I just got back from Symmetry class...wow that sounds pretty dorky. I got up at 9, made myself a peanut butter and apple wrap for breakfast and took it with me up to campus. It's one of those gray days where it's timidly rainy and the trees on the horizon are gray with fog and distance. This day reminds me of early spring at Skidmore, only then I didn't feel so condemed to be me. I listened to a lot of Marc Cohn then, his songs Ghost Train and Strangers In a Car felt melancholy but filled with hope and carried me up the hill to campus every day. Winter was just melting away from Saratoga, some snow lingered and it was strange to see it with those licks of warmer wind. I had sent in my application to Tufts and was waiting to hear back but felt so positive I'd be accepted. Where I was felt comfortable, I had friends, I felt content with who I was, how I was, the music I was doing, but I knew I could do better. That's mostly what Tufts was about. What stands out to me so vividly from those days is the way the North Woods looked from the top of the tower dorm, green and expansive, mysterious yet undangerous, my own feeling of empowerment and invicibility, self esteem, and this reliable momentum that I was going somewhere better. That I really deserved to.
I can't help but feeling as though I catapulted myself right into Medford, hitting the ground so hard I fused with it. It's like anticipating a great vacation and finding out you're actually going to squat a storm cellar in Omaha. Only I've been here almost 5 years and I think I've been truly happy only 30% of the time.
I'm writing, and inventorying, and feeling generally miserable (self made! atta girl!) and I'm not feeling like I'm fitting into any meetings and I haven't heard back from the woman I'd really like to sponsor me (yes, it's been a day, but I'm getting something out of feeling shitty here, so lemme run with it). I had a really funny encounter at the Children's Choir yesterday when I went in for a quick meeting, and realized when I got out that I had only my parents to tell about it. I don't have anyone I can call up out of the blue and relay this incident to without a full fifteen minutes of awkward catching up. I don't know anybody. I'm really ashamed to know anybody. The thought of making enough of a friend out of someone where I'm obligated to tell them who I am and what I've done and what I want to do sounds truly impossible, and yet it's exactly what I need.
In addition to a time machine. And a sponsor. And to be institutionalized. And to go rollerblading on the beach and come home and have my entire world be okay.
I'm going to try and shake this very productive thinking with a yoga class. I've got Kelly at 2, then the children's choir at 5. Throughout all that I'll do my lesson plan for tonight and whatever writing I can manage. I'm grateful I'm busy.
Wish I lived in the black and white Walking In Memphis music video
Also wish blogger knew how to embed music. Pity.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Karamu, fiesta, forever
I'm home from what's felt like an exhausting day of rehearsal at North Prospect made all the more grueling by the fact that I was viciously under-slept. My plan was to go to a meeting tonight but I'm feeling tired enough that I'm contemplating not going (this is an example of me being confused as to whether I'm just being lazy, or actually giving myself a break). I worked last night at the restaurant, and it was intense- we did over 130 covers and I (gracefully!) managed a very persnickety party of investors that I'm told left some very sweet compliments about me with Matt who was managing last night. Despite the hubbub of full friday night service, I found a terrific moment of zen doing side-work in the kitchen (in this case I was doing roll-ups and napkin triangly thingys. I tend to like the mindlessness of side-work, all things I can do and check off a list and feel very accomplished. Make coffee. I know how to do that! Make two buckets of roll-ups. I know how to do that! Polish a butt-load of silverware. etc. I get the same thrill out of sitting down at a doctor's office that I'm visiting for the first time and filling out my personal history- it's like a test that I know all of the answers too. Really, I'm not kidding, answering these questionnaires make me feel capable and accomplished, as though I'd studied. I know my birthday, my allergies, my surgical history, and usually where I am in my menstrual cycle. I have all these answers. I can make all these roll-ups. Which is what I did last night, hiding out in the kitchen for the last half hour of service listening to the ancient Paul Simon cd that no one but me plays on our chef's cd player. I love every one of those songs, every one of those lyrics, and they come to me like the names of my own family.
Okay, so that was my bubble of zen, it was from then on out that the night got a little wacky: I cashed out, changed, and left with Nate (one of the other servers, very tall, lanky, and utterly flaming), drove to his apartment, picked up his boyfriend, and the three of us went to a club called Machine down by Fenway park that is quite literally the gayest place on earth. I don't mean that they were merely accepting of and supportive to alternative lifestyles, I mean that this was...how do you say it...a boy's dance club. Now I knew all this when Nate had asked me to go, I knew I'd be the only lady in there, I'd anticipated that the bouncer would give me a strange look as I came in with Nate and his boyfriend and I was all prepared with my witty quip about how I was chaperoning, and of course he laughed and shrugged, and I was all geared up for a night of dancing by myself and occasionally prancing with Nate. I was not, let me repeat, was not prepared for the men with the unbelievable pecs wearing little white booty shorts pole dancing, or the guys wearing go-go boots, or the few in sequined dresses. I was wearing my blue Pali Swim sweat pants and sneakers, and a white v-neck. It was awesome. I've gotta say though, it felt very different- and a relief- to be in a group of men and not be approached or commented upon. I feel egotistical saying that, vain and even guilty because it admits being aware of the negative attention I get for the way that I look, but it felt nice to know that I didn't have to be protective of myself, that no one would try to dance with me, and most importantly that no one there would give two shits how I danced. I really just got to let loose and jump around and be in my own personal music video; I must have looked like the ultimate spaz, but at the time I felt truly badass. I danced from about midnight till 2 am (I don't think I've had a late night like that since London) and I could still feel my quads ache this morning when I got up to go to my 9am rehearsal. I had a blast.
