The sky; and all its weather

“You are the sky. Everything else – it’s just the weather.” -Pema Chödrön

I've been chilling with Pema Chödrön and Harshada Wagner, in my tiny virtual world. 

It's not always that I am able to really hear what a teacher has to say. So when my ears open, I listen, and listen, and listen. It's as if a certain amount of emotional static has to leave my life before I can hear. All the more reason to pony up and do the hard work. Static reduction. We all need it. Clear skies.

Harshada has been sitting on my shoulder for weeks now, giving me verbal high fives when I catch my thinking going south, helping me u-turn. He has a sweet, playful meditation that asks us to recognize the violence we do to ourselves with our words. He challenges us to confront this violence with kindness, with grace. So instead of "Stupid, stupid, you forgot that appointment", you get to be your own benevolent master and student: "Good job! You remembered that you had an appointment, and now you can reschedule it". This seemed perhaps too simple to me at first. I tried it the next morning in the car when I realized I was on auto-pilot, and driving in the wrong direction. I had the knee-jerk reaction of speaking out loud to myself, chastising myself: "Stupid, stupid, wrong way"...and then I heard a tiny voice in the backseat, mimicking me. Harshada popped onto my shoulder with his cardigan, belly and beard and I edited my response: "Good job, Mama! You realized you were driving the wrong way, and now you can turn around!" ***small voice mimics***.

It goes without saying, maybe, that this is the voice of kindness I most want for my kids, yes, and also, for myself. Hot damn, I want it for the whole world. My fallibility is just that: human, real, inevitable. Doctrines of grace abound to give me a deep-rooted sense of safety, but simple tools like the one above give me the mortar I need to be wholly human, vulnerable and strong at the same time. The example I give is trivial - but the power of this practice is undeniable. I've used it on biggies, too, in the past few weeks - and I can attest to its power.

Pema sits in my heart space and reminds me that I am capable of shaky tenderness. I listened to this several times, in bits and pieces, over the past two weeks. I find it easier to listen to teachings than read them, something about the act of quietly listening allows things to penetrate for me in a way that doesn't happen when I read. I think, too, this is why I am so loving church right now. The very gift of sitting quietly and giving my full attention to someone's encouragement and wisdom feels like a pretty radical act of kindness towards myself.

So, Pema: she reminds me to lean in when I want to run. It takes more attention but infinitely less energy, and, at least for me,when I lean in I move forward, rather than chasing my tail. She tells me: that I can come up, and I go down, and I can come back up. I spent two days sick in bed last week, two days packing and taking care of a third child, and 4 days camping with (sick!) kiddos and my mom. Pema talked me all the way into Yosemite Valley last week and all the way back out early this week. She walked with me along the raging creek and the calmer places in the water. She helped me see the raven at the roadside when we stopped to calm poor sad, nauseous Gemma. She helped me clean up diarrhea from sick children and bridge conflict in my family with quiet and gentle clarity. I look at all the ugly in myself, and I look at all the yum. Sit down, drink some water, stay here.

Good job, Mama. You are the sky. And how I love my weather.

 
 

Fall down, drink chai

Toenails coordinate with Spring sky

I sought medicine on the mat today. More and more that is becoming my favorite retreat. I love the gym for connection to others, and for reaching beyond myself, and expressing fiery energy. I like the mat for connection inward, for recalibrating, and for raking over the embers. My body has been sore from hard work in the gym and the yard, and the tension of aching muscles creates psychic tension that I need to gently push out. This is where yoga steps in for me.

I like a light-hearted practice, one where there is a good dose of self-acceptance and laughter. I rarely get to do yoga alone. There is usually some cacophony of machine-gun sounds, sibling rivalry, small girl climbing up and on and over.

Fellow yogis, relaxing studio atmosphere

Arching upward in half-crescent, sending my eyes and hands to heaven. "Keep your eyes on the prize, the prize of the present moment" and I almost can't believe that he just said that, my internet yogi, and I start to laugh. I am looking at the smears on my ceiling. I am wondering how to keep flies out and harmony in. I am wondering how roasted sweet potato got all the way up there. Yogis speaking in rhyme, making me laugh? I lose my balance. I lose my internet connection. I'm doing this for peace in me, peace on Earth, peace for maybe ten minutes. Start over. Mental note to call the internet provider.

I don't have much use for a kingdom of heaven that's accessible only in holy places or outside of ordinary time. That kind of kingdom is well and good, but it fails to meet me where I am most of the day, which is knee-deep in little voices and lots of needs. I need the prize in my pocket, the off-kilter now. I need driveway yoga, dirty ceiling yoga, internet-time-out yoga, wild children with sticks and sweaty bodies yoga.

