Doing less to be more

A long, time ago on an island far, far away, I told my best friend that maybe she should try working less in order to support her body in healing.

She had been battling several conditions, like the warrioress that she is, yet she kept overworking herself in a very fast paced, stress-driven industry.

Many years later, when the timing was right for her path, she took some steps back from work, along with different steps forward in her healing journey, and her body and soul slowly but surely began responding to her loving care.

I used to work in an environment that much like her career, demands constant availability from its workers. You can be sick, you can have family emergencies, your cat can die, yet they still expect you to show up for your shift. It's an industry of go-go-go and do-do-do, and it was recking heck on my nervous system and my body in general.

So I decided to leave that world and made a transition into a less demanding, more peaceful career path. I developed a strong self-care practice and took time regularly for myself. Time for reflection, for stillness, for nourishment, for movement. I listened to my body and provided for its needs. If I was tired, I rested; If I was sleepy I slept; If I was confused, I meditated; if I was hungry I ate...

And then, E was born! I knew that my practice would change, for sure! And I had ideas and illusions about how long the lack of self-care would last (evidently the first six weeks, maybe the first three months... fool...) but I was completely unprepared for the fact that two years and three months later, I would still not be back to a regular self-care practice.

And so, as the good worker that I am, I fell back into my old habits from the restaurant industry. Go, go, go, do, do, do, ALL THE TIME. Much like my old employer, E expects me to show up no matter what is going on in my body, mind, or spirit.

And boy do I! I am 100% there. Not because I am a martyr or believe that I have to sacrifice myself for my kid ( I don't, but that's another post!) but because I have to. Because I live far away from family, and my amazing network of mom friends have their own shit to deal with.

Towards the end of October, as the very short autumn season settled into the very long winter here in Chicago, we closed the windows and the germs started to pour in!

Daycare allows us to have time away from E three days a week to go to work and complete everyday operating tasks for our life to function appropriately, but during the winter months, it comes with a steep price of countless viruses entering our lives.

Because of my lack of self-care, my immune system is not at its strongest, and as you may have guessed it, I have been sick a lot. But the last two months have been over the top. I have been extremely sick with a head cold or a sinus infection for more than 37 days in that time period, and here's the kicker, not in a row! I get better and believe that I am beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel, only to fall back on my ass (not literally, although I did fall on the ice, on my ass, a few weeks ago...) a few days later and get super sick again.

This week has been the absolute worse. The sinus pressure and congestion are causing not only difficulty breathing but an intense pain on the skin of my face, in my teeth, in my eyes, coupled with muscle fatigue and exhaustion. Today, I was diagnosed with another sinus infection (second one in this two month period) and prescribed another round of antibiotics (I do not take those lightly).

I couldn't teach today and was upset about it, noticing that I have subbed out more classes than I've actually taught this week, when my husband reminded me that I needed to be grateful that I could, referring to our old life in which we just showed up to work, no matter what.

As I shared my frustration with my friend, she suggested that I take some time off from work -a few weeks, a month, nothing crazy- so that when E lets me (her words :)) I can rest and focus on meeting my body's need. The roles were reversed now. She stroke back!

This possibility hadn't even occurred to me. I let it sink in. I mulled it over, and I began with baby steps to try it on for size. I had to go grocery shopping today, there was a list, it was on the schedule. When I left the doctor, I instead decided to skip going to the store and headed straight home. And instead of folding the laundry, I took a nice hot bath. And I sat in it, soaking my tired and achy muscles, listening to a guided relaxation for a long while.          

As I did, space was created for self-reflection. And I realized that it's time for me to practice what I preach. As I work on starting and growing my business serving mothers in the postpartum period, it will serve me well to make time, create space, and practice self-care myself. And as we all know, when my cup is full I will have that much more to give, to my son, to my partner, to my loved ones and to my clients.

Later that day, I shared my friend's idea with my husband. His answer was: I was thinking the exact same thing this morning!

I guess that settles it! Stay tuned, I'll let you know how it goes!

Patience brings sweetness

A few weeks ago, as E healed from his bout of walking pneumonia, J and I went to a dear friend's house for dinner. Whenever we are invited to this fantastic chef's home, I bring dessert. This time I chose to prepare a delightful goat cheese flan with poached quince, cranberries, and candied pinenuts.