I still haven't decided what I'm gonna do tonight...I think I'll watch Little Women in bed, maybe order in. Dado Tea in Cambridge has this great tofu salad thing with warm beans but it's all the way in Cambridge and I've got my little space heater goin up here and it's pretty cozy. Quiet and a little lonely, but cozy.
Okay, so that was my bubble of zen, it was from then on out that the night got a little wacky: I cashed out, changed, and left with Nate (one of the other servers, very tall, lanky, and utterly flaming), drove to his apartment, picked up his boyfriend, and the three of us went to a club called Machine down by Fenway park that is quite literally the gayest place on earth. I don't mean that they were merely accepting of and supportive to alternative lifestyles, I mean that this was...how do you say it...a boy's dance club. Now I knew all this when Nate had asked me to go, I knew I'd be the only lady in there, I'd anticipated that the bouncer would give me a strange look as I came in with Nate and his boyfriend and I was all prepared with my witty quip about how I was chaperoning, and of course he laughed and shrugged, and I was all geared up for a night of dancing by myself and occasionally prancing with Nate. I was not, let me repeat, was not prepared for the men with the unbelievable pecs wearing little white booty shorts pole dancing, or the guys wearing go-go boots, or the few in sequined dresses. I was wearing my blue Pali Swim sweat pants and sneakers, and a white v-neck. It was awesome. I've gotta say though, it felt very different- and a relief- to be in a group of men and not be approached or commented upon. I feel egotistical saying that, vain and even guilty because it admits being aware of the negative attention I get for the way that I look, but it felt nice to know that I didn't have to be protective of myself, that no one would try to dance with me, and most importantly that no one there would give two shits how I danced. I really just got to let loose and jump around and be in my own personal music video; I must have looked like the ultimate spaz, but at the time I felt truly badass. I danced from about midnight till 2 am (I don't think I've had a late night like that since London) and I could still feel my quads ache this morning when I got up to go to my 9am rehearsal. I had a blast.
I still haven't decided what I'm gonna do tonight...I think I'll watch Little Women in bed, maybe order in. Dado Tea in Cambridge has this great tofu salad thing with warm beans but it's all the way in Cambridge and I've got my little space heater goin up here and it's pretty cozy. Quiet and a little lonely, but cozy.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
gentle Annie
I've been trying to go to meetings over this past week Alanon, OA, AA, really anything I can find where that language is spoken. I could easily be in a room full of homeless folk and provided that they were reading The Promises I'd be at home. I'm less gung-ho about the OA meetings because the meetings here are so frustratingly food-based; when they go through what it was like, what happened and what it's like now, their stories rarely delve into the evolution of their relationships, their thinking, their relationship with god, in fact their "what happened" is usually simply that they started weighing and measuring every portion of every meal, following a rigorous no flour no sugar diet that was granted to them by the grace of god. Okay. That's not for me, and I know I sound defensive here when I say this, and it even feels a little as though I'm looking for ways to be the exception to the rule, but a strict weighed and measured diet that is not allowed to include any joy (flour and sugar) does not sound like freedom to me. In some respects I can understand how this method allows you to basically hand over your food, it's nolonger your responsibility- it's god's, and you get to turn your attention to the rest of your life (and now I'm confusing myself a little as I write this, because that, technically does sound like freedom to me) but I want my freedom to include choice, variety, and indulgence. I want to temper my relationship with food, not give up on it entirely and restrict it to portion-sizes. I guess I also want to continue working on the part of my recovery that is about paying attention to my body with my eyes closed - not analysis in front of the mirror, but continuing to learn to feel when I'm hungry, acknowledge when I'm full; to me that's a HUGE part of my own recovery that I feel the weighed and measured approach doesn't allow for. I also want my process to be focused on steps and not food. At all. In fact I'm really not sure that OA is the best program for me because of how very food-centric it is (I actually find it pretty triggering sometimes). I was shocked to rediscover how frequently people mention their current weight, their clothing size, the amount of weight they've lost, how much they used to weigh- this is stuff that still drives me MAD to hear! I hear women mention weights that are in the range of my highest weight, my lowest weight, and it doesn't even matter what context it's mentioned in, I'm immediately comparing- if that was their heaviest, and this is my healthy weight, and what I ate today, and what I could eat instead, and what if my weight crept up to that weight again and this same woman saw ME. The crazy creeps in and I can't tame it...which is why I went to an Alanon meeting today where I felt so safe. In a way I don't really fit into Alanon either- everyone there is codependent in the way that I am not, that is to say that they're people-pleasers and doormats and entirely devoted to other people in ways that don't benefit them. I'm a people pleaser, absolutely but in a very different way: I'm bad at it. Yet, that desire to keep everyone around me happy and content, that need to make sure the emotional temperature of those around me is still very present. I feel a little guilty sitting in a room full of people that can only be identified as 'givers', while I myself am no doubt a 'taker', but what we do share is our thinking. The loneliness, the fear of losing, of the people we love being angry with us, or worse- disappointed. The only thing I feel I have that they don't is entitlement...gluttony, and shame, and that's where I think OA will play a role in this.
Guidance?
Guidance?
