Julie Loves Dogs: Thoughts on Pooches, Exercise and Health

Life in the Yoga Lane

2012-01-24T15:02:00.000-08:00

When speaking to my mother last night about my recent yoga teaching, she nearly cried and said, "You are really coming into your own with this." While I loathe the phrase "coming into your own"--mainly because of the cliche nature (the literary snobbiness in me is unlikely to depart anytime soon even with all that yogic philosophy)--she was absolutely right. Yoga for me is a bridge between my desires to aid people in wellness and mindfulness and my creative and expressive nature. In yoga, I can read a poem. I can dance. I can sing... and I can bring people closer to the light within themselves... and to the light of all beings. Too, the body can be free, become unbound from the mental ropes.

I offer a subsidized class for the Donnington community on Monday nights. Other than Kwok who attends when he can, there is only one male. After the first class, when I saw this man's face it reminded me of the first time I did YogaDance. The only way I can describe the expression is "blissed out." The following week he gushed to Kwok (not knowing Kwok was my husband) about how much he loved the class. He also asked the head of our charity, "Where did you find her?" (I laughed when I heard about this, thinking that she probably thought, "I don't know... but I want her to go back where she came from!") The class was only initially offered for one month, but I have decided to offer it regularly now. When he learned this, he sent me a message which said he was relieved as he was anticipating a grieving period when it finished. He finds the practice nourishing.

I should note that Kripalu yoga is very different from other asana practices I have experienced. Kripalu means compassion. The goal for me when I teach is not to make people look a certain way in a posture, or to have them stretch "just a little further." My goal is to help people get into their bodies, their breaths, their spirits and explore those edges... and find the places where those edges meet, blur, soften. (As a quick note, yoga is very much a philosophy; the asana practice--posture practice--is only one of eight limbs of yoga. In the West, "yoga" seems to be the catchall for the physical practice.)

This difference between Kripalu and some other popular styles was highlighted for me recently when I offered a free private session to a friend of a friend. The client had bone cancer as a child and underwent many surgeries, covering her lower body in scars and ultimately leaving her with a titanium rod in her right leg which disallows her from bending her knee; because of this, she suffers with pain, as well as an unbalanced gait. One leg is longer than the other. She is also quite a large woman, which one could almost expect given the disability and the limitations it places on physical exercise.

I met with her for two and a half hours on Sunday. She told me she felt called to yoga because she stretches every morning to help with her condition, but that the previous yoga classes she attended turned her off. She felt she could not keep up despite having been encouraged by the teachers to attend. She had almost given up on yoga when our mutual friend mentioned me. She contacted me after visiting my website (www.sanctuarygrace.com) because the tone of the website said something different to her than her previous teacher, whose website talked about "seeking perfection." Yikes. When she told me that, I had to refrain from commenting, but for me, that is so not what yoga is about.

My session with her went really well... and she now wants to regularly attend my weekend classes at the Yoga Garden in Oxford. I'm elated. Too, she sent me one of the most beautiful emails I have ever received. She said that her "soul was singing," and that her body felt so much better. She also believed she had learned a lot. I nearly cried when I got the email, and Kwok said to me, "Changing lives one posture at a time...."

It isn't just the physical, as I've said. One woman in my Monday class who has experienced some tremendous grief in the past year wept throughout the closing minutes of the last class she attended. Unfortunately/Fortunately, this has opened up her grief in a new way. She said to me that she believed she gave herself lots of space to think, but very little to feel--and that my yoga class gave her the space to just feel... and feel... and feel.

It is a powerful practice.

I feel unbelievably blessed that I can give this gift to others....

Recently, a New York Times article titled, "How Yoga Can Wreck Your Body," rattled the yoga world. If I'm being honest, I was annoyed by the article. I thought the article did not apply to Kripalu. It applies to poorly trained teachers and those that practice the physical practice without the mental and spiritual checks: meaning, those that practice with large doses of ego. (Ego can be a quick gateway to pain.) What bothered me most about the article was the fear. I thought, how many people who really need this practice will be turned away from it now because of an article that was largely used to promote a new book? Basically: lame.

The upshot is that many responses to the article appeared in the yoga community--some in favor, many in disfavor. A friend from my teacher training posted this link on our facebook group. What resonated with me most, however, was not the rebuttal to the NY Times, but the following:

On my first few meditation retreats, I couldn’t believe that I, a Yale-Law-educated, future captain of industry and/or government, was spending my time with these fuzzy-headed, New Age crystal-gazers. At least until some showed themselves to be emotionally adept and spiritually perceptive, and until I saw my own judgments as coming from fear and insecurity.

Substitute Yale-Law-educated with my educational and scholarly details, and there is a striking resemblance. To an extent, I still struggle to reconcile that driven student with this yoga teacher--the yoga teacher that forgets accolades and does not try to show people that yes, she is smart; yes, she is talented. How sad it feels that for years I never thought I was enough. I needed to be more, do more, to even come close to "being enough"--whatever that even means!

I am still on this journey... and I always will be on a journey. What yoga has taught me is not how to wreck my body, but how to love it and nurture it. It has also taught me to love and nurture myself--that essence that is housed in this physical vessel. I am so blessed... and I am wishing you blessings. In my mind, I see showers of blessed petals blowing, cascading the Earth over. How powerful the notion that within us lies the ability to heal.

Love to all!

Shit Yogis Say

2012-01-04T15:19:00.000-08:00

I have a list of things to post, but very little time at the moment. For now, I leave any dear readers with this, which has served to amuse me immensely this week.

Sweet Potato Juice and Coconut Milk

2011-12-12T13:57:00.000-08:00

I've recently become addicted to sweet potatoes. (Thank Kripalu which served yams at least every other day.) Yet, I found I was often cooking them in unhealthy ways (yam fries baked in olive oil with parsley and sea salt--yum). I figured my body was not actually gaining many of the nutrients sweet potatoes had to offer. So, I started doing a little research.

For any regular readers (as if), one would know that I love sweet potato juice... and I particularly love the nifty little fact that sweet potatoes have even more beta carotene than carrots. For anyone wondering, beta carotene is part of the phytonutrient carotenoid family, which provide sources of vitamin A, as well as can boost the immune system. Beta carotene also can give the skin a nice glow.

What I discovered yesterday from WHFoods.org is that the beta carotene in sweet potatoes is hard to absorb without an additional fat. I found that interesting, given than I'm always adding vegan mayo to my sweet potatoes (whether baked, boiled, mashed or otherwise). It seems that my body may have naturally craved that additional fat.

This morning, I decided to juice three sweet potatoes and mix them with a cup of organic coconut milk. All I have to say is: Mmmmmm. It was delicious. Also, I'm getting the full nutrient load from the uncooked sweet potatoes, while adding the additional healthy, tasty fat. It felt like some sort of exotic milkshake. Delightful... and destined to be repeated!

Love!

Kwok and Julie's Salsify, Mushroom and Coconut Wrap

2011-12-11T13:22:00.001-08:00

Together, Kwok and I created this dish tonight. It took a few hours in the kitchen to prepare and cook everything, but it is fun for us to be in the kitchen together. (It was the preparation and learning process of creating homemade tortillas that took the most time.)

This was the first time we made tortillas (and I frequently heed the words of yogi Jay who reminds that at whatever we practice we get better...). We also cooked salsify for the first time. Salsify is a root vegetable that looks a lot like a twig. Like most root vegetables, it is nutritious and contains numerous vitamins. It is also good for diabetics and provides a good vegetarian source of protein.

To begin, Kwok first prepared the salsify by washing it, cutting it and placing it in a steamer.

Next, he peeled the salsify (composting the peels) and cut it into bits.

Meanwhile, I made the tortilla dough from masa harina. (The tortilla-making process was long and difficult, so for now I'm going to suggest organic, plain corn tortillas.)

Then, we prepared the ingredients for the salsify filling.

Salsify, Mushroom and Coconut Tortilla Filling:

Ingredients:

1 tablespoon of olive oil
2 chopped cloves of garlic
1 chopped shallot
5-10 mushrooms
10 steamed, peeled and chopped 4-inch sticks of salsify
3/4 cup coconut milk
parsley to taste
pepper to taste
dash of salt
coriander seed to taste

Directions:
1) After preparing salsify, chop garlic, shallot and mushrooms.
2) Place olive oil in stock pan on medium-high heat.
3) Place garlic and shallot in olive oil and cook.
4) Add mushrooms.
5) When mushrooms have decreased in size, add coconut milk, parsley, pepper, salt and coriander. Stir.
6) Simmer mixture on low-heat.
7) Serve with corn tortillas.

Voila!

A Green Juice Morning

2011-12-11T02:57:00.001-08:00

With the holidays here, I find my usual balanced diet tilting more toward the sweet side of foods and away from balance. Even some of my favorite holiday savory foods, like split-pea soup, lean on the acidic end of the scale. To combat this acidity, I have been drinking a pint of water each day with a tablespoon of vinegar and juice from half a lemon. This mild tonic has alkalizing powers and can help bring balance to an acidic body. (There is a whole debate out there about acidity and alkalinity in the blood, but my own measure comes mainly from my throat... if I feel acid in my throat, I know I'm out of balance.)