And then I need some chai:

Chai for Yogis that Fall, Often

roughly 2 Tbsp loose black tea (or 4-6 tea bags)
6 cups water

Steep tea, in a saucepan, in gently boiling water for 5 minutes. Remove tea. Add:

4 whole cloves, lightly crushed
1 cinnamon stick
2 tsp ground ginger, or a 1" knob of fresh ginger, chopped
2 bay leaves, lightly crushed
6 cardamom pods, lightly crushed
1 vanilla bean, scraped into pot
2 tsp turmeric, or a 1" knob fresh turmeric, chopped
Stir in raw honey to taste (I'm on the 4 Tbsp side, my husband is on the 8 Tbsp side)

Simmer all of this over very low heat for 20 minutes, until slightly thickened. Store in a clean jar in the refrigerator. Serve hot or cold, diluted to about 50% with milk of choice or water. Reheat with a saucepan over medium heat. I love this with coconut milk over ice.

Off to clean the ceiling, namaste.

Sardines, and High Heels

A study in cultural identity crisis, at least for me.

We are having a run on all things pink and plastic around here. Those of you who know me can stop laughing at the inherent humilition of that statement. Repeat after me, in mantra-fashion: there is no wrong way to be a girl, there is no wrong way to be a girl (and maybe, for good measure, but there is a wrong way to be a mom, so keep it zipped, hater).

One thing we can agree on: sardines are good food. Right? Right?

Now, before you write me off as a pink-hating outlier with bad taste in seafood, a disclaimer: I spent the first year of my relationship with sardines choking them down out of the tin. It really seemed there was no making peace with them, and I really doubted that any amount of fancy-fancy could transform those bony little bodies into anything I ate with a big inside smile. I ate them for their racy nutritional profile, BPA-free packaging, sustainably fished profile and because I was lactating, Crossfitting, and super hungry. And then I met a recipe for sardine spread that changed my inside frown upside down. Now if only I could find that kind of transformative recipe for a world that makes pink plastic high heels for young girls.

(Sadly, I can't remember where I found the original recipe, and Google is not showing me any love in that department).

Sardine Spread

This is our family's version of "tuna" salad these days. I admit that these days I actually like sardines right out of the tin, but this is how we sell them to the under-7 set at our house. We dive in with forks or jicama, celery, and carrot sticks.I like it in a garden salad buried under beet kraut, but then again I'll eat anything buried under beet kraut.

2 cans sardines packed in olive oil (include the packing oil in the recipe)
1/4 cup packed cilantro leaves
1 Tbsp lemon juice (optional)
1 scallion or shallot, chopped
2 tsp seeded Dijon mustard
pepper to taste

She of the Pink Plastic High-heeled Slippers.

Pulse all ingredients in your swanky, yellowed, "vintage" Cuisinart until just blended. Packed into a jar and covered with a thin layer of olive oil, this will keep for several days in the fridge. ( I think mashing it all together with a fork would work, too, but I have a marketing angle here that includes eliminating all evidence of bones and skins so as to make both children amenable to gobbling it up).
________________________________________________________
Soldier on with the pink plastic shoes, outdated appliances that work harder than you do, and the mothering blind spots.  I know I am.

Attention

 

Where is your lifeline to peace?

All last week I felt the impending presence of that guy I call Big Joyless. He was lurking, he has bad manners and he spoils it all for me, and he was just waiting around, watching me get beaten down by my own impatience, and allergies, and bad news, and my own sense of isolation, and I could feel him breathing down my neck.

He just pisses me off.

Despite the pollen, despite my benadryl haze, despite my increasing belief that I am totally alone and Probably, Also, Incapable I got on my bike Sunday and rode to church. 

I chanted my prayer as I pedaled slowly: please wake up, please wake up, please wake up.

And also: fuck off Big Joyless, go away, fuck off fuck off. I'm not too worried about my language when I talk to God. I think God is a lot bigger than cussing.

Gemma passed out in the bike trailer on the way there. It's only a mile, but it was 80 degrees, and she'd had a long day of playing outside, and when we pulled up in front of the church she was out like a light, and in that deep, crazy kind of sleep where you can flop limbs and nothing happens (I remember this was a test for deep infant sleep from a Dr. Sears book: you could only move them off your body and sneak away if their limb flopped when you picked it up. Never achieved floppy limb status when they were babies, these kids lived in twilight sleep for their entire babyhoods, I'm sure).