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Still like that Spanish dancer
I'm sitting in my room in blue pj's nibbling a Godiva dark chocolate square and feeling pretty shitty. Like my life has been on halt for a few days. I took a school bus with the children's choir tonight up to Concord where they had an MLK performance for the Concord City Diversity Committee. Again, it was one of those experiences where I kept thinking "I can't believe they're putting me in charge of this. I can't believe I'm the only adult? on this bus. I can't believe they're asking my permission." I sat, like the grown up is supposed to, in the front of the bus with the clip board and the snacks and my sheet music and tuning fork and directions for the bus driver and the sign-out sheets with all the kid's emergency contact information on it, and was thankful that the kids stayed mostly quiet so I could spend the hour and half trafficy ride looking out the window and listening to my little red ipod. Sometimes on the road with my forehead against the glass I could have sworn I was on the 405 on my way into Marlborough. I can't believe I'm the responsible one. Me, with the rest of my life on fire around me (and me with matches in my hand, wondering how the hell this blaze started) and I'm given thirty seven kids to transport up to Concord, feed, warm up, rehearse, and hand off to Michele for their concert.
When I rode into Marlborough I usually sat up front with Shane Lynch and Maile Borthwick (Claire Borthwick was way too cool to play) and Lauren Raab, and the three of us would play this...amazing game. The school bus was a space ship, and we, it's crew, had to guide it through the many dangerous catastrophes we'd encounter on the way into school. This was seventh grade. We had no shame. I was pretty much in charge of the game, that is to say that I directed the action, warned everyone of approaching threats and enemies, and when I was feeling bossy, suggested things I thought other characters would say. Lauren's name was Captain Ramsay, Shane was Miss Isseris and was in charge of weapons, and I don't remember my main character's name but I can tell you that I was a medic...and at one point a spy for the Peons who were always attacking us. I also played the voice of a character named Atrix that we were only able to contact by radio; he was our master commander and he had a cockney accent but he was in a different ship or time zone or something (he was named after a character from the computer game MYST that Peter was really into at the time). Our crew would encounter such terrifying challenges as 'the fog that turns people inside out' (actually from the Simpsons, but they never knew that), gigantic minefields that our fearless (and obedient) Captain Ramsay would have to navigate, and the aforementioned Peons (which I've since learned is a term derived from Spanish that refered to hacienda workers...I think for some reason it was a word I'd heard before and thought was foreign and cool) who would attack us for reasons we never really decided upon. I'd pictured Peons as tiny gnat-like aliens who's ships were impenetrable (and equally tiny) and would swarm upon us and puncture our ship, but thankfully they never penetrated it's walls and every day we arrived safely to our destinations (mine was 26th and Georgina, at the Country Mart) unharmed and usually exhausted. We were so loud on the bus, so completely devoted to our characters with voices and facial expressions and dramatic wails of fear and cries of victory...the rest of the bus couldn't stand us, but we loved it. Our plots would often involve betrayal and mistrust and confusion and great prophecies that may or may not be fulfilled next monday morning. But we were so into this game (which I think had a name, only I can't remember it right now) that I can remember getting chills of excitement, or my heart racing from some plot twist. We all felt it. It was as though we pictured ourselves in a TV show...actually I think we honestly did, hold on, I'm remembering this as I type! I'm remembering a moment when Miss Isseris and I made some huge discovery that changed the course of the episode, and in my memory Shane and I looked at eachother and said "aaaand fade out". Yeaaaah I think that's how we did it. Yes! Yes! That's how we'd run the show because between scenes we'd discuss what was going to happen next! (after the commercial break?) I'm pretty sure that's how I got to be the creative force behind the plot- that I got to interject every three minutes or so with "okay then Miss Isseris finds Captain Ramsay's radio device and hears the voice of the head Peon Exxon (yes, really) over it and that's how she discovers Ramsay has been colluding with them which means he was being mind-controlled! Okay! Go!
So, that's what was happening the last time I was on a bus. And here I was tonight with Dishwalla in my ears looking back over my shoulder to make sure they're not crawling under the seats, and reviewing my rehearsal check-list.
The other interesting thing that happened tonight was that one of the kids lost a tooth. His name is Charles Brown (hehe, get it? Charlie Brown?) and he's a little black boy, about 9, with a great voice but is seriously rambunctious. We were eating pizza before warm-up when he turned to me and said "here, this came out" and he proceeded to hand me this tiny tooth. He pulled down his lip to show me the gap. And then he continued eating his pizza, no huge deal, just a tooth. I took him to the bathroom to rinse out the little hole after he was done eating, and while he rinsed I held his tiny tooth in a napkin. I stared at it and thought to myself I'm holding this boy's tooth. It belongs to him and I'm holding it and it's not attached to him anymore. This is maybe the weirdest and strangely most maternal thing I've ever done. I'm sorry I can't explain why that moment felt so profound to me, but it really did.