This morning I decided to go for a green juice--something to rev up my Sunday and upload massive amounts of nutrients into my body. The recipe makes enough for two.

Green Juice Morning

Ingredients:

1 pound of kale
7 stalks of celery
6 small apples
2 large 1-inch hunks of fresh ginger
juice from 1.5 lemons

Instructions:

1) Juice in a high-powered juicer. If not available, it is possible to blend all these ingredients in a high-powered blender and squeeze the juice through a cheese cloth or nut mylk bag.

Enjoy!

Julie's Squash and Onion Pancakes

2011-12-10T11:59:00.001-08:00

When I went to Ukraine in 2005, I was a vegetarian... and many times, people found it difficult to feed me. I ate a lot of potatoes, potato pancakes and bread and cheese. I did, however, fall in love with the potato pancakes, and for those that don't know, I have a squash addiction.... (See below.) I decided to combine the two loves tonight and it was a taste success! Nonetheless, I still am struggling to figure out how to stop the pancakes from sticking to the pan. We eventually baked them, but even that proved sticky. (Any advice would be welcome!)

Our giant pine box of squash for the winter

Julie's Squash and Onion Pancakes

Ingredients:

3 cups grated Patty Pan squash or other yellow/white summer squash
1 chopped onion
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon parsley
1/2 cup nutritional yeast
Replacer for two eggs (if not Orgran or other replacer, use flaxmeal)
1 cup whole wheat flour
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
Pepper to taste
Soy milk as needed

Directions:

1) Peel raw squash and grate three cups of flesh.
2) Chop one large onion.
3) Combine squash, onion, salt, parsley, nutritional yeast, egg replacer, flour, baking soda, baking powder and pepper in a mixing bowl.
4) Add soy milk until the mixture is smooth but firm (slightly thicker than normal pancake batter).
5) Either cook in olive oil on stove, or cook at 180°C/350°F in greased baking pan.
6) Remove when browned.
7) Enjoy!

Squash and Onion Pancake

Vegan Harvest Bundt Cake

2011-12-10T11:02:00.001-08:00

I utilized this recipe to make a delicious vegan alternative. Again, I'm not claiming that there are any miraculous health benefits here, though I do believe a vegan choice is a healthier option than a non-vegan choice.

A word of warning: this recipe will definitely work on your vegan baking skills. It takes time and love, but it is so worth it!

Meanwhile, I've made vegan pumpkin pie (recipe to come later), vegan snickerdoodles, vegan sugar cookies (with the kids at work), and this vegan harvest bundt cake for my co-workers to try. All have been loved. Yay!

Julie's Vegan Harvest Bundt Cake

Julie's Vegan Variation on the Autumn Harvest Bundt Cake

Ingredients:

For the filling:

Raw vegan cream cheese*
Replacer for 1 egg
2 tablespoons cornstarch
1/4 cup Vermont maple syrup
1/4 cup honey
2 tablespoons vegan margarine
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 cup cranberries, chopped

For the Cake:

3 cups whole wheat flour
2 teaspoons baking soda
2 teaspoons cinnamon
3/4 teaspoon nutmeg
3/4 teaspoon ginger
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup raw cane sugar
1/2 cup honey
1/2 cup maple syrup
1 cup vegan margarine
Replacer for 4 eggs
1 cup pumpkin puree
1 cup raw sour cream**
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

*For raw vegan cream cheese:

1.75 cups cashews
1/4 cup macadamia nuts
2 teaspoons unpasteurized white miso
juice from 1/2 a lemon
3 tablespoons olive oil
1 teaspoon salt

**For vegan sour cream:

3/4 cup soy milk
1/4 cup olive oil
2 teaspoons apple cider vinegar

Instructions:

1) Begin by making the raw vegan cream cheese. Puree all ingredients together in a high-powered blender until smooth. If high-powered blender or food processer is unavailable, use 2 cups of cashew butter as an alternative and blend all ingredients together.

2) If using a blender or food processer, add filling ingredients to vegan cream cheese mix--blending on high until smooth. If not using blender/processer: in a medium bowl, beat together the raw vegan cream cheese, egg replacer, cornstarch and maple syrup. Add the honey, sugar, margarine, salt, cinnamon and cranberries until combined. Refrigerate until ready to use.

3) Preheat the oven to 350°F/175°C.

4) Grease a 12-cup Bundt pan with coconut oil and set aside.

5) In another bowl sift together flour, baking soda, cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger and salt. Set aside.

6) Make vegan sour cream by simply adding the ingredients together and stirring till blended. Set aside.

7) In a large bowl beat the sugar, honey, maple syrup and margarine from the cake ingredient list until light and fluffy. Add egg replacer and mix until blended. Beat in pumpkin, vegan sour cream and vanilla until well combined. Beat in the flour mixture until just combined.

8) Spoon one third of the cake batter into the pan. Spoon filling in a circle on top of the batter but do not allow filling to touch the edge of the pan. Top with remaining batter.

9) Bake for 55-65 minutes until golden brown and cake tester comes out clean.

10) Remove from oven and place on cooling rack for 15 minutes. Turn out on to serving plate to cool completely.

11) Share and enjoy!

Delicious Vegan Snickerdoodles (three variants)

2011-12-05T05:44:00.001-08:00

So, by no means would I qualify these as a health food. In fact, the amount of raw sugar in the recipe is a little scary, but one thing I learned during my raw food days is that sometimes the joy and tradition of baking far outweighs any negative effect it may have on my health. (This is my experience. Of course, this by no means applies to everyone.) Cooking and baking for me are creative processes, as well as time-honored traditions. They do my psyche good. Last night, I baked these snickerdoodles as Kwok and I decorated the tree and watched Elf in the background.

Julie's Delicious Vegan Snickerdoodles

Ingredients:

1/2 cup vegan margarine (Pure for those in the UK, Earthbalance for those in the US)
1/4 cup olive oil
1/4 cup coconut oil
1.5 cups of raw demerara sugar
Egg replacer for 2 eggs (I used Orgran for the first time and was very impressed!) (Eggs can also be replaced by flax meal, tofu or bananas)
2.75 cups whole wheat flour
2 teaspoons arrow root powder (can substitute cream of tartar)
1 teaspoon baking soda
2 teaspoons cinnamon
2 teaspoons maple syrup (in honor of Elf)
Optional: soy milk

Variation 1:
The above (minus soy milk) plus:

Shavings from one organic orange
1/4 teaspoon orange extract
Optional: orange juice

Variation 2:
Ingredients (minus soy milk) plus:

Shavings from one organic orange
1/4 teaspoon orange extract
1/2 teaspoon chocolate extract
2 tablespoons raw cacao powder
Optional: orange juice

Instructions:

1) Heat oven to 400°F or 190°C.
2) Combine margarine, olive oil, coconut oil, sugar and egg replacer in a large mixing bowl.
3) Add flour, arrow root powder, baking soda, cinnamon and maple syrup. Combine.
4) If mixture is too dry (it might be) add soy milk until reaching a cookie-dough-like consistency.
5) For variations, add additional ingredients, adding orange juice if mixture is too dry.
6) Place on ungreased baking sheet in small dough balls.
7) Bake in oven for 8-10 minutes or until set.
8) Remove from baking sheet immediately.
9) Allow to cool and enjoy!

Ellen Wertz: December 6, 1955 - November 23, 2011

2011-11-25T02:39:00.001-08:00

I woke up this morning to blue English skies and a sun shining. Before even a morning stretch, I felt everything sink with one sigh.

Yesterday, Thanksgiving Day, I learned that one of my life's very best friends lost his mother--a woman I also love(d) dearly.

Ellen died on Wednesday. I had seen her and Tim only last month, the day of the Alma College Homecoming. We went to eat and I could see then that time was thin. I had also spent an afternoon with her this past March--convinced now that the only reason I had that job interview (the one that made me fly back to the States) was so I could spend that time with her. It was a brilliant afternoon of which I listened for hours to stories--of her, her family, and of course, her son, my friend, and his indomitable love of math even by the age of seven.

Last night, I spent the evening figuring if I could return again--less than two weeks since I have only just returned this side of the Atlantic. My passport, actually hanging by a thread, the holiday... everything... meant that no, I can't go. The embassy cannot help me. I can't go and hug my friend and support that community I was weaved into for so many years. So now, I sit... yoga training in heart... and send bounties of energy and love--cascading across the Atlantic. At the moment, it doesn't quite feel like enough... but it will have to be... somehow.

I still cannot fully comprehend all this means... simple things like phone calls with her no longer exist in this plane. The photo of Tim and I in drag (him an ugly woman with a beard and trashy lipstick, myself a newsboy with a fake black eye) no longer sits on her desk at the Alma College Registrar's Office. What this means for my friend, his family, is more devastating. What this means for their holidays, their every day is devastating.

When my own father died, what hurt me most was seeing my grandfather... the pain at eighty-two of losing a son. I think for many of us, myself included, hurt me--fine; hurt my friend--not at all fine. Of course, there is no intent or malice in the scenario here... but the pain of my friend is palpable. It beats in my heart and I feel helpless. My mind repeats like a record that this is the way of things. This is the rhythm of life... but something about that lacks comfort in this moment.