The whole mission turned out to be quite more meaningful than I had anticipated.

You see, not to tute my own horn, but I used it to be really good at this -the pastry chef thing-. Yet, like all things in life, practice makes progress. As I worked to concoct a few items that I have made thousands of times in the past and kept making silly mistakes, I began to realize how rusty I was. 

On top of it, working in the kitchen with a toddler running around is quite different than working in a restaurant's kitchen, where everyone knows the protocol and can protect themselves from potential harm.

As I prepared the caramel for the flan, with my little maniac underfoot, I was stricken by the parallels between raising a toddler and working with sugar.

It t takes patience to work with sugar. If you don't watch it, it will burn. You have to be acutely aware, with all your senses, to determine that millisecond of time right after it's not quite done, and right before it's completely burnt. And if you're short on time, and you turn the heat too high to try and get it there quicker, you risk it crystallizing and having to start all over again. 

Every mom knows, we have to be acutely aware, with all our senses, to determine that small window of time between when they aren't hungry at all, and when they are having a major meltdown because they haven't eaten. Or the other one, between when they are not tired yet, and when they are so tired that they won't fall asleep. And yet if you try to outsmart them, you'll generally get "burnt" or "crystallize" yourself.

Once the ramekins were lined with caramel, I moved on to work on the brittle. At the last stage, I kept wondering why it looked so different than I remembered it. Once again, sugar at play, there's a small window between not done and burnt, so after staring and stirring, yet not being able to shake the feeling that it wasn't quite right, I removed it from the pan and spread it onto the Silpat. The end result was crunchy, and tasty, yet different nonetheless.

Days later (yes, days...) I found the small piece of butter that was supposed to be added into the brittle exactly at the point during which my untrusting staring was taking place.

I laughed as I realized that many times, forgetting an ingredient because you are tired, out of practice, or sleep deprived, doesn't necessarily ruin the whole dish. 

When we deem ourselves less than perfect mothers, at whatever task we are judging ourselves on at the moment, we should remind of this.

The end result may well be just a tad more original or unique.

E really likes helping in the kitchen. So after all the sugar work was done, I enlisted him to assist with making the actual flan. The recipe is easy: measure all ingredients, and mix in a food processor until all the cheese is completely incorporated. Alas, this was not possible. 

Our food processor bowl had a crack that ran vertically from top to bottom from the time E threw it across the kitchen. So as we mixed the batter, the liquid started to squeeze itself out of the crack. E kept wanting to press the button and more and more liquid kept coming out. I had to stop it all in its tracks before it was ready. The end result proved to be a bit more grainy than anyone wants their flan to be, yet delicious nonetheless.

And as we ate it at dinner, sans E, the following evening, it dawned on me that I'd rather have less than perfect desserts, that were prepared with the laughter and cheer of my little guy, than perfect ones that came at the cost of not including him in the process. 

Sure, sometimes it's necessary and wonderful to do whatever we want or have to do without them! 

Yet it's important to include them whenever we can, and create the memories that we will one day hold dear to our hearts, and that will teach them that we are willing and able to show them the way, even if it means taking a little longer to get there.

If we can work on our patience just a little bit, then the end result may be just a little bit sweeter. 

-- 

I get to stay home with my sick toddler

Ever since  E started daycare, the germs have poured into our home nonstop. We keep passing them around, and I honestly don't remember the last time that all three of us were healthy.

After a two week long cold, the little guy was finally on the mend, and after two whole days without green boogers (oh the small victories of parenthood!), he started coughing again. Only this time it was a different kind of a cough. I could notice he was really having a hard time breathing. I grew up having asthma and nasal allergies, and the thought crept in that perhaps my son had inherited those genes and was battling something similar in his own little body.

We spent the weekend wondering if he had a new cold, or if he had some form of allergy or chronic respiratory track condition. He was needy, and not in a very good mood, barely napped on Sunday, and spent the entirety of Sunday night coughing. We never had to go in and comfort him, he barely woke up, but his cough was almost constant, so we didn't really have a restful evening.

On Monday morning, with a fever of 102, we headed to the doctor.