After we'd returned home from the concert I drove back to Medford and did a quick grocery run for the weekend- lettuces, string cheese, yogurt, honey, fujis, almonds. Walking through the supermarket alone felt impossibly sad. Despite it usually being a little easier on my ED head, I haven't gone grocery shopping alone in awhile, and walking those aisles tonight I felt very low. I talked to myself through most of it; it's the only way I know to manage getting smacked with that kind of loneliness, prayed out loud a little but not loud enough to turn heads. I'll admit though, anyone who grocery shops at the sketchy Foodmaster! at 9 at night is a total yahoo, myself included, so I certainly wasn't the only one talkin to myself. One saving grace was the thought that I wasn't on the floor, and hopeless. I was low, but I wasn't broken. And that's the difference between medication and none. It's a shadow of hope, a little bit of belief that I can change me. Somehow. I believe that. I know it's a matter of therapy and medication and writing and maybe a Boarderline group, a 12-step group, some kind of peer group. It's probably more than that. Like actually changing my words, or re-organizing my believe system so fears aren't at the forefront. It's living so slowly, so mindfully minute to minute that I'm able to discern the reasons for everything I'm doing- no- everything I want to do and say, and decide whether those reasons are within my integrity, or not. Make sense? Enough Psychobabble. Me too. What do they say, actions first the rest will follow? My action is to eat this other square of Godiva white chocolate and hit the sack. Then pray.
When I rode into Marlborough I usually sat up front with Shane Lynch and Maile Borthwick (Claire Borthwick was way too cool to play) and Lauren Raab, and the three of us would play this...amazing game. The school bus was a space ship, and we, it's crew, had to guide it through the many dangerous catastrophes we'd encounter on the way into school. This was seventh grade. We had no shame. I was pretty much in charge of the game, that is to say that I directed the action, warned everyone of approaching threats and enemies, and when I was feeling bossy, suggested things I thought other characters would say. Lauren's name was Captain Ramsay, Shane was Miss Isseris and was in charge of weapons, and I don't remember my main character's name but I can tell you that I was a medic...and at one point a spy for the Peons who were always attacking us. I also played the voice of a character named Atrix that we were only able to contact by radio; he was our master commander and he had a cockney accent but he was in a different ship or time zone or something (he was named after a character from the computer game MYST that Peter was really into at the time). Our crew would encounter such terrifying challenges as 'the fog that turns people inside out' (actually from the Simpsons, but they never knew that), gigantic minefields that our fearless (and obedient) Captain Ramsay would have to navigate, and the aforementioned Peons (which I've since learned is a term derived from Spanish that refered to hacienda workers...I think for some reason it was a word I'd heard before and thought was foreign and cool) who would attack us for reasons we never really decided upon. I'd pictured Peons as tiny gnat-like aliens who's ships were impenetrable (and equally tiny) and would swarm upon us and puncture our ship, but thankfully they never penetrated it's walls and every day we arrived safely to our destinations (mine was 26th and Georgina, at the Country Mart) unharmed and usually exhausted. We were so loud on the bus, so completely devoted to our characters with voices and facial expressions and dramatic wails of fear and cries of victory...the rest of the bus couldn't stand us, but we loved it. Our plots would often involve betrayal and mistrust and confusion and great prophecies that may or may not be fulfilled next monday morning. But we were so into this game (which I think had a name, only I can't remember it right now) that I can remember getting chills of excitement, or my heart racing from some plot twist. We all felt it. It was as though we pictured ourselves in a TV show...actually I think we honestly did, hold on, I'm remembering this as I type! I'm remembering a moment when Miss Isseris and I made some huge discovery that changed the course of the episode, and in my memory Shane and I looked at eachother and said "aaaand fade out". Yeaaaah I think that's how we did it. Yes! Yes! That's how we'd run the show because between scenes we'd discuss what was going to happen next! (after the commercial break?) I'm pretty sure that's how I got to be the creative force behind the plot- that I got to interject every three minutes or so with "okay then Miss Isseris finds Captain Ramsay's radio device and hears the voice of the head Peon Exxon (yes, really) over it and that's how she discovers Ramsay has been colluding with them which means he was being mind-controlled! Okay! Go!
So, that's what was happening the last time I was on a bus. And here I was tonight with Dishwalla in my ears looking back over my shoulder to make sure they're not crawling under the seats, and reviewing my rehearsal check-list.
The other interesting thing that happened tonight was that one of the kids lost a tooth. His name is Charles Brown (hehe, get it? Charlie Brown?) and he's a little black boy, about 9, with a great voice but is seriously rambunctious. We were eating pizza before warm-up when he turned to me and said "here, this came out" and he proceeded to hand me this tiny tooth. He pulled down his lip to show me the gap. And then he continued eating his pizza, no huge deal, just a tooth. I took him to the bathroom to rinse out the little hole after he was done eating, and while he rinsed I held his tiny tooth in a napkin. I stared at it and thought to myself I'm holding this boy's tooth. It belongs to him and I'm holding it and it's not attached to him anymore. This is maybe the weirdest and strangely most maternal thing I've ever done. I'm sorry I can't explain why that moment felt so profound to me, but it really did.
After we'd returned home from the concert I drove back to Medford and did a quick grocery run for the weekend- lettuces, string cheese, yogurt, honey, fujis, almonds. Walking through the supermarket alone felt impossibly sad. Despite it usually being a little easier on my ED head, I haven't gone grocery shopping alone in awhile, and walking those aisles tonight I felt very low. I talked to myself through most of it; it's the only way I know to manage getting smacked with that kind of loneliness, prayed out loud a little but not loud enough to turn heads. I'll admit though, anyone who grocery shops at the sketchy Foodmaster! at 9 at night is a total yahoo, myself included, so I certainly wasn't the only one talkin to myself. One saving grace was the thought that I wasn't on the floor, and hopeless. I was low, but I wasn't broken. And that's the difference between medication and none. It's a shadow of hope, a little bit of belief that I can change me. Somehow. I believe that. I know it's a matter of therapy and medication and writing and maybe a Boarderline group, a 12-step group, some kind of peer group. It's probably more than that. Like actually changing my words, or re-organizing my believe system so fears aren't at the forefront. It's living so slowly, so mindfully minute to minute that I'm able to discern the reasons for everything I'm doing- no- everything I want to do and say, and decide whether those reasons are within my integrity, or not. Make sense? Enough Psychobabble. Me too. What do they say, actions first the rest will follow? My action is to eat this other square of Godiva white chocolate and hit the sack. Then pray.