I am grateful this day and all days for her life and that I had the privilege of knowing it... and I am grateful today and all days for the life she brought forth in my beautiful friend. Now, it seems, perhaps this gratitude will be what carries through... winds over the Earth. My love.

Being a yogini

2011-11-23T14:43:00.001-08:00

If someone had told me a few years ago that I would become a passionate yoga teacher and gladly, gratefully, willfully choose not to pursue a PhD before my thirtieth birthday, I would have been offended. Of course, this is now the reality.

Earlier this year, on this blog, I wrote that I felt like this was going to be the year of physical change in my health--that I was going to somehow miraculously become fit (i.e. skinny, though I didn't say it) and abandon any issues I had with food. In many ways, I was correct--in others, so wrong.

I'm still a US size 10--a healthy US 10. This has not changed since the start of 2011. My weight may be a few pounds less. Christmas is coming (to balance the force). My whole-food vegan diet is still healthy, with occasional bouts of a strong sweet (dark chocolate) tooth. While at Kripalu, I had a revelation that I have this chocolate tooth, but each time I buy chocolate, I feel guilty about it. I've given up the guilt. I embrace my love of chocolate. Bring on the chocolate!

What Kripalu has built in me is a strong foundation in myself. I am fit. I have an amazing body that is so beautifully complex, and it does all this incredible work for me. How could I hate it? How could I hurl cruel insults to it? No more. I love my body. I'll even embrace the cellulite (which may or may not be related to embracing the chocolate). Do I still have issues with food? A few, but not as many. I'm learning to witness my thoughts, ask questions, and if I eat when I'm bored and recognize it--well, okay then. I breathe into it. Enjoy each moment. Feel it to its fullest. What else am I doing here if not that?

At the moment, my working life offers me the following: teaching yoga, teaching creative writing, and working with young people at a youth centre. In these capacities, I am able to fulfill so many of my life's passions: teaching, offering love, bringing mindfulness to people, helping others connect to themselves and the greater world around them.... The list goes on... and on... and so beautifully on.

For a long time, I've considered doing a MS in nutrition to become a nutritionist. I'm starting to believe that being a yoga teacher offers me more. Nutrition will follow where mindfulness leads. Helping people to love themselves, in my humble opinion, may help them far more than me offering them advice about diet (though as a yoga teacher, if asked, I'll be more than forthcoming about my love of veganism).

I'm excited. I'm excited for all the possibilities. All the possibilities of just being.

So far too, it has served me well. My children's book has an interested publisher; I've built two websites, and today I learned I have the opportunity to work with a young women's sexual trauma group--doing yoga. I feel like crying--it is so amazing.

Love to all. More to come. (Have to write about the "mouse family" in the shed... and my attempts to learn to drive a stick shift. I have been in the UK 4.5 years now afterall....)

Om, shanti, shanti, shanti.
Peace, peace, peace.

www.sanctuarygrace.com

http://juliebolitholee.webeden.co.uk/ (Will be www.juliebolitholee.com when some kinks are worked out.)

Beauty. Kripalu. Life.

2011-11-14T18:29:00.000-08:00

I'm sitting at gate 15 in terminal 2 at JFK... and it is perhaps the nicest gate at which I have ever sat. My laptop is plugged in at my own little booth, and it feels as if someone is about to roller-skate over and bring me a (soy) milkshake. It is 9pm and I am exhausted, but so wholly content.

I almost didn't even begin writing this post, because I kept thinking: I have less than an hour to board and what could words do in this instance, anyway?

What I gained in the last month at Kripalu was more than a yoga certification. I gained a sangha... and I also gained myself (as cliche as it sounds). What I realized by the end of the second week in that sweet home in the Berkshires is that talk--words--will not explain what transpired--externally or internally. I can only express it by living it.

There will be many posts to come... regarding the realizations, the practices, the family I now know.

I have spent the last three nights in New York City with Elisabeth. I had not seen her in a year and a half, and yet... as always, we melt into each other light. Our parting was met with the joy that she will be in the UK for Christmas--a surprise to me and one of the best gifts I could be given any year. (She will not spend Christmas with us as she and her lovely fiance are going to London to see his mother, but I will still have her/them for at least a day.)

This afternoon I spent perusing Bergen Street and the surrounding areas of Brooklyn--waiting till 3:00 when I met up with my lovely summertime boss, his wife and their seven-year-old daughter. They want to publish my children's book. This is happy. Amazing.

For the majority of the last four weeks, I was in a nurturing, nourishing bubble... and I experienced some anxiety and apprehension about floating out of that bubble, but when I boarded the plane in Albany and the beautiful, black male flight attendant smiled at me, I just had this overwhelming sensation of words: Everything will be all right. This is right. Everything will be all right. When SuperShuttle botched my reservation and I ended up in a private cab to 111th Street on 11/11/11, and the thought crossed my mind that the driver could take me wherever and cut me up into little bits, I thought of Devarshi (one of our teachers) and his proverbs... and I was content. I am light. My cells are light... and around my flesh, around my physical wrist are mala beads that remind me of amazing lights I have known, lights that have touched me, penetrated me, and are part of my own light now.

I went to Kripalu slightly bothered by some of the dubious or sympathetic responses proffered... and now, post-Kripalu, I beam: I am a yoga teacher. I am an academic and I am a writer and I am amazing. You may not agree, and that is okay. You make think I flaked out, and that is okay. You may, like my sangha-sister Kelly says, think I drank some special kool-aid... and that is okay. You are still amazing too.

Love to all.

Om Namo Bhagavate Vasudevaya
Om Namo Bhagavate Vasudevaya
Om Namo Bhagavate Vasudevaya

Kripalu: End of Day 1

2011-10-17T19:11:00.000-07:00

I do not know how it is that I sat here and typed a blog post earlier this morning. It could have been a year ago. My whole day has been filled with amazing "lectures," yoga practice, fellow students, great food, lovely walks and amazing scenery.

I feel nearly too tired to type and I wish I had all my notes handy from "class" today. Some things I have learned about myself, however, are how entrenched some insecurities remain. Yesterday and today were like the first days of school. I worried obsessively about being the "fat kid" (even though I am no longer the fat kid.) I feel nervous and anxious around other women--with whom I spend most of my time because I live in a large female dorm room (20 people), most of our class is female, and the sauna and jacuzzi are divided by gender (this is good as we are all literally naked).

To counterbalance that, however, I have also learned that I am more advanced in my spiritual practice than some of my more physically adept classmates. (This is not to say I'm better by any means, but that I have my strengths as well.)

I have also learned that I have an immense ability to love these people--to see their light, to be a compassionate witness. I just need to learn to do this for myself... but doing it for others helps me do it for myself. Divarshi, one of our main instructors, led us through a pretty tough sequence today--and it was amazing because he brought both comic relief and spirituality to the practice. One sequence was particularly hard on the butt and the hips, and he had us chant, "Oh, I love my butt and back," as we were doing it. Eventually he had us turn to the person next to us and say, "I love your butt and back." That was amazing. Suddenly, I forgot how much it actually burned.

So... I just had about a thirty-minute pause in writing this post because lovely Meg sat down with me. Meg is one more reason I know I am meant to be here right now. To get to Kripalu yesterday, I flew from Traverse City to Detroit and Detroit to Albany. Meg flew from Saint Louis to Detroit and Detroit to Albany. Guess which two people on the flight were assigned seats next to each other? Yes, that's right--yours truly and Meg. It was just one more sign that this is where I am meant to be right now.

I had been praying for the return of synchronicity to my life... the synchronicity that caused people to comment in college--on just how coincidental everything in my life seemed to be. It seems those prayers are being answered by the universe. I am very grateful.

Love, love, love--including within yourself!

Here at Kripalu

2011-10-17T04:00:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting in the cafe at Kripalu watching the sun rise over the Berkshire mountains in western Massachusetts. I am here for one month of yoga training, and surprisingly, it seems I have told very few people about this endeavor.

Last week, I flew home to Michigan for eight days. The days were filled with visits to friends and family--and notably, visits with friends I have not seen for years or do not usually have opportunity with whom to visit.

What I am finding in this moment is a struggle to write... and it has been a cloudy struggle for some time now. My hope is that this month at Kripalu will lift some of those clouds, help to free me, give me energy to write again--even just simple blog posts.

On Saturday, I went to the Alma College homecoming--an event I avoided like the plague when I was a student there. When I told some alumni I knew about my upcoming teacher training, I received what I can only describe as perplexed or mildly sympathetic looks. Nonetheless, when I went to the English department reception, I received nothing but support. It is no wonder I was always so drawn to that department--one that seemingly focused on spirituality and wellness as much as literature.

I've been repeatedly asked, "So is that what you're going to do now?" I think of Shiva Rea, a brilliant and beautiful surfer/yogi, who said that she is done practicing or doing yoga--now she only wishes to live yoga. This resonates with me. I do hope I can bring yoga to others and that my unique experiences will inform my yoga and my yoga teaching. Is it what I'm going to do now? Well, it is one thing I will do. More importantly though is this word of "now." Right now, I am sitting in the Kripalu cafe watching the sun rise over the Berkshire mountains in western Massachusetts. It is a beautiful morning. My day will be filled with yoga and love. This program aims to infuse all aspects of life with compassion. So, I suppose, yes, that is what I am doing now. Sure, I miss Kwok and the petsies, but I will be a better partner and pet-mama for it.