  He prescribed some medicine via a nebulizer, and so began our week: take the prescription to the pharmacy, then the toddler back to the house to nap early because nobody slept the night before, after the shortest nap in history, head back to the pharmacy to pick up the prescription via the drive-through, and drop off the prescription for the nebulizer machine itself which you thought you could get elsewhere for cheaper, but admit now you won't have the time or energy to do that research.

  Head to the store to pick up something ready made for dinner, because all your child wants to do is "Mommy pick you up" (all 36 pounds of him), then back to the pharmacy. Drive up to the window, to be told that you have to come in because the machine won't fit through the drive-through exchange box. Get the child out of the car and carry him to get the nebulizer, which wasn't covered by insurance and is almost $60 (there was one online in the shape of a Fire truck that was cheaper than that!). Head back home to bargain with your two-year-old to put on the mask and inhale the vapor that will hopefully help him breathe better.

 That was Monday. Yesterday, the fever had risen and would not go down, so we called the doctor and he prescribed some antibiotics for what he believes to be a case of walking pneumonia. Because we live in the world of corporate America, the last time our doctor prescribed something over the phone for our family, he had to make multiple calls to 1-800 numbers only to be bounced around from one operator to the other, for hours. So this time, he asked us to have the pharmacy call him.

Get the toddler into the car and drive to the pharmacy, ask the pharmacist to call the doctor, who is not in the office yet. Call his direct number, which he doesn't answer (for the first time ever since you've been his patient!) leave a message. Leave the pharmacy and hope for the best. Go back to double check they will call you when the doctor calls in the prescription. Actually leave the pharmacy.

Hours later, drive back to the pharmacy to check in, and call the doctor again yourself if needed: prescription is ready! They just forgot to let you know!

Go back home and administer antibiotics. Hope for the best!

Today is Wednesday. He still has a fever, although much lower than in the last few days. He seems to be feeling a tiny bit better but still only wants mommy. To be held, cuddled, nursed (there goes weaning which we started a few weeks back, but that's another post entirely!) picked up. For mommy to sit with him, for him to sit on mommy. Mommy, mommy, mommy.

For the last few days, I have tried my hardest to let go of the need to do anything and focus solely on his needs. On holding him, and cuddling him, and kissing him. On singing him songs, and dancing with him, on playing with him, and giving in to watching tv (which we've only done while on vacation to the Dominican Republic last month) and even letting him hold my phone to look at videos of himself to get him to nebulize.

I have struggled with finding that even space between letting go, giving in, and still maintaining some form of order in my life and our home. The to-do list (to which I admit, I'm a bit of a slave to) has kept growing, without much getting crossed off it. The Leo in me gets a little tweaky when this happens. And being that we are weeks away from the Holidays, we have more engagements than usual on the calendar, and more errands to run.

Yet at the same time as I acknowledge the challenges of not having a village, of raising a toddler in a culture that ultimately does not support motherhood as many other developed countries do, and of simply having a sick kiddo, while still trying to manage a household, a job, starting a business and taking care of myself, I can't help but feel grateful.

Yesterday, the thought: " I get to stay at home with my sick baby" kept coming back to me. I breathed deeply in solidarity and gratitude as I thought of all those moms who would give anything to be able to stay at home with their sick kid, and instead have to go to work, to a job that they may love, or may hate. Yet they don't have a choice.

Grateful, that when my son fell off the window seat and did a backflip in the air, before falling flat on his back on the kitchen floor, I was there to watch it, to see it first hand instead of getting a call and being told the story. Grateful that I could call my husband, and share the scare with him. And even more grateful that shortly after, he was able to come home and spend the rest of the afternoon working from home, being with us, as we navigated the new waters of treating walking pneumonia and watching for any signs of back or neck distress after a major fall.

I like to joke that I was raised in the religion of Murphy's laws. My dad has a few large posters listing the laws in his office, and often referred to them when we told him stories of things that happened to us during our day.

Motherhood, and raising a kiddo, has definitely been a huge exercise in those laws. And this week is proving to continue to be that way.

This morning, after being so proud of myself for surrendering to the task at hand and E's needs, and being constantly present with him since we woke up, I snapped at my husband for saying something that made me feel that I wasn't watching him well enough. As I tried to settle my emotions, while still playing with E, and without losing my cool with him, tears streamed down my cheeks. Hubby came over and brought me a second cup of coffee, apologizing for any misunderstanding. He didn't mean that and he was sorry if it made me feel that way.