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
Down the highway to 64, east way to newport news
I've just made it home from Villa Victoria (BCC ages 6-9) where I wrestled them through a damn good RAP session that I'd prepared for this afternoon for two solid hours! I was starving so had a huuuge bowl of matzah ball soup that I'd made earlier today, an apple, and a few cookies while watching the E! True Hollywood Story on the tragic and gruesome demise of Britney Spears' career. Fascinating.
Yoga 12-1:30 today. Twas lovely. It's rare that I can manage to stay focused and present in every breath of the practice, especially in the poses that are for flexibility as opposed to those that are aerobic. It's stupid, but I get really frustrated with "hip opener" poses like half-pigeon or frog where one is supposed to just lay there and hurt while one's hip...opens...? I end up reprimanding myself that I could be doing some kind of cardio that burns calories 100% of the time or strength training that's at least toning my body, and why on earth am I bothering with my own flexibility when it won't really nudge my ego in any direction, won't affect the scale and won't be noticeable to anyone else and that's about the time that the other side of my brain (need I say, the healthier side) steps up and reminds me that it isn't about my body and yadda yadda yadda, and adds finally that these "hip openers" are the difference between my lower back hurting and not. So. That voice is a hero. And is why I stayed begrudgingly in half-pigeon for the full thirty breaths. And left glowing. It's really empowering to feel your body that tired, that accomplished. As they like to point out at the resting point in the middle of class, after the standing poses and main vinyassas, it's rare that we work hard enough to earn the rest we take. And it's so true. For me, at least. I'm not an over-achiever, I'm not an insanely hard worker. And yet I was surrounded by them growing up, at every school I attended (except Skidmore), everyone there were pedal to the metal focused and hard-working and committed. I wasn't, really, I skated most of the time, but I happily it took to heart when authority announced to my generation that we should learn how to take some time for ourselves and relax, renew, take it easy, take a personal day. And I did, despite not really understanding (or caring) that I hadn't done the excruciatingly hard work to earn the rest, I'd only merely completed the task. To this day I hear myself making excuses all the time as though I were a grade-grinder, as though I were stretched thin and over-extended and giving my all to everything I did. All the way back into elementary school I can remember rationalize skipping classes more often than I should, skipping work-outs, allowing myself food that my body didn't really need all in the name of self-care, but rarely had I earned it. Rarely was the care that I needed in the form of rest. What I could have used was some personal discipline. I'm so grateful to have cultivated some of that since. It's not been across the board (*coughMATHcough*) but in the conducting, in the Music theory courses, in my analysis of Bruckner's Mass in E minor, in making up the quiz for my BCC kids today, I found it - it was there for me. It's there for me in the yoga, too, when I rest with my face down on my mat (there something so fabulously kindergarten about all of us laying around on our mats) after the first half of. It's delicious when I remember that I don't have to feel guilty about resting my body because it's actually earned it. I really enjoy watching E! True Hollywood Story tear into Britney Spears after I've taught a really good RAP session and rehearsal at BCC because I don't have to reprimand myself for kicking back (that's my favorite Michael word). I'm sure it's a no-brainer to the rest of the world that the reward feels so much better when it's earned, but I've only been figuring it out for the past couple of years, and even then it's spotty.
One nice thing about today: after yoga I came home and I went to the kitchen and ate some lunch, and after that I made myself matzah ball soup to have for dinner. It's the Manaschewitz brand from the box that I've loved since I was little and I always had when dad's friend Robin Schaerf invited us for Roshashana and Hanukkah and I ate like five bowls. Now, this may sound dorky that I felt so good about this (and it likely is), but the process of making myself soup for a future meal felt like a really simple act of self love. Even self-respect. This is not something I'm used to like this. I have no problem indulging myself- a massage, a dessert, etc. But the basics- making my bed, showering, laundry, preparing an unfrozen meal for myself (who cares if it's from a box, this required carrot peeling and boiling and setting aside), these basic necessities are usually beyond me. I usually don't do them for myself. So it was lovely, really really lovely to spend my afternoon making myself soup for later.
When I think about it, this kind of thing translates into my relationships, my life. I'm very comfortable with the grand gestures, the expressions of love in excess, ornate poetry and unmistakable promises, but the day-to-day expressions of love, daily phone calls, little gestures, putting other people first, these are not my strengths. Likewise, I find them difficult to translate. I know I am loved if someone write me a sonnet, swears their undying love and puts it up on a billboard on Sunset blvd, but I'm less likely to come to that same conclusion if they, for example, make my bed, fill up my tank, make me an english muffin every sunday morning (for thirteen years), fold some of my laundry, or always have kozy shack rice pudding or non-fat yoplait and extra roasty peanuts when I come over.