So I cradled this giant deep-sleeping girl-baby in my arms. I sat in the cool darkness of this messy church place and wondered how bad Gemma's feet must smell in her rubber rain boots. A barely sober, or perhaps still drunk, guy sat in front of me, speaking, a little too loudly, to no one in particular. Gemma snored. My prayer switched from wake up Amy, go away Big Joyless, wake up Amy to: please don't let her pee on me. That's all I ask. That she doesn't pee.

We talked about paying attention - bearing witness. That the story we are living in is so much greater, wilder than we could imagine, and that we can move forward in that story if only we pay attention. We talked about how the supernatural is really quite natural - the line is blurry. Every day people are performing ordinary tasks under extraordinary circumstances. There's no small part in the story of our lives. It only requires a little courage, or maybe even just an inch of faith. And it can all happen in the light of doubt. You don't have to be sure to move forward, you just have to move.

As she breathed in and out, my still and perfect daughter, I heard Big Joyless slink off. He'll be back, I know, and someday I hope I have the presence of mind to treat him like a cherished guest, but never let him take up residence.

Gemma woke up, pee-less. Simple prayers for simple people, answered.I took her out to the lobby; we hit the bathrooms and then I took her upstairs to her classroom. I started to wake up. I was encouraged by what I was hearing. I know that paying attention pays off. I know it's something I am good at. Something breathed into me, water flowing in to a dry place. I'm not really sure about the theological gymnastics of grace, but I know a lifeline when I see it, and this was it. 

Today I'm paying attention to the little things, in the way my kids hunt bugs and spend long spans of time watching them, and I'm reminded that the ordinary moments of my life are really brimming with beauty and kindness.

I talk about it all the time because it's my lifeline, the one I know well, the one I trust most. The ordinary moments - the dishes, the shoes on shoes off, the toothbrush, the mess on the table - this is where life is happening, this is where my story is being written. And, I'd really be interested to know, what is your lifeline?

Pets in jars

 Up close and personal with the Western Fence Lizard. And no, I didn't pose this.

 I found them this way.

 Monday morning finds us knee-deep in the pollen-dusted detritus that can only be called Spring:

Western Fence Lizards, being repatriated to our garden for pest control, after being gleaned from office buildings, rock outcroppings, and playgrounds, and serving a short sentence in a vivarium before said repatriation.

Maggots as pets ("So really, really cute, Mama") from the compost bin. I can't get within five feet of a rat or possum but I have to agree, I think maggots are a little on the cute side. Still, they are relegated to outside.

Cockroaches as pets (also "really, really cute").

Jumping spiders (as pets, which I convinced him to release back into the garden, and when asked if they would bite him, I told him no, and I was wrong, and had to apologize).

A plastic tote made into a snail playground (and, it turns out, a holding cell for snails soon to be dispatched to chickens).

Water-damaged honey bees in a hospital jar with lavender sprigs and ladybug nurses. Sad to report that nobody made it.

African Clawed Frogs vs. Feeder Fish: 6-0.

In the yard and garden:

Bazillions of seedlings begging me to pot them up, bazillion more seeds begging me to sow them. Jeff has been the resident gardener so far this year and I need to give the guy a break. I'm most excited about the hollyhocks and love-in-the-mist. And I'm not sure where Jeff plans on planting 6 butternuts and 6 melons.

Bolting lettuce - bitter greens wilted with bacon, eggs, pate, and beet kraut all week, and the end of endless bowls of salad. Nevada didn't perform the way her seed profile said she would: she bolted like a wild colt before anyone else. Speckled Trout, Little Gem and Cracoviensis soldier on. It wouldn't be a garden if I wasn't constantly confused.

Pull-up bar v.2 is here. She doubles as a clothesline (clothesline v.1 was sacrificed for more garden space. That's a choice no family should ever have to make). I can't decide which makes me happier. My price for hanging up the laundry: 5 pull-ups. My price for taking it down: 5 chins. I feel a bar muscle-up inching closer, and my power bill shrinking.

In the kitchen:
 
The outdoor dining room is open for business. (Do you see the bottomless bowl of salad? )

My pets in jars: Lavender kombucha*, Spicy Beet Kraut, tinkering with coconut milk yogurt.
Revving up with afternoon Yerba Mate , Earl Gray kombucha on ice, and Coconut Orange Creamsicles. Rounding out the day with Beef Rendang*, Coconut chocolate pudding* (venturing into the world of eggless desserts for our autoimmune-friendly kitchen), Jicama gorging, Strawberry and Rhubarb anything*, and, I'm not joking, a clean refrigerator (thought about it for three weeks, took less than an hour). Feels like a million bucks every time I open it.

*Recipes forthcoming

________________________________________________________

 What's making you feel like a million bucks?

Little hole

Because I live, purposefully, in a little hole, I often don't hear news until much after it has taken place. It doesn't soften the wreck of feelings I experience when it does come in.