Love, love, love!

Downpours

2011-09-18T14:57:00.000-07:00

Tonight, as Kwok and I walked the dogs, a downpour released. In the distance the sun shined, seemingly warming the drops as they fell. By the end of the walk, there were no dry hairs on my head, my jeans stuck to my thighs, and I could do nothing but stupidly smile as drops batted my eyelashes and fell onto my teeth. All three dogs had different reactions--Janie, cold and damp, wanted to get home as quickly as possible; Benji, the old man, seemingly cringed and trudged on; Elu... Elu seemed to gain superpowers, caffeinated energy, from the water. His fluffy, metrosexual appearance and attitude disappeared... and appeared the rough and tumble spaniel--and one that ran at full speed, jumping logs and splashing through puddles--smiling through literal canines.

I was reminded of Tim--the beautiful rainstorm we experienced on Lake Michigan shores in 2006. I have just searched through the entries from my old blog. This is what I posted at 2:26am on Friday, 25 August 2006:

My hair is the most beautiful curly it can ever be--natural from fresh rain. After a day of making Ethiopian food and hanging around Tim and my mom, Tim and I drive to a place that most would consider the middle of nowhere--somewhere lost between Manistee and Ludington, Fern Gulley and the shores of Lake Michigan.

College friends from Theta Chi are having pre-post Wild Weekend and Tim and I find them for a visit at eight o'clock this evening. (Don't ask if you don't know about "pre-post Wild Weekend.") It is raining and I tend the fire while Mikey gets more firewood. People chat abundantly and I am my usual quieter-than-normal self, as I often am with the college crew.

I was a bit worried about driving so late as you can now feel the rush of fall. It's more than cloud formations and early darkness. You can feel it nipping at your bones, skating past your eyelids. It's something as simple as the way the smells of spice linger in the house after a meal. I worried about the rain, deer--the sense of danger of which fall reminds.

I wondered why I was going.... I felt like I shouldn't be in the car sitting passenger when such strange worries rushed my mind, but I said nothing--not even a word about the unease of the Pink Floyd album playing in the background.

I am reminded of winter.... when I returned from San Francisco a bit more vulnerable, a bit more broken, a bit more susceptible to the cold. On a cold, frozen night, I leave Theta Chi, hugging Tim goodbye to return to Wright--the rickety old stairs killing my left knee a little more with each step. Pain stabs through me. I am halfway to Wright, an icicle in motion when I realize I left my keys in Tim's room. My rekindled spirituality begs the question of the purpose... and when I get there, Tim fixes my disheveled scarf before I leave again. I'm left with a sense of warmth and know I am loved. Later, as I write about it in my personal journal, I know the purpose--so well.

Tonight, we take a stroll through backwoods not only to get to the campsite, but through even deeper forest to find valleys and shallows and crests of dunes. We traverse despite the rain, our wet shoes, jean absorbing water, rain-damp hair.... Each footprint marks the wet sand and brings the dry, tan speckles forward--enmeshes them with the wet, brown peaks. We find the lake in a thunderstorm--stumbling through lightning and scattered flashlight beams. I stand and watch as the lightning bursts and there are grays and greens, tans and blues--white caps become more than sound and it is a thing of beauty worth each micro-second. I wonder if it would be too beautiful for one to hold for more than the brief moments we grasp it. The rain comes harder with each passing minute and soon there is a down pour.... and I open my arms and suck the rain into my new coat--worn for the first time this evening. I taste my home face wash as it flows off my face--substituted by rain. There isn't even a chill in my body because I knew that this was purpose. Arms outstretched to the rain and bursts of color on Lake Michigan.

Sometimes it seems as if the rain heals more than words... than any form of medication. In my mind, under a canopy of leaking leaves on a trail turned river, I said hello to God today... even though I remain unsure of who or what God is... but God, at the very least for me, is warm rain.

I leave you with today's Writer's Almanac, as well as a link to a song I've only recently discovered.

*****
Sunday at the End of Summer
by Howard Nemeroy

Last night the cold wind and the rain blew
Hard from the west, all night, until the creek
Flooded, tearing the end of a wooden bridge
Down to hang, trembling, in the violent water.

This morning, with the weather still in rage,
I watched workmen already at repairs.
Some hundred of us came around to watch,
With collars turned against the rain and wind.

Down the wild water, where men stood to the knees,
We saw come flooding hollyhock and vine,
Sunflowers tall and broken, thorny bramble
And pale lilies cracked along the stalk.

Ours was the Sunday's perfect idleness
To watch those others working; who fought, swore,
Being threshed at hip and thigh, against that trash

Of pale wild flowers and their drifting legs.

"Sunday at the End of Summer" by Howard Nemerov, from New and Selected Poems. © The University of Chicago Press, 1960

An update

2011-09-16T14:14:00.000-07:00

It has been too long and I've written too infrequently for months. It feels impossible to catch up, to even catch the breath... but I did tonight, at dusk, arriving home with a load of groceries and storage containers, only to see dozens, maybe even hundreds of gulls flying over the cottage. I propped myself between our two cars--back against my blue Neon (soon to be junked as it has beyond failed its MOT) and feet pressed to the panel of Kwok's '98 Micra. I tipped my head onto the deep blue metal and watched as clouds in the distance appeared like God's hands--cotton plumes brought together by competing winds--taking a dip in the receding red sky. When dangling a leg, I could not reach the stones below; it was as close as I could come to flying. How surreal it seemed to hear the trees, even the shaking apples across the road, but no sound from the seagulls in landlocked Oxford--so high that only outlines could be noted, vague shadows across swirling blue hues. I watched as they danced, thought of the humpback whales, how the gulls somehow become avian ocean mammals--flocks dancing with each other, not as individuals like the humpbacks, but as units producing healthy and fierce vaulted ballets. It is miraculous... and suddenly I insignificant.

The dissertation long handed-in now (10 days gone), the summer teaching only recalled in secret smiles and steady moments, the house now a disaster in the midst of an autumn clean... it all seems to be everything and nothing.

Kwok and I are sorting through files, through clothes, through our accumulated life--ridding bagfuls of material clutters--matter which clutters the mind and spirit... and in one file folder, I found print-outs, hundreds of pages, of our email communications that we had to send to some immigration officer when I wanted to enter Britain as a wife. How strange that a random man or woman read these messages--saw our longstanding jokes, and if they were literary, saw the epic foreshadows of our future which even we did not foretell at the time of writing. I sat and read Kwok emails last night, in our clutter-strewn house, until 12:30--long past his bedtime. They were beautiful.. and we were beautiful in our words.

I am working not to try, but to just be, that person I loved for spells. The gulls bring me back... to the writer, the painter, the dreamer. They remove me from the adult, the one with typical adult problems: money, time, house chores.

In three weeks, I am back to Michigan--nine glorious days in a northern October--my favorite month, and the first I will have seen there in five years. I will inhale the fireworks of the northern trees, fill my lungs with pine and the scents of the creatures that inherit the woods beyond our house. Following those nine days, it is off to Massachusetts... the US Berkshires... for a month to train as a yoga instructor. I am nervous. It is one of few times I know I will not, cannot, be the best at something, but the reality is that it is not a competition. The point is that it is not a competition. Kripalu yoga aims to speak to the body through the heart, not speak to the heart through the body.

The trip will end with one more long weekend in Manhattan--four days with Elisabeth, whose spirit seems to blend with mine like oil paint, so perfect no matter the season or colors. I last saw her in June of last year--following experiencing my father for the last time standing, the last time speaking--his brain already failing him even then. I sought respite in this city only because she was there--this city that nearly broke me after cancer took a swing in 2004. Now, because it is her home, it is one of mine. And now she is New Haven too. A PhD at Yale to make her one of the most elite people in the world... and yet, not vicariously, it is part of me, because it is her. Even crummy New Haven is me because she is there... and it sounds like she is my lover, but the simplicity is that our spirits merely reach to each other like Adam to God.

I will be away from Kwok and the pets (my other soulmates) for five weeks... but the hope is that I will come back me, renewed, no matter how downcast the British weather.

There are plans in the air. The gulls speak them. The wind carries them. They are in the wispy hands of God.

Heroes

2011-08-19T14:16:00.001-07:00

I wish I could do this kind of stuff... mainly the free-running, but it is all beautiful.

One year on

2011-08-12T16:24:00.000-07:00

I haven't posted in a month. There are so many reasons for this--namely teaching and the dissertation--but I'm not writing to write of these things (the teaching beautiful, the dissertation disasterous).

Today, technically, is the one-year anniversary of my dad's death. Despite today being the anniversary, yesterday for me was the day of remembrance. My dad died at 1am on the 12th, which, in my night owl's mind translates as the 11th.

Yesterday at the youth centre, I was sweeping sand, alone in the centre with my boss, my friend, Marie, and I began talking of fried okra, shopping at Willow, and being seemingly incapable of appeasing an automatic car wash. The 11th and 12th of last August are encoded in my brain in ways unexpected--like a movie I've seen a hundred times, or the keys to a piano. They exist in infinite space and have washed me in recollections for the past thirty-six hours.