I even tend to overlook things like being sent to college(s)...well maybe most kids overlook that, but I forget what a huge gesture of love that is, that all these things are.
Luckyfish.
Yoga 12-1:30 today. Twas lovely. It's rare that I can manage to stay focused and present in every breath of the practice, especially in the poses that are for flexibility as opposed to those that are aerobic. It's stupid, but I get really frustrated with "hip opener" poses like half-pigeon or frog where one is supposed to just lay there and hurt while one's hip...opens...? I end up reprimanding myself that I could be doing some kind of cardio that burns calories 100% of the time or strength training that's at least toning my body, and why on earth am I bothering with my own flexibility when it won't really nudge my ego in any direction, won't affect the scale and won't be noticeable to anyone else and that's about the time that the other side of my brain (need I say, the healthier side) steps up and reminds me that it isn't about my body and yadda yadda yadda, and adds finally that these "hip openers" are the difference between my lower back hurting and not. So. That voice is a hero. And is why I stayed begrudgingly in half-pigeon for the full thirty breaths. And left glowing. It's really empowering to feel your body that tired, that accomplished. As they like to point out at the resting point in the middle of class, after the standing poses and main vinyassas, it's rare that we work hard enough to earn the rest we take. And it's so true. For me, at least. I'm not an over-achiever, I'm not an insanely hard worker. And yet I was surrounded by them growing up, at every school I attended (except Skidmore), everyone there were pedal to the metal focused and hard-working and committed. I wasn't, really, I skated most of the time, but I happily it took to heart when authority announced to my generation that we should learn how to take some time for ourselves and relax, renew, take it easy, take a personal day. And I did, despite not really understanding (or caring) that I hadn't done the excruciatingly hard work to earn the rest, I'd only merely completed the task. To this day I hear myself making excuses all the time as though I were a grade-grinder, as though I were stretched thin and over-extended and giving my all to everything I did. All the way back into elementary school I can remember rationalize skipping classes more often than I should, skipping work-outs, allowing myself food that my body didn't really need all in the name of self-care, but rarely had I earned it. Rarely was the care that I needed in the form of rest. What I could have used was some personal discipline. I'm so grateful to have cultivated some of that since. It's not been across the board (*coughMATHcough*) but in the conducting, in the Music theory courses, in my analysis of Bruckner's Mass in E minor, in making up the quiz for my BCC kids today, I found it - it was there for me. It's there for me in the yoga, too, when I rest with my face down on my mat (there something so fabulously kindergarten about all of us laying around on our mats) after the first half of. It's delicious when I remember that I don't have to feel guilty about resting my body because it's actually earned it. I really enjoy watching E! True Hollywood Story tear into Britney Spears after I've taught a really good RAP session and rehearsal at BCC because I don't have to reprimand myself for kicking back (that's my favorite Michael word). I'm sure it's a no-brainer to the rest of the world that the reward feels so much better when it's earned, but I've only been figuring it out for the past couple of years, and even then it's spotty.
One nice thing about today: after yoga I came home and I went to the kitchen and ate some lunch, and after that I made myself matzah ball soup to have for dinner. It's the Manaschewitz brand from the box that I've loved since I was little and I always had when dad's friend Robin Schaerf invited us for Roshashana and Hanukkah and I ate like five bowls. Now, this may sound dorky that I felt so good about this (and it likely is), but the process of making myself soup for a future meal felt like a really simple act of self love. Even self-respect. This is not something I'm used to like this. I have no problem indulging myself- a massage, a dessert, etc. But the basics- making my bed, showering, laundry, preparing an unfrozen meal for myself (who cares if it's from a box, this required carrot peeling and boiling and setting aside), these basic necessities are usually beyond me. I usually don't do them for myself. So it was lovely, really really lovely to spend my afternoon making myself soup for later.
When I think about it, this kind of thing translates into my relationships, my life. I'm very comfortable with the grand gestures, the expressions of love in excess, ornate poetry and unmistakable promises, but the day-to-day expressions of love, daily phone calls, little gestures, putting other people first, these are not my strengths. Likewise, I find them difficult to translate. I know I am loved if someone write me a sonnet, swears their undying love and puts it up on a billboard on Sunset blvd, but I'm less likely to come to that same conclusion if they, for example, make my bed, fill up my tank, make me an english muffin every sunday morning (for thirteen years), fold some of my laundry, or always have kozy shack rice pudding or non-fat yoplait and extra roasty peanuts when I come over.
I even tend to overlook things like being sent to college(s)...well maybe most kids overlook that, but I forget what a huge gesture of love that is, that all these things are.
Luckyfish.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Wow.
I'm really, really struggling with this ad:
http://www.coloribus.com/paedia/prints/2008/1/8/197022/show/
the copy reads:
Happily ever What's your after?
thoughts, anyone?
http://www.coloribus.com/paedia/prints/2008/1/8/197022/show/
the copy reads:
Happily ever What's your after?
thoughts, anyone?
Monday, January 07, 2008
Shillelagh law did all engage and a row and a ruction soon began
First news first, last semester's grades are in and I got A's in both the poetry course and my independent conducting study with Andy...which isn't actually a huge deal because I can't imagine anyone NOT getting A's in those classes. I don't care. I'm happy with them.