I managed to remove myself from E's sight long enough to lock the bathroom door behind me. Only to find out that: Yay! I have my period!

Oh, Murphy! Thanks, Buddy!

Every morning (or every morning I remember to do so) I pick some cards from two decks. One is a motherhood deck and the other a yoga deck.

 Of the motherhood deck I ask: What affirmation will best support me in mothering E today. And of the yoga one, What quality will best support me today. I then try to use them as intentions, or gentle reminders for myself to guide me throughout the day.

 I count my blessings now, enjoying a warm bowl of tomato soup and veggies while I type these words during E's nap (hey, at least he's napping, KNOCK ON WOOD!). And as I do, I catch sight of the messages my cards had for me today. Since E needed constant attention this morning, I had him help me draw them, so we ended up with three instead of one from the first deck:

The message from the second deck was simple: I accept nourishment.

As I think of these throughout the day, I can't help but smile, for as true as it is that this game of mothering is Murphy's laws at its best, it's also true that sometimes, the universe sends you the exact message you need, at the exact moment you need it, to give you the strength to carry on. All we have to do is listen.

Guests will come and go, but love will always stay...

The house is clean. The floors are swept and mopped; the rug is vacuumed; the furniture is dusted and polished.  The laundry is done; the tub and the sinks are scrubbed.  The fridge is stocked. The yoga props are all in the yoga room. The house is quiet, and Jupiter sleeps on the couch, his left front paw gently draped over his eyes to block out the light.

When we moved to Chicago almost three years ago, we did so for many reasons.  However, one of the most crucial ones, was to be closer to our families, and to a large number of friends that live on this side of the world (it should be noted that my definition of "this side" spans the large geographical area, from Europe to the Caribbean, with some random US States included in the mix).  Of course, by moving closer to them, we moved far away from many others, who were an integral part of our path and our lives, for many years, for many laughs, for many tears.

That first Winter, as we settled into our lovely, much larger (and cheaper) apartment, our loved ones started to slowly pour in.

  First came my friend V, whom I had met years ago in San Francisco,  and had immediately fallen in love with, and who years ago moved to Madison, Wisconsin.  Then J's best friend from home, B, stopped by for a few days... And by the time the ice was melting and the tulips and daffodils started to sprout, our phones and emails were constantly receiving messages with travel plans and dates from loved ones from all over the world.

  A few days here, a few weeks there.  A few breaks in between.  The bed and breakfast was officially open (except at our place, you actually get dinner too :)). They started to arrive on Easter, and didn't stop until after Thanksgiving.

  Last year, in the same fashion, with the first blooms came our friend Y.  Then the Easter bunny dropped off my niece for a few days, after that my brother and sister in law, and then Derby brought with it C, V, J, and T, among a few others who didn't stay with us. And once again, until the leaves all fell off, and the cold snuck in fiercely and vibrantly, the guests didn't stop.

This year, the love has kept pouring in. Derby Day became a race to see who got the futon, who got the couch,  who claimed the air mattress and who would end up on the floor by the litter box.

And as the sun shone it's warmth through the summer, and when in autumn the mums and the pumpkins started to make an appearance at the farmers market, while the smell of apple cider and concord grapes perfumed the air, they each brought with them more and more of our loved ones from far away. Even my grandma came to see us!

We've had visitors from San Francisco, from New York (or should I say New Jersey...) from Florida, Kentucky, Wisconsin, Indiana, Montreal, the Dominican Republic, England and last but not least, Madrid.

One of my favorite bands, the Wood Brothers, has a song that says: "I'm glad to see you, but I'll be happy to see you go."

I must agree, as having guests can be quite draining: Preparing for their arrival, sharing one bathroom with double the butts, eating out all the time and drinking WAY more than one is used to (yes, for me that means having A WHOLE two drinks in one day). Moving your yoga mat every morning to whichever piece of floor is furthest from whoever is still asleep (and if everyone is asleep choosing the space between the bedroom and the bathroom, because it has the least creaky floor boards), going to bed long past one's bedtime almost every single night...  In the event that the guests decided to stay at a hotel, then tracking back and forth between downtown and home. Finally, no matter the age or nationality of the visitors, there is almost always a visit to the Magnificent Mile, the Cloud Gate (yes, that is the Bean's real name), and some random Chicago "staple".