This morning, Kwok woke me at 6am for our new routine of early morning yoga practice. Today, I went back to sleep--no yoga, too much dissertation work ahead for the day... but I didn't go back to sleep without thinking about the washing machine, hearing it when I awoke at 6 or so this same morning a year ago--the sound to me that signaled death, clean and finished.

Writing this, I keep rubbing my eyes, as if any moment they will betray me--blur the screen and the keys. Kwok is behind me on his own computer and I feel tense, as if having him, the dogs, any breathing being in the room with me at this moment is intrusive.

I've moved into the other room now. Elu is on the couch with me, but it somehow feels more tolerable. I'm playing Joe Purdy's "The City" on repeat. I hardly ever play music when I write anymore. Sometime after college, my mind became more "adult." Organized chaos became less acceptable and more distracting. Now it seems I am disallowing myself from fully engaging with the reality of the one-year mark--as if one year means the period of grief is over.

Today, I was reading a YA fiction book on HIV/AIDS for my dissertation (something about disease and children's literature...) and the heroine losses her mother to HIV/AIDS at thirteen. I was amazed how many of this character's thoughts were reflective of my own thoughts of losing my dad, someone with whom I had an awkward relationship at the best of times, at the age of twenty-six. The heroine, Emmy, talks of her marvel that life simply continues--that cars still pass, people still carry on with their lives while yours seemingly stops. I remember standing in line at the grocery store, looking around and thinking, "Not one of you knows that my dad just died. You're handling my food--passing it down to a bag boy who is putting that broccoli that I will eat later into a brown paper bag--but you don't know that my dad just died."

There are images indelibly printed on my mind. Alzheimer's and dementia terrify me possibly even more than plane crashes, and yet, I somehow struggle to think that diseases so powerful could remove these images from me. I see Mary, my friend of years--the one of whom I wrote, "nine years of friendship in our pockets" (see, I can even remember lines from 365-day-old blog posts)--putting pink sponges on sticks, lolly-looking objects, into my dad's mouth, trying to keep his mouth from drying out.

I still see that oval scar... his feet. Last week, as I was typing, working on the fifty-five (insane) grade reports, I realized that the shape of my arm and wrist typing were very similar to his--his which later in his life were ridden with carpal tunnel.

(I've posted last year's blog posts below for reference--things like the oval scar and car wash, etc.)

In 2005, I spent the one-year anniversary of a friend's mother's death in Ukraine with her and her family. The Ukrainians have a traditional feast on the one-year anniversary of a loved one's death. We went to her mother's grave. I never met Svita's mom, but Svita is one of the kindest, most intelligent, hardworking people I have ever met. I speak no Russian, no Ukrainian, but on that day it did not matter. There are times when we can be like dogs--my favorite creature (if the title of my blog didn't give that away)--when we do not need words, when the common language is blood and breath.

In no way have I been lost in the last year without my father--not in the way that Elisabeth was lost without her father--her loss that I said I would trade for her if I could... and I would have. Seeing her break, to lose any faith she may have had left at that time, is a pain that still jolts my heart--sends electric shocks to my system, shocks of love, of our incredible friendship.

My dad's death, if nothing else, serves as a constant reminder of my friendships. It is the writing of this, the thinking of these people... the moment when I grasped Troy, my brother, at the memorial service... and the relief I felt at his touch--that I am brought to my knees (brought to a cliche).

I am debating in my mind how much to reveal of the chronological memory. It is so clear--scarily clear. I suppose it is superfluous to this post though. You only need know of the okra, left from the farmer's market, that I cooked that night for my mom with chilies and olive oil... how I made roasted squash risotto and a roasted green bean dish... how I cried in the bathroom... because I desperately wanted to feed my mom a proper meal, but felt overwhelming guilt and grief, that my dad who had an attachment, an addiction, to food, was a room away, dying. Could he smell the food? Did he want any? I am again reduced to tears.

The one-year anniversary of his death feels a betrayal, because it is still too fresh to be one-year. I have not been demolished by his demise. I have not been defeated, and in many ways, I have been enlivened and freed... and he would be happy for me; he would want me to lose his baggage. Yet, what I often feel like saying, is that while I am amazing, strong, and free, and while our relationship was tumult, it does not translate as any other experience than my own. I am not lost in grief, nor is grief lost on me. I am not guilt-ridden or angst-filled, but I am also not without sadness and some convoluted feelings regarding his death. Simply, I am human... brilliant and complicated.

Yesterday, as I drove my car, I thought of my dad... how he will be forever 53, but he would actually be 55 in December. Again, this YA fiction book echoed the sentiment today--we go on, while the dead are forever the same. My dad only knew me at 26 for eight days, but he was sedated for most of those days... and when my mother told him it was my birthday on the 4th, he didn't know who I was anymore. So really, he last knew me at twenty-five. I am twenty-seven now.

I cannot avoid thinking of the W.S. Merwin poem, "Yesterday," a poem of which I so frequently think as I turn the key in the lock to our little cottage--a poem I think of as I see the green digits of the oven clock through the glass of the door. There is no reason for this; it is just fact.

"Yesterday"
W.S. Merwin

My friend says I was not a good son
you understand
I say yes I understand

he says I did not go
to see my parents very often you know
and I say yes I know

even when I was living in the same city he says
maybe I would go there once
a month or maybe even less
I say oh yes

he says the last time I went to see my father
I say the last time I saw my father

he says the last time I saw my father
he was asking me about my life
how I was making out and he
went into the next room
to get something to give me

oh I say
feeling again the cold
of my father's hand the last time

he says and my father turned
in the doorway and saw me
look at my wristwatch and he
said you know I would like you to stay
and talk with me

oh yes I say

but if you are busy he said
I don't want you to feel that you
have to
just because I'm here

I say nothing
he says my father
said maybe
you have important work you are doing
or maybe you should be seeing
somebody I don't want to keep you

I look out the window
my friend is older than I am
he says and I told my father it was so
and I got up and left him then
you know

though there was nowhere I had to go
and nothing I had to do

"Yesterday" by W.S. Merwin, from Migration. © Copper Canyon Press, 2005.

So, with that, I leave you for tonight--a year on.

Love, love, love.

POSTS FROM LAST AUGUST:

Home Again (post)
August 11, 2010

It is hard to even know what to write, where to begin.

There are small things to share--the one good film on the plane, Please Give, or just the simple fact that for the first time ever, I had no problems on a planned journey between London Heathrow and Traverse City via O'Hare.

Then there are the wordless things... vaguely described by language: my father's breathing, his hollow cheeks, his body that looks like its been through the Holocaust, the oval birthmark on his leg that once seemed so large, but now is shrunken with the rest of him. He is sedated--in a constant sleep, though an occasional cough escapes him. If he's moved by the nurses, he winces.

My mother, Mary and I seem to move about the house in orbit. My mother's energy is nervous, constant--always she must be doing something. I am tired, jetlagged, unable to properly vocalize the pain of these things, as if it would betray my former self, former experiences. Mary is here--nine years of friendship in our pockets--and she moves as she does, quietly, efficiently.

I sat on an old chair, one that belongs with my great-grandmother's sewing table, next to my father last night. I touched his arm, but eventually settled near that oval mark--something that has always been so distinct, so indicitive to me of "father." His feet are oddly pretty--feet that were always cold, a genetic trait he seemingly passed to me. I wonder now if his nose was constantly cold, bumping my mother's cheek the way mine does Kwok.

Petting his leg, tears came down my face and the cat, who had been next to the sewing table, jumped onto the bed. He lays behind me now as I write this. My mom says that the cat has been desperate to be near my father, but she kept shooing him out, because he would step on my dad's chest and cause him visible pain. Last night, the cat, Snuggles (or Mr. Snuggles to some), rubbed my face and eventually sat opposite my dad's legs. He stared at me and purred. Every five minutes or so, he would come to me and rub my face again and then lie back next to my father's legs. Eventually, he stretched his back paw over my father's foot. I smiled and went to get my mother.

This was all I could do last night.

This is probably all I can write now as well. My mother has just gone for a run and is now in the shower next to this room. Her singing has always been a bit of an inconvenience for my ears... so I believe I will leave this here.

Update (post)
August 11, 2010

Mary and I bought groceries in the early part of the afternoon today. I am still jetlagged. Conversations do not seem fluid. I cannot muster energy to put on makeup or do my hair despite knowing that every time I go out into Cadillac, I will see someone I know (Walt Whitmer and Lena Kane today). I bop my left hand into the door repeatedly, searching for the shifter--my instincts now British. We took my mom's car through the car wash... laughing about the "Move Forward," "STOP," and "Back Up" signs displayed through electronic, flashing lights (and the signs' seeming disapproval of me and my ability to move forward, stop and back up). When we arrive home, there is a visible change in my mother--her face, her movements. My dad is growing cold... despite having a fever of 104. We've called the relatives. His parents and sister are on their way.

We are still orbiting--moving in and out of his room. It is hard to reconcile the father I knew with the cancer-ridden body lying in a bed. "Surreal" is the word heard every hour.

We are near the end now. The curtains billow, the wind signing that this has always been the way--birth and death have always been done. This has always been the way; they have always been done.