I've been back in Boston since the 2nd and I honestly feel like I haven't done a thing. Perhaps that's because I'm not officially on the Upstairs schedule much (only Tuesday nights and Saturday afternoons), because the BCC has been minimally demanding (one rehearsal and a staff holiday party), and because my one math class doesn't begin until the 16th. It feels as though I've been lounging around Boston for the past week or so and my brain hasn't been particularly busy, which could certainly help explain why the food issues have suddenly become so massively important...top of the brain...anxious. I have nothing more demanding to distract myself with so the best thing my brain knows to do is start sneaking back into that slightly obsessive thinking about either restriction, or whatever extra food I can get away with. What it feels like, on the Wellbutrin, is that I can eat whatever the hell I want and I see no repercussions on my body. Honestly, that sounds to me like a huge danger disguised as a dream come true. Since being back (and not busy) I've lost my mind on a slab of cake the size of Wyoming (and ice cream and whipped cream and roasted almonds and fudge) at the Cheesecake factory, gone to town on the BCC holiday part desserts, and had two slices of pizza and huge amounts of chocolate last night (after dinner) with Kate and Eric and Emma. None of these were binges, but when I think back through this week it's the food that comes to the top of my brain because it's been so wildly excessive. What's freaking me out about it is that I still weigh around 135. Sure I've been doing yoga every other day, but I don't think there's an exercise on this planet that could compensate for the kind of calorie intake I've been enjoying. Well. There's that great trigger word Dr. Ross pointed out to me at Sierra Tucson, one I'd used two or three times each session. Compensate. It's a word I'm supposed to watch for both in regards to my food, and to how I'm handling my life. The idea is that if I find myself consciously compensating for anything in any way, it's a control issue, and I should recognize it as such and let it be. Compensation is something we're in tune with naturally from the time we're infants, but manage to lose it as we grow up. When we're young, it's very, very simple. We know when we're full, we know when we're hungry, we may over-eat and the next day our body won't be as hungry so we won't fuel it as much. There's no guilt, or analysis of any of yesterday's meals in order to determine what we should eat today. Likewise we don't judge ourselves in the same way we've learned to now; there's no nightly break-down of the flaws we've exhibited today or the ways in which we've let ourselves or other's down, and no grand plan for how to fix it all tomorrow. When we're young, we're just exhausted from playing handball and hiding in the bamboo and tossing the cat off the stairwell to make sure it lands on its feet every time. There is no compensation; there's no room for it- our days our too full, our minds otherwise engaged- we'd find it boring, and you know, it IS boring! Calculating calories and playing with controlling food plans is a really lame way to spend a half hour. As is constant control over who knows what and how did I describe it and how much do you love me. All of these things are far less interesting than the coffee shop around me, the swing set under me, the bright blue plaid pajamas I'm wearing.
Something else that's been on my brain a lot lately (and this is still residual Eat Pray Love thinking so forgive me) is the amount of time I spend in anticipation of things. And anticipation is putting it kindly, it's really better described as constant anxiety or tapping foot or glancing at the clock...I am constantly waiting for something, or rather my goal is so rarely what I'm actually doing at that moment that it's as though my day speeds by and all I do is spend time being frustrated because I'm late for things I don't really want to do, or waiting for those things to end.. I'm racing to CVS because I need to refill my prescription. I'm sitting around waiting for them to call my name reading tabloids. I'm in traffic leaving CVS going to the next place where I will sit and wait for the event to begin and then watch the clock till it's over. I'll be sitting around waiting for it to be time for me to leave for the Children's Chorus, I'm racing in traffic waiting to get to the BCC, I'm in their rehearsals waiting for them to end so I can get back in the car and hurry home. Like that's where I really want to be anyway. The goal is so rarely where I actually am in that moment, and it means that most of the time, I'm uninterested in my life. My life! This is my life and I'm bored by it, missing it because I'm in constant unspoken complaint that I don't want to do what I'm doing, that I'm always anticipating the next thing, never just doing thisthing. Okay that was a lot of reiteration, sorry, I have to get my blogging legs back under me again. When I was in LA, I felt marvelous. Day to day, I didn't once feel as though I was doing something that I couldn't wait to end, or was counting down the moments till anything else. Everything I was doing, I wanted, every minute, whether it was in transit or event. In the car with Mum, at the meetings, at my yoga classes, at every meal, in the hot tub, blowing up balloons, even at Eva's house. Yes, I know that was a vacation and I'm supposed to feel gooey and content in every minute of it, and that I would get bored if my life consisted only of those things and I never had to work for them, but my point isn't about boredom. It's about mindfulness, and being in the moment. Sound familiar? Sound cliche? It is. And it's absolutely the only way I think I'll be able to handle these next few months. It's winter, and my world is pretty small day to day, and I'm about to wrestle my last math class to the floor and likely be discouraged more often than not, and I'm not singing in a choir right now. These are all reasons that I think mindfulness is essential, that I think it's the only way I won't feel useless and lonely and peaceless. There are very few things for which I'm present these days: when I'm singing, teaching, Yoga, and if I'm taking care of myself when I'm eating. Definitely not when I'm waitressing, but the nice thing is that I don't even have time for mindfulness then. I don't really know how to make myself mindful and present when I'm doing things like driving, waiting, reading, chatting...even some yoga classes are difficult to get through some days. I look at the clock constantly, and rarely is it to orient myself in the day. It's usually just to count down. What a great way to miss everything.