I never want to feel discouraged enough to say no to living. Last night I spent a few minutes reading news reports, then I switched it all off and did all I could, which was simply to pray, then meditate in the experience of my own body, and finally, thankfully, fall asleep.

Saying yes to whatever is given, today. Which so far consists of really pissy children and lots of dishes. Signing off.

XOX

P.S. I'm tucking myself under this wing, to drive my morning.

Dogma

I'm fully aware that I'm the crazy mom when it comes to food. I read, a few months ago, the suggestion that perhaps women who threw themselves into very focused relationships with feeding their families or selves, even in the name of healthful, vital living, were subconsciously responding to personal, warped psychologies that reeked of control issues and all sorts of other psychic drama (I don't remember where I read it, I just remember feeling dismissive, then thoughtful, and then I had to acknowledge the grain of truth in it for myself, then I had to remember the many other reasons why we eat the way we do).

Let's see. I have control issues, I express them through food, and I'm certainly the only woman in the world that has ever done this, yep?

It's not huge for me, on the scale of pieces of psychic landscape that need attention. How I express my frustration, my fear, my panicked mortality - well, that's par for the course of being human. It's got to leak out of me, somehow. So perhaps a small part of that pressure valve is feeding my family. I have a whole list of neurotic eating issues that rarely extend beyond the terrain of my own brain, but they could just as easily be neurotic drinking issues, or exercising, or staring at Facebook. Our dietary practices have allowed me to largely side-step a lot of the hold the crazies have on me, because they nourish not just my body but my sense of connection.

Of course there are times when I wish I had relented and just let the kids eat watermelon and candy instead of dinner. Of course there are times when I say no thank you to an invitation that I know will be a festival of red-dye, sugar, and gluten, because I'm just not up to either saying no for three hours, or mopping up what's left of my kids if I say yes. Of course there is the night I that I ate the quart of ice cream. There are times I put food before relationships, yep.

Yes, I've said wild things to my children when they tell me how much they love a Tootsie Roll:"You might as well eat gasoline". I crack myself up, and make myself shake my head at myself. I'm fermenting cabbage in the hall closet so that the entire entryway smells like a fart, and I'm doing three to four sinks full of dishes a day because we cook and eat at home, and telling my kids that 90% of what they point to at Costco doesn't even qualify as food, but crap."Mom, we like crap".

So: there's that part, about how I learn to loosen my grip a little, and practice saying yes more than being right. But feeding us also gives me life. The daily work of cooking dinner is part of my day that I reliably like. I love sitting down to dinner (though the company can be a little rough these days, and really, sometimes I think I'd rather eat alone, in my room). I love the clarity of growing food, cooking food, eating food, and knitting us all up closer to the wild beauty of life when we do so.

I love that food is our first medicine from the Earth. I'm also grateful for the banner announcement the last year has given me that it's not the only thing available to us. Now more than ever I trust in paying attention to the parts of our lives that are harder to keep balanced - our sleep, our stress, our addictions, our thoughts, our activity - is at least as important, if not more so, than the food we eat. This last year has been hard on my body, and on Jeff's, too. We've had to adjust, and listen, and adjust, and tweak, to keep a lot of pain from setting up shop. I spent much of last Fall overhauling what I refer to as my "personal ecology" - my planet of one was fairly trashed by shitty sleep, sugar, alcohol, over-training, unchecked anxiety and bad habits of mind.

I remind myself of this because I don't enjoy judging myself too harshly for telling my kids no in the food department, or telling other people no in the food department, when I know there is a pretty powerful reason behind my no. I actually do have better inner and outer work to do than wonder how fucked up I might really be because I insist on eating real food and want the same for my loved ones. I remind myself of this because rather than see what I might be compensating for in the effort I put into feeding us, I'd rather see the freedom we gain by being pain-free, clear-minded, and nourished.

Say yes to creativity in the kitchen and garden. Yes to making friends with the people who raise our meat and melons. Yes, and thank you, to knowledge that others share, that makes us better able to heal ourselves. Yes to kids who eat all the Easter candy in 15 minutes.

I would like to see my life is a dogma-free zone, and I know that seems laughable given my political, social, spiritual and material convictions. And the fact that I do think many of our heartaches would dissipate if, as a collective culture, we slowed down, lived a little more quietly, and ate dinner with our beloveds.

That's my only real dogma - that eating well and with those you adore is good medicine.

Unrelated, but equally good medicine:

me: Were you sad when our frogs ate those fish?
Benen: Oh no. I was happy, because it was AMAZING. There was a frog, and a fish, and then really fast, there was only a frog.