After my Father's Death (post)
August 13, 2010

There have been so many kind messages. My mother and I have, in fact, been inundated with them. This is a blessing, not a burden.

For weeks, when I'd phone my mother, she would often tell me things she had already told me... or reference something she thought she had told me. I understand this now, although much more mildly as I was not looking after my sick father for all that time. Yesterday, the men from the funeral home came to collect the body. I was on the phone with Kwok, and hung up because of their arrival. Hours later, when I finally spoke to him again, I had entirely forgotten our morning conversation--the things I had told him, the reason I had hung up.

Our day yesterday was a busy blur. When I awoke at 6:30am, I heard the washing machine... and I knew this was unusual--wondered then if it was over, if he had gone. When I saw the dining table, laden with his medications, I knew it was over. The medications had previously been in the bedroom or on the kitchen counter.

I did not want to see him, but when my mother sat crying next to him as the men were preparing to take him away, I went into the bedroom to be with her and saw what she had already said: he looked peaceful, almost joyful. His face was no longer stressed and pained, his body no longer a home of hurt.

My grandparents and aunt and uncle (his parents and sister + husband) came the night before, the night he died. We sat around him, knowing that the time was coming: his fever, his mottled limbs, the changes to his breathing.

I struggle to write this not from tears, but from the seeming inability to escape cliches. Death has no words.
Yesterday morning, I phoned my grandfather at 7am to tell them his son had gone. My grandparents are eighty-two and have aged more in the last year than they had in the previous five. I still try not to cry in front of them, in front of any family. Yet, the moment I phone Jess in the late part of the morning, I breakdown, stand under the back porch crying to her as my family is in the house.

My mother and I stupidly have to go to the bank... and are there for over an hour... setting up a memorial fund that needs to be published with the obituary. The obituary is in the paper today.

I wondered if I would lack hunger through this period, but this has proved a false assumption. My mother and I form a chorus of rumbling stomachs while at the bank. We go to lunch with my family, and Mary who had been with us, helping my mother through all of it... Mary who had put cream on my father's bed sore and consistently sponged his mouth and applied chapstick to his lips. We sit at Lakeside Charlie's, on the patio, enjoying the beautiful day. Someone from high school walks in with his family--someone I didn't like, and I wonder why it is I had to see this person on this day. I avert my eyes, ignore him and there is thankfully no conversation, no acknowledgment.

We then return home and everyone leaves. My grandparents take Mary back to Mount Pleasant and my mom and I head to the funeral home to sign papers, hand over the obituary and photograph. My dad's old bandmate, Kenn Rickman, sobbed when my mother phoned him in the morning. He came the night before I arrived, brought my dad's old, beautiful, purple guitar and played for my father, who remained sedated in bed. He first played "Stairway to Heaven." My mother and Marie (Kenn's wife) sobbed.

Kenn asked if he could see the body one more time--before my father was cremated. While signing papers, Kenn and Marie arrive in their escalade, Kenn in his perfect clothing--having driven from Detroit. My mother, Kenn and Marie go to see my father once more. I oddly have such a sense of calm. I know he is not there, but he is everywhere in our house--just the energy of him still resides there. He is not in the funeral home.
I watch the director. He tears up as my mother cries. I wonder how it is he can do this job if after all these years of working, he still empathizes, sympathizes. I too wonder if there is ever an ethical knot in his gut... To me, it would seem impossible to perform a service (one so expensive) during families' grief.

We return home and I make a smoothie for Kenn and Marie, who both have developed an immense interest in nutrition as well. Kenn, who is sixty, looks no older than forty. I like to shock people by telling them his actual age.

We then have more stupid errands to run... but Kenn and Marie are there with us, and this helps. Eventually, we all descend upon the El Dorado. We tell them about my and Kwok's wedding reception, the lovely winter evening. The waiter is also beyond lovely. A few years ago, Kenn and Marie would not even come to Cadillac. Kenn is black. Marie is white. They had worries that were not unfounded. We talk of these things--"interracial marriages." This is what Kwok and I have too apparently.

My mother's principal also has one...he is white, his wife Latino... and he calls in the evening, after Kenn and Marie have gone. My mother is on the other phone, but I speak with him, tell him that we had just spoken of him. He then says, "You know, we had been married for two years, and we were driving in the car and I gasped. I said, 'Do you know what we are?'" His wife remained puzzled. He then said, "We're one of those interracial couples!" Bless him for never even realizing such a label existed for them before.

Finally, in the evening, my mother can rest. She sits trying to speak with me, her eyes drooping as she says, "No, I want to stay up and talk to you." We go to bed and again, I worry that strange feelings will encroach with darkness. I go to my room and turn on the television. Clean House appears... and I fall asleep to it, waking up in the night to an infomercial and turning the television off.

Again, I wake at 6:30... and my mother also wakes then. She slept in... and I am relieved that she has slept. Finally.

Two hours later, and it still feels like hours hold days. Elisabeth has phoned from Zambia. We have walked Paddington. Emails and messages have been received and loved.

I look at buying my mother new bedding, new lamps. There are many things to do, and it is hard to know which to do... or whether to do anything. I've stopped worrying entirely about my diet for Sardinia... my body is healthy... which trumps skinny in a bikini. Why we spend our time worrying about these things is upsetting in the face of life.

Thank you all for your love. I love you too.

I will try to keep writing here.

Kwok on the radio!

2011-07-13T12:37:00.000-07:00

Kwok was interviewed regarding Oxfam's current East Africa drought appeal. The link can be found here, between minutes 35:00-45:00. He stumbled a bit... though was thrown by the whole thing being based around LiveAid. (He was six at the time.)

I'm proud nonetheless, of course!

Love, love, love.

On the homeless

2011-07-10T07:59:00.000-07:00

Growing up, it seems we learn to disengage from so many things--to stop asking questions, to stop being curious, to even stop being compassionate. While I understand the need to compartmentalize (as if we faced all the world's suffering with open hearts, we would be gutted within moments) I am astonished by the depth of retraining I have had to do in my own mind and heart.

When in Italy with my mother, I began discussing the dairy industry with her. She, like so many, had no idea that cows simply do not produce milk (in the way that hens consistently lay unfertilized eggs). Cows have to be impregnated to produce milk. The calves are taken away from the mothers almost immediately; the mothers are then milked, usually by machines, while the calves are more often than not left to suffer in veal crates. My dogwalking friend, Dawn, used to work for a dairy farm. She said it was awful--the mothers and calves would bellow until their vocal chords went raw. While I remember telling my mom and dad this previously, this seems to be the first time my mother heard me. Her face dropped; she looked pained. It was the look of a mother--one that doesn't want inflict such onto another mother. She had dairy a few more times in Italy, but her previous appetite for it vanished with the knowledge of the immense suffering from which is comes. She is now looking to phase it out of her life. (In all honesty, I don't think I will ever go back to meat or dairy, but I would rather go back to ethical meat before I would ever go back to dairy.)

As an aside, I am often asked why I am vegan. I talk about health, the environment and animal welfare--usually in that order, because it seems animal welfare can garner me nasty looks, or, at the very least, rolled eyes. This, to me, seems like another way in which we've been led (misled) to turn blind eyes, to draw a shade over our hearts--remove compassion for the sake of convenience.

We are told lies. Cows are stupid. Cows need to be milked else they will be sore. Etc. Yes, cows do need to be milked... but the milk is there for their young. If their calves were with them, there would be no need for milking. We have also, as a society, been led to believe that nature is more than imperfect; we're actually led to believe that nature needs humans to fix things! I can think of nothing more arrogant or false.

Meanwhile, there are things humans can fix... within the human society, which continue to be swept into shallow, unlit compartments of the mind--my mind included. I have always felt more connected to animals, even trees, water and wind, than people. This is not a flaw, nor it is an achievement--it is just simply the reality of my being. Yes, I have tried to provide a human voice for animals and the environment--and will continue to do so--but I actually believe plants and animals already have "voices," it is just that most people have learned or inherited deafness. The flaw on my end is that I am often deaf to human suffering (mainly because I am so disturbed by so many human activities).

One shallow, unlit compartment in my brain was only recently illuminated--and that is the compartment in which I placed the homeless. I've thought about the homeless before... and admittedly, I thought of them because of their dogs. At one point, it seemed cruel--homeless people with pets--but I revised my thinking on that about four years ago. I've read a number of articles discussing the services available for homeless pet owners (so that dogs can be vaccinated, receive vet care, etc), and I have also seen a number of very good homeless pet owners. The glory for the dog is the 24-hour relationship with the owner. I feel more sorry for a dog chained up at the back of a family home than I do for a homeless person's dog. Of course, bad pet owners come in all shapes and sizes--from the very rich to the very poor--wealth, however, is not what decides the quality of a pet owner.

So, I have thought about homeless people and their pets before. I have even bought dog food and dog treats for homeless people with dogs. Very rarely though do I give money to the homeless. We are (or at least I was) chided at times for giving to the homeless. We are told: They are drunks. They are drug addicts. They are fakers. Today I wondered to myself why, even if they are drunks, does that matter? I do understand the disturbing issue of fakers. An article ran in New York a few years ago about a "homeless" woman making hundreds of dollars daily on donations, who had her own flat on the West Side. So, there are some fakers... but I think homeless shelters tell us the larger story: there are many truly homeless.