I've been back in Boston since the 2nd and I honestly feel like I haven't done a thing. Perhaps that's because I'm not officially on the Upstairs schedule much (only Tuesday nights and Saturday afternoons), because the BCC has been minimally demanding (one rehearsal and a staff holiday party), and because my one math class doesn't begin until the 16th. It feels as though I've been lounging around Boston for the past week or so and my brain hasn't been particularly busy, which could certainly help explain why the food issues have suddenly become so massively important...top of the brain...anxious. I have nothing more demanding to distract myself with so the best thing my brain knows to do is start sneaking back into that slightly obsessive thinking about either restriction, or whatever extra food I can get away with. What it feels like, on the Wellbutrin, is that I can eat whatever the hell I want and I see no repercussions on my body. Honestly, that sounds to me like a huge danger disguised as a dream come true. Since being back (and not busy) I've lost my mind on a slab of cake the size of Wyoming (and ice cream and whipped cream and roasted almonds and fudge) at the Cheesecake factory, gone to town on the BCC holiday part desserts, and had two slices of pizza and huge amounts of chocolate last night (after dinner) with Kate and Eric and Emma. None of these were binges, but when I think back through this week it's the food that comes to the top of my brain because it's been so wildly excessive. What's freaking me out about it is that I still weigh around 135. Sure I've been doing yoga every other day, but I don't think there's an exercise on this planet that could compensate for the kind of calorie intake I've been enjoying. Well. There's that great trigger word Dr. Ross pointed out to me at Sierra Tucson, one I'd used two or three times each session. Compensate. It's a word I'm supposed to watch for both in regards to my food, and to how I'm handling my life. The idea is that if I find myself consciously compensating for anything in any way, it's a control issue, and I should recognize it as such and let it be. Compensation is something we're in tune with naturally from the time we're infants, but manage to lose it as we grow up. When we're young, it's very, very simple. We know when we're full, we know when we're hungry, we may over-eat and the next day our body won't be as hungry so we won't fuel it as much. There's no guilt, or analysis of any of yesterday's meals in order to determine what we should eat today. Likewise we don't judge ourselves in the same way we've learned to now; there's no nightly break-down of the flaws we've exhibited today or the ways in which we've let ourselves or other's down, and no grand plan for how to fix it all tomorrow. When we're young, we're just exhausted from playing handball and hiding in the bamboo and tossing the cat off the stairwell to make sure it lands on its feet every time. There is no compensation; there's no room for it- our days our too full, our minds otherwise engaged- we'd find it boring, and you know, it IS boring! Calculating calories and playing with controlling food plans is a really lame way to spend a half hour. As is constant control over who knows what and how did I describe it and how much do you love me. All of these things are far less interesting than the coffee shop around me, the swing set under me, the bright blue plaid pajamas I'm wearing.
Something else that's been on my brain a lot lately (and this is still residual Eat Pray Love thinking so forgive me) is the amount of time I spend in anticipation of things. And anticipation is putting it kindly, it's really better described as constant anxiety or tapping foot or glancing at the clock...I am constantly waiting for something, or rather my goal is so rarely what I'm actually doing at that moment that it's as though my day speeds by and all I do is spend time being frustrated because I'm late for things I don't really want to do, or waiting for those things to end.. I'm racing to CVS because I need to refill my prescription. I'm sitting around waiting for them to call my name reading tabloids. I'm in traffic leaving CVS going to the next place where I will sit and wait for the event to begin and then watch the clock till it's over. I'll be sitting around waiting for it to be time for me to leave for the Children's Chorus, I'm racing in traffic waiting to get to the BCC, I'm in their rehearsals waiting for them to end so I can get back in the car and hurry home. Like that's where I really want to be anyway. The goal is so rarely where I actually am in that moment, and it means that most of the time, I'm uninterested in my life. My life! This is my life and I'm bored by it, missing it because I'm in constant unspoken complaint that I don't want to do what I'm doing, that I'm always anticipating the next thing, never just doing thisthing. Okay that was a lot of reiteration, sorry, I have to get my blogging legs back under me again. When I was in LA, I felt marvelous. Day to day, I didn't once feel as though I was doing something that I couldn't wait to end, or was counting down the moments till anything else. Everything I was doing, I wanted, every minute, whether it was in transit or event. In the car with Mum, at the meetings, at my yoga classes, at every meal, in the hot tub, blowing up balloons, even at Eva's house. Yes, I know that was a vacation and I'm supposed to feel gooey and content in every minute of it, and that I would get bored if my life consisted only of those things and I never had to work for them, but my point isn't about boredom. It's about mindfulness, and being in the moment. Sound familiar? Sound cliche? It is. And it's absolutely the only way I think I'll be able to handle these next few months. It's winter, and my world is pretty small day to day, and I'm about to wrestle my last math class to the floor and likely be discouraged more often than not, and I'm not singing in a choir right now. These are all reasons that I think mindfulness is essential, that I think it's the only way I won't feel useless and lonely and peaceless. There are very few things for which I'm present these days: when I'm singing, teaching, Yoga, and if I'm taking care of myself when I'm eating. Definitely not when I'm waitressing, but the nice thing is that I don't even have time for mindfulness then. I don't really know how to make myself mindful and present when I'm doing things like driving, waiting, reading, chatting...even some yoga classes are difficult to get through some days. I look at the clock constantly, and rarely is it to orient myself in the day. It's usually just to count down. What a great way to miss everything.
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