By the time they leave, I'm beat! I look forward to going to bed early and to my daily yoga and meditation practice. My belly is super excited that I will once again be feeding it nutrient dense delicious foods that it knows how to digest, my liver is delighted that it will not have to process anymore than two or three ounces of wine on any given week,  and J and I are both happy to be able spend a little alone time together.

But even with all that, hours, minutes, and sometimes seconds after we say goodbye, I am sad, and even lonely to see them go. My grandma once said to me: " I don't like seeing you because when I do I miss you more..." And as I watch them go into their hotel, or down the stairs to catch the train, or out the door and into their car to drive away, tears slowly start building up in my eyes, and that statement rings so true.

For in our household, a crowded home is never just crowded with bodies. It's just as crowded with memories, with laughter, with hugs, and inevitably with tears. With old familiar dynamics that take on a life of their own immediately upon contact. With walks, talks, and sometimes runs. With pancakes and bacon, pastelon de platanos maduros and guandules con coco, with beers and bourbon, with rum and cigars, with glasses of wine and pear and cranberry jam. With toast eaten standing up in the kitchen, because that's what they're used to doing. With cheesecake (yes it's the same recipe from when were thirteen, give and take, and no, it's not written down, we all just know it). With love.

And as all the noise settles, and the air becomes still and quiet, it takes a while for all the love that was just all over the place to settle itself into the walls, into the furniture, into our hearts.

These last two visits were particularly challenging for me, because I was so grateful to see them. The fact that they were here, NOW,  on back to back weekends, was one of the best gifts the universe has ever granted me. So seing them go, and adjusting back to the cleanliness, to the stillness, and to the good ol' routine, has been that much harder.

Don't get me wrong, I have plenty of loved ones here who give me love, laughter, company and tears. But everyone has their own piece of this heart, and no one can take the other's place.

And as I get back my day to day life, love keeps showing up in the funniest ways, to remind me that as long as I keep giving it, it will keep coming back to me.

The latest gift came in the form of a 14 pound bag of green tomatoes from our neighboor. She's a lovely Polish old lady, whose name is also Ana, and who grows a small little vegetable garden every season, with mostly tomatoes.

And I made the most delicious green tomato jam, green tomato and apple chutney and green tomato and mango chutney with it (some of which still sits on the shelves of my pantry, ready to be shared with the right crowd!).

I never finished this post when I first started writing it, now over three years ago. And I won't post the recipe for these treats, because now, I have a permanent guest. He moved in to the yoga room and took posesion of my precious, peaceful space. He is constantly dirtying the house, messing up the routine, making a bunch of noise,  preventing me from eating healthy and making me drink more than I want to. He also, consequently take up most of my time.

But he has filled the house and our lives with more love, laughter and tears than I could ever have dreamed of, and so,  I'm keeping him!

Hello friends. It's been a while! How are you? I hope all is well!
Things have been good around here, albeit a bit different than the last time I posted.

As some of you may have heard, I had a baby! I know, crazy... Even crazier, that was two years ago! Two years and three weeks to be exact.

Which means I now have a two-year-old. A toddler. A "terrible two-er". That's right. J and I are guiding a little human through this wonderful life. And as you may see from the photo above, he is not so little! Born at 10 pounds and 5 ounces, he is now 36 pounds and three feet tall!

Another important piece of news is that our beloved Jupi has passed (five days after our son was born) and we have added two new felines to our family. Marmalade and Julep have been part of the team for a year now.

We are still in Chicago (six winters and counting!), and that about sums it up!

I begin this post while the little one naps, to get the ball rolling. I intend to rekindle my relationship with writing and blogging in the new year and didn't see a reason why I should wait for January first to do so.

I also wanted to announce that I am focusing my work with yoga and food in supporting new mothers in their transition into the postpartum life.

More to come on that in the next few months, but if you have any questions about it, please gimme a shout! E is shouting out from the crib now so I must go!

Looking forward to writing more soon!

To love or not to love? That is the question...

