mind. Home is my attitude toward myself and the world. Home is my body and the way I feel in it, understanding and accepting its story. Home is cooking a meal because I'm worth the time I put into myself. Home is knowing what I deserve and taking the steps to get there even when I’m scared and even if it looks different than the homes of others.
Self-love and self-care function together, but they’re also different. Self-love is a process of forgiveness, acceptance and compassion. I wrote about self-love here, sharing some things you might think about as your creating a new and loving relationship with yourself as well as a few actions you can take toward yourself as you learn to develop an intimate bond within you. Today, I want to talk a little bit more about self-care and its nuances. Self-care is more than a once a week bubble bath or cooking the occasional dinner, but consistent lifestyle choices that support your emotional, mental, spiritual and physical well being. Self-care really is a holistic approach to your life. These acts of self-care support self-love and, to be wholly honest, I realized I’ve only started caring for myself in the last year or so. I was always
Self-love and self-care are words we have heard a lot lately, right? Especially over the last few years and throughout the pandemic when our lives changed so very much; housebound, in ruts, on top of one another or completely isolated if you were without family. But what do these words really mean anyway? What do these words mean to me and to you in the context of our individual everyday life that moves, bends, shakes and stirs in 90 directions all at the same time and in different ways? On the giant adult slip and slide of life it’s hard to not take a fall, forget, put off a much needed pause or to stop when we are struggling to stand. But self-love is knowing who we are on a deeper level, it grounds us and gives us the ability to think and understand where we fit into a situation or a role as our most authentic self.
Writing has been a tool I’ve used for most of my life to express how I feel. An avid diary and journal keeper since childhood, I can’t imagine life without writing about my feelings, hopes and heartache through humor and story. I’ve used my journal to write about anything from my morning coffee, constipation, hopeless dates, fear, letters to food I’ve overeaten, lists of reasons I love people in my life and the things I’m most afraid of. I know you might be thinking “I’m not a writer, why would I write or keep a journal?” And my answer would be that we can all write because we all experience life and carry stories inside of us. These stories do not have to be shared or detailed like a writer in the form of a poem, novel or a short story but it is our work to release what’s inside of us; for better or worse.
I’ve been thinking a lot about why movement is so important in our lives beyond changing or amplifying the shape of our body, gains, getting snatched, a six pack, legging legs, thigh gaps and all of the words we see associated with fitness, exercise and, even now, yoga and pilates practices. I’ve also been thinking a lot about why it’s the human condition to make excuses, be non-committal and think about health as a loss instead of a gain.
Yesterday marked my 9 month Yoga-versary. That’s 9 months of almost daily practice, a commitment I never imagined I would keep to myself. A commitment longer than any romantic relationship, but I suppose my yoga story is one of love and romance too. Just with myself. And, if people can celebrate their babies month to month, who am I to not celebrate a commitment to self-love?
As we all know, habits are patterns we repeat over and over again until they become natural to us. Sometimes we have developed really fantastic habits and other times … um, not so much. A habit can be a difficult thing to make and an easy thing to break, but how we treat our own mind and body as well as how we treat others can change the way we feel inside and out. Maintaining healthy habits can be hard in the midst of life, but I know from practice that it’s possible with some active thinking and, maybe, this acronym as a reminder.