It seems that maybe the homeless are viewed as weak--they couldn't hack it. Maybe they are drunk because they were sexually abused and beaten. Maybe they had shit childhoods, but the pervasive thought seems to be: get over it. At least, this is my experience. I can recognize distant relatives to these thoughts even within my own mind.

Last month, my mom, my boss, Marie, and I were walking in Oxford. Marie stopped to chat to a homeless man on Cornmarket Street--the major retail, pedestrianized street in Oxford. He had a little puppy with him. The puppy, Rosie, was his, but was staying with his mate in the homeless shelters evenings because he felt it was too cold for her as a pup to sleep in his tent at night. When he said tent, Marie asked the location--it is the one behind the ice rink, along the river--one Marie had passed many times on her bicycle. It has been there nearly four years, but because he is not a drunk or addict, the police leave him alone. He doesn't disturb anybody, so they don't disturb him. Marie bought a copy of The Big Issue, Britain's homeless, micro-finance campaign/magazine, shook his hand, and told him her name. His name was Steve.

Marie has always had a very soft spot for the homeless and she has taught me much about human compassion. (I'd like to think that I've taught her a little about animal compassion too--though she is already quite an animal lover.)

So, I was on Cornmarket today and I saw Steve again. He looked exhausted... and Rosie, much bigger now, was teething and chewing on her lead. There I am in a nice dress, nice shoes, pretty necklace and pretty ring... and there he is, torn clothing, healthy puppy, bowl of coins in front of him. When I saw him just last month, there was some light in his eyes. Today, there was only sadness.

Marie asked him how he had become homeless. He is actually from Yorkshire (like her) and had bought a house with a girlfriend in Abingdon (where we live). He had a job. Everything somehow went pear-shaped--with him and his girlfriend, and then him and his job. (Reminder: he is an addict of no kind.) He has been homeless for four years--slightly less than the length of time I have lived in the UK. How quickly falling can transpire. (When discussing this with Kwok, he recalled a story about Prince Charles meeting an old schoolmate who had become homeless.)

Today, Steve was slumped in front of a mobile phone shop, which sells mobiles that can cost upwards of £400 ($650). They also have phone plans which can run up to £50 ($80) a month. Last time I saw him, he was in front of Fat Face, a clothing store. I couldn't help but think of the desperately sick juxtaposition.

Today, I knelt down beside Steve. He had just woken from a nap, and barely registered me. I began talking about when we met. He didn't remember. Rosie continued to gnaw on her flexi-lead. I purchased a copy of The Big Issue, and then asked him if he was tired. He said he had barely slept all week, though he didn't know why. (I can think of a few reasons being that he lives in a tent in England.) I asked him if he wanted a coffee and his face lit up. "Yes, please. If you don't mind. Thank you so much," he said. As I walked toward Starbucks--about five stores down from where he was sitting--he asked for milk and sugar. (I couldn't help but internally wince about the milk, but I wasn't going to deny it him.)

I spent more money on a Soy Chai Tea Latte in Starbucks yesterday than it costs to buy a copy of The Big Issue. Today, I bought him his coffee, as well as a (vegan--yay!) falafel sandwich, which was toasted, and two dark chocolate bars for some of my colleagues at OxTrad, who were particularly stressed today. I spent £7.50 and none of it was for me. The purchase was far better than the Soy Chai Tea Latte I purchased only for myself yesterday.

When I got back to Steve, I handed him the coffee and asked if he would like the sandwich. He accepted gladly and said he would share it with Rosie. He kept saying, "You're so kind. You're so kind," but I couldn't help thinking of all the times I haven't been kind to the homeless--all the times I walked straight past without a glance. While there is always (rightly) an element of safety in the back of my mind with regards to engaging with the homeless, I think I have often used that element to ignore and to stifle.

I've been reading Wild Swans over the last few weeks. I cannot even describe the ways in which my mentally painted picture of China has changed. This is not even to say that I had an inaccurate mental painting--simply that it has been expanded... and expanded with much shock and horror. The Cultural Revolution is perhaps one of the most screwed-up, convoluted times in contemporary memory. Mao essentially insisted that no one think. How outrageous, right? But suddenly... today... after writing this post, the idea does not seem as foreign as it did a few weeks ago.

I am compelled to think... and keep thinking... and to stop allowing myself to stifle compassion. In the face of it all, it seems one of our best (and one of our only) tools.

Love, love, love.

Video

2011-07-07T04:59:00.000-07:00

There is so much to write. Since I last posted, my mother has come and gone, and I've been back to Spain, Sardinia and mainland Italy. Meanwhile, I have the first faculty meeting of the year for OxTrad this afternoon and my life is blurring into a whirlwind as the September dissertation deadline looms.

So, for now, any dear readers, I leave you with a video from last Saturday night. My boss invited Kwok, my mom, the poochies and I over for a lovely meal... and wine....

Love to all!

Breaking the Fast: Day 4

2011-06-14T14:54:00.000-07:00

Kwok and I did a round of Pure Cardio from Insanity tonight; it was the first time in awhile. I am still quite worried about my left knee, but it felt good to workout--even though neither of us gave it 100% and just took it slow as Insanity can be quite intense.

So... *TMI ALERT* It's time for a talk about pooping. A lot of people ask with regards to fasting, "What happens to #2?" Well, the answer is that #2 generally disappears entirely after the fifth day of a fast.... However... on Day 10 of this fast, I had a proper poo much to my own surprise (and delight, if I'm being honest). The delight, unfortunately, has dissipated as I have not pooed since. As you can see from my food diaries, I've had quite a bit of fiber, so I find it mildly upsetting that my colon is withholding. I can only hope that tonight's exercise will help my colon to be less bashful.

Anyway, my mommy arrives tomorrow! Hooray! The weather today was beautiful, though I heard on the radio that it wasn't necessarily going to be so nice tomorrow. Boo! Lots of fun planned for the weeks ahead!

Love to all!

*****
I should note that I began reintroducing a bit of cooked food into my diet today. I'm hoping to keep on more or less permanently with the high raw as seen here. (Nonetheless, I find my raw food intake increases dramatically in the summers and decreases in the winters.)

Foodie bit:
-3 teaspoons manuka
-2 bananas
-juice from 1 pineapple
-11 cherries
-Salad of raw vegan mayo, lambs lettuce, cherry tomatoes, basil and roasted artichoke (artichoke not raw)
-2 carrots and hummus (hummus not raw)
-soy milk, green chai, honey (soy not raw)
-bowl of tomato, celery, cashew, basil, garlic and cayenne soup (warm, but not cooked)
-1 cup of brown and red rice with kidney beans, fresh cilantro and fresh lime juice (rice and beans not raw)
-Yogi cinnamon tea with honey

Fruit fact: Cherries will not continue to ripen after being picked.

Breaking the Fast: Day 3

2011-06-13T13:43:00.000-07:00

What I thought was an ornamental cherry tree turns out not to be so ornamental. A cherry tree I planted in our yard three years ago, which produces gorgeous flowers each spring, has on it three cherries. I'm chuffed. (No, that is not a sexual word--just a British one.)


The cherry tree in spring

I look forward to the day I can have my own house and plant fruit trees galore. I've always loved the idea of having an orchard. Orchards, to me, are very comforting--even the word "orchard" is comforting. It falls in line with ocean and autumn.

Kwok is now sitting on the sofa behind me, playing the guitar. We started taking lessons together a few weeks ago, though I have dropped out as I was finding it difficult to find sufficient practice time. Kwok was sad to lose his lesson buddy, but I very much enjoy hearing him practice (which seemed to help him want to continue on without me). Also, when I say I didn't have the time--let's be honest--I didn't make the time. I am blogging while he is practicing. I made the choice, and I'm happy with it.

I hear often, "Oh, I just don't have the time to make food the way you do." Honestly, that is likely to be true only for the smallest handful of people. My blender does most of the work for me. Foresight also helps. (Kidney beans are currently soaking in a pan of water on the stove, so I can cook them tomorrow and put them in a brown rice dish for Kwok.) Tonight, someone was finally honest and said, "I don't have the time--I'm quite lazy!" I said that I often take my laptop into the kitchen so I can watch something on iplayer or Channel Four on Demand while I'm preparing food. That seemed to plant a seed. It's true. I do most of my beloved documentary-watching while in the kitchen. In fact, the laptop often acts as more of a radio than anything.

Everything food-related tends to be habit-related. Old habits die hard, but they can eventually be killed off with quite a bit of cognitive persistence. I've been steadily altering lifelong food habits for the better over the last few years. My hope is that I will get to a place where I no longer even have the smallest battles with food. Certain battles I never thought I could win were conquered long ago, so the outcome looks good.

Just a healthy reminder to all after watching a Supersize vs. Superskinny Kids: parents lead by example. Even if you feed your child goodness, if they see you eating crap, they will eventually eat crap too. If your child is eating crap, you stock the cupboards as the parent--you have the control. It really horrifies me that we are seeing the first generation of kids whose parents are likely to outlive them.