  Yesterday was the summer solstice: allegedly the longest day of the year.  Yet in Chicago, at 5:45 in the afternoon, it was as dark as a cold winter day.  Grey clouds hung heavy in the sky above us, announcing the storm that was about to break through their thick fluffy skin, and onto our heads before falling on the ground beneath us.
Earlier that morning, my heart had felt as heavy as those clouds and as the moist humid air that enveloped the quiet streets as I headed to work.

My mother in law likes to jokingly say that I have a friend everywhere in the world.  When I first moved to the States, my new gringo friends used to jokingly ask me how many "best friends" I had, because I was always telling a story about someone or other, referring to them as "one of my best friends" (mind you, these same jokers, are now often referred to as such themselves). And since we have been together, for a little over eight years, my husband and I have never traveled anywhere just the two of us, because whenever we have time off,  we always go visit someone we know.  As he always says, it's quite a good problem to have, to have so many people you love that no matter where you go, someone is always there to welcome you.

The drawback is, that when you have people you love all over the world, there is always someone far away. And in turn, there is always someone you miss.

For that reason, sometimes my love hangs heavy, wringing my heart out like you would a wet towel after soaking up the rain from a summer thunderstorm.  And when it does, I always wonder if love is a blessing, or if it's a curse. 

  J and I just got back from a wonderful holiday in San Francisco.  Our beloved home; our ongoing affair; the one that got away; the City by the Bay.  It was one of those perfect vacations, when everything flows and falls into place without you even trying.  We saw friends and family, we ate at our favorite restaurants, we visited our old city spots, and walked our old walks.  All without the stresses of daily life.  We experienced our home through the eyes of a tourist, while at the same time, knowing every crevice of the city just as well as some of its oldest residents do.  Of course we couldn't do everything, and we couldn't see everyone, but we were able to spend quality time with most of our loved ones, immediately falling back into our comfortable old dynamics as if we had never left.  And then we came back to Chicago wonderfully recharged from our encounters.  Or so I thought....

 Sometimes, when I visit with my grandma, she tells me that she wishes she had not seen me, for after seeing me she misses me more.  There is a saying back home, that is just as popular as the well known "distance makes the heart grow fonder".  It states that "eyes that don't see, heart that doesn't feel".

That one rings as true to me as the first one does to most people.
 For as time goes by away from a loved one, I tend to forget how essential their smile is to my happiness, or how healing their embrace can be, or how cooking and eating with them is one of the most joyful experiences of my life.
  I forget how even though they are more than twenty years younger than me, we share a bond that no one can touch but us.  I forget that they get me like no one else does; I forget that they are always there, for good and bad, even though after all these years, I still have no idea how old they are, or when their birthday is;  I forget that we can sit together and not talk for hours, and still know everything the other person is saying; I forget that they giggle more than anyone I've ever met; I forget how amazing they are, and that when I am around them, I am one of the better versions of myself I have ever met.

As time passes without seeing them, although I think of them often and fondly, I forget how connected I feel when we are together.

  And then I see them, and it all comes back to me. And I once again feel whole even though I had no idea I was halved. But then we say goodbye, and they drive away. And as I gather my belongings to get on the road myself, my heart slowly breaks again, into a million little pieces, that it will take me days, or weeks, or sometimes months to mend together again.
Sometimes I feel that my heart is like a child's favorite jigsaw puzzle, the one they keep breaking apart just so they can  put it back together again.

  Yesterday morning, as I headed to work, still foggy and a bit jet lagged, I got the news that uncle L, one of my grandparents best friend, and one of my best friends grandfather, had just passed away.

 As the news settled into my brain, I understood what was about to happen.
During the next few days, not only would I get to keep rebuilding my heart from the rubble that the earthquake of having parted with my beloved San Franciscans has been.  I would now also simultaneously navigate through the full on hurricane that is the all too familiar heartbreak of being far from the island, while my beloved Dominicans grief the passing of an amazing soul, and I am yet again, not there to share it with them.
Way to add insult to injury inner teacher!

  As the tears slowly rolled down my cheeks, I focused on my breath and on being present, as I intently went through the motions of opening the studio for the first class of  the day. While I swept the small studio, I felt a surge of gratitude for my job. The first job I've ever had that I have actually looked forward to going back to after returning from a