My mom says she has a lot of guilt about the way she fed me as a child. I was a porky kid and I was bullied because of it. I had bouts of eating disorders--slight to severe--over the years. I remember contemplating suicide when I was nine--thinking I could tie bricks to myself and wade out deep into Lake Michigan. This was bound up in being fat, amongst a myriad of other things.

Guilt, of course, is predominantly a useless emotion. If I hadn't been a porky child, perhaps I wouldn't have taken such an interest in nutrition now. My only hope is that others can learn from some of the lessons I myself have learned and continue to learn.

All for now! Love to all!

Foodie bit:
-2 teaspoons manuka
-Smoothie from 1 mango, juice from 3 oranges and juice from 1 lime
-4 carrots and hummus
-Green chai tea and a teaspoon of honey
-1 banana
-12 cashews
-Salad made from lamb's lettuce, baby tomatoes, fresh basil, roasted artichoke and raw vegan mayonnaise (see below)

Raw Vegan Mayonnaise
Ingredients:
-3/4 cups water
-1 cup macadamia nuts
-1/2 cup cashews
-2 tablespoons olive oil
-2 tablespoons apple cider vinegar
-1 teaspoon italian spices
-1/4 teaspoon cayenne

Directions: Blend!

Breaking the Fast: Day 2

2011-06-12T12:59:00.000-07:00

This has been the strangest breaking of a fast I have yet encountered. I have repeatedly read that eating again--even just fresh fruits and vegetables can cause major detox symptoms. According to freedomyou.com's founder, Ron Lagerquist:

Eating small amounts of raw fruits and vegetables for the first five or six days will allow the body to gently wake up the digestive system. The body will continue to detoxify and cleanse during this period. Any toxins that have accumulated will begin to move due to the sweeping action of the soft fibres of fruits and vegetables.

When you break a fast and start to eat, do not expect that the food will give you energy. Often it is just the opposite; the digestion of food after fasting can stir up more toxins. The first few meals move through the intestine like a broom that pushes ahead of it loosened waste from 30 feet of intestine. You can actually go from feeling great to feeling toxic by eating one small salad. Don’t worry if this happens, it will pass in a few hours.

Fasters have felt let down, because they expected that returning to eating would be an enjoyable experience. As days creep closer to the X on the calendar, marking the end of the fast, anticipation builds. Dreams of sugarplums dance in your head. Frankly, you are in for a letdown. Eating that first meal is far more enjoyable in the head than in reality.

I haven't felt much like eating at all in the breaking of this fast and I have been forcing myself to eat small things. Shockingly, after a mango/spinach smoothie lovingly prepared by Kwok, I felt immediate nausea--form a drink that usually gives me vitality and energy. I ended up snuggling up by the cat and sleeping for two hours. As I said, this is all very shocking to me.

I never experienced profound detox symptoms on breaking a fast previously; however, my fasts previous were much longer, so I wonder if perhaps I was cleaner in the breaking period.

I watched an episode of Supersize vs. Superskinny while in the bath tonight. Something very interesting worth noting: the superskinny, a man, actually ate 2600 calories a day, but 2000 of which were from processed chocolate bars. This is one of the first proper examples I have seen of an underweight person eating technically enough calories. I consistently say that not all calories are created equal. While you can lose weight on any calorie-restricted diet (see the Twinkie Professor), nutrients ultimately matter! This guy, who was severely underweight, actually registered in the very unhealthy range of cholesterol. Basically, just because you're skinny doesn't mean you're healthy. By simply adding nutrient-rich foods to his diet, he was able to put on nine pounds in six weeks. Not surprisingly, his energy levels shot up and suddenly, there was light in his face.

As an aside, it is true that not all calories are created equal with regards to fat, protein and carb contents of food. A good, often-cited example of this is found when evaluating spinach and ground beef. 100 calories of ground beef contains 10 grams of protein, while 100 calories of fresh baby spinach contains 12 grams. Calorie for calorie, spinach has more protein than ground beef. Percentage-wise, spinach is 30% protein while ground beef is 40% protein (and 60% fat).

Eating 100 calories of spinach is no easy feat, of course. I can manage about 1/2 a pound on my best of days through making green smoothies. Of course, it is not my only source of protein (not that I am a convert to protein obsession like most of America, anyway).

Anywho, I think that is all for now.

Foodie bit:
-2 teaspoons manuka honey
-5 blueberries
-16oz. spinach mango smoothie
-2 cherries
-2 carrots and hummus (I know hummus is cooked, but I decided to have it anyway as it was one of the only foods that sounded appetizing)
-Juice from 5 oranges

Love, love, love!

Juice Fast: Day 9, 10 and breaking the fast

2011-06-12T02:41:00.000-07:00

I tried to post this yesterday, but blogger was having some difficulties.

*****
Day 9 and 10 of the fast went well. There is little else to say on that front.

I decided to break the fast today, which would have been Day 11, because my mom arrives Wednesday and I should try to be eating somewhat normally by then. Too, Kwok broke his week-long fast today. This being said, I was reluctant to break the fast. I was feeling fine and could have easily kept going. Too, there is always a slight apprehension about returning to food. As Kwok noted, solid foods become foreign.

I'm staying raw for five days, and even now, on the first of my five days raw, I just want to return to juice. I had 1 quart of pineapple juice this morning as I was not ready to eat anything solid, and funny enough, despite eating solid foods over the course of the afternoon, none of the initial foods were truly solid--they've all been mashed or pureed. I feel like a little baby.

My food diary for today looked like this:

-1 quart pineapple juice
-A dozen or so tablespoons of homemade guacamole
-A small bite of romaine with homemade salsa
-2 teaspoons manuka honey
-Some homemade fennel soup (not cooked--made from fennel, tiny bit of olive oil, water and pepper)
-1 plum
-5 cherries
-3 hearts of palm
-16 oz. orange juice
-Lots of herbal teas

I'm really not thrilled about eating again. Fasting just enables one to be in a totally different mental state. It is hard to come away from it.

Anywaaaaay.

New interesting factoid of the day: Vitamin C is the primary water-soluble antioxidant in the body, disarming free radicals and preventing damage in the aqueous environment both inside and outside cells. See here for more.

Love to all!

Juice Fast: Day 8

2011-06-08T15:08:00.000-07:00

So, I had more energy today. I think this upturn in energy is partially due to the juice fast, as well as receiving a needed good night's sleep. For various reasons, Kwok and I haven't had great sleep the past few nights. Vian, also known as The Cat, each morning has decided that a) chewing on the duvet buttons is a good use of his time, and b) that 6am is the perfect time for this activity. I seem to vaguely remember that he did again today, but not to fear, because it seemed I was able to deter him and finagle some more sleep out of the morning.

I did not feel the need to juice until 3pm. I was a busy bee though. I also survived by taking two teaspoons of manuka, followed by water, on its own, and drinking tea with some raw Zambian forest honey. At 3 pm, I juiced 1.25kg of carrots and had that while taking a bath and watching Embarrassing Fat Bodies. Embarrassing Bodies is a medical program on Channel Four that I don't usually watch, but if you know me, you know I'm passionate about the obesity crisis, so I was compelled to watch a 45-minute-long episode of this new "spin-off" series. I continue debating how I can best help tackle the obesity issue. Sometimes it seems like I'd have to get both a MD and a nutrition degree, as MDs get very little nutritional training. I laughed sardonically when the program today advised people to see their GPs for more nutritional help. (I initially hated my GP for criticizing all vegetarians and vegans. I don't "hate" him at all anymore; in fact, we have some things in common... but he still swears that all veggies are less energetic as far as he can tell. I've told him that they must be "mainstream eaters"--not whole foods vegans. Ugh. Anywaaaaaaaaay.)

So yes... am still hacking. My boss, Marie, asked if possibly the hacking was some sort of detox. I thought this was an interesting insight. I'm not sure to be honest. As I was so sick so often earlier in the year, it is possible that my body is dispelling mass amounts of build-up, but I can't be sure. According to this site:

It is common, during fasting, for the nose and throat to pass sticky mucus, clogging the sinuses. White strands of mucus may be found in the stool. You may find that you are more comfortable if you use a Neti Pot to clear the sinus cavities, to prevent getting a cold with the clogged sinuses. You can also drink lemon juice with water to help clear the mucus.

The website further goes on to mention showering and bathing, as well as skin brushing. I've taken a bath every day of this fast and I've brushed my skin each day in the bath. (Dry skin brushing is also recommended, but I prefer doing it in the tub. One just has to be careful as you can harm your skin more easily with an abrasive brush when it is wet.) The skin is one of the body's most important detoxification organs. You expel many toxins regularly through your skin. By brushing, you remove the build-up (which there definitely can be a lot during a fast) and give the skin better opportunity to continue expelling toxins.

As for the rest of my liquid diary: I had more mint teas and honey at work and 3/4 a quart of orange juice when I arrived home. I feel like I've had way too much sugar today though--with the honey, carrots and oranges. My teeth feel mildly coated. Bleck.

I was very busy all day, and spent nearly two hours cleaning my desk. Into the recycling bin went a stack of papers about 12 inches in height--not an exaggeration.

Meanwhile, I have so much work to do... and still haven't heard from Farm Sanctuary, which is weighing on me... but I just need to find a way to let it go and pray/hope for the best.

Okay, sleep time!

Love, love, love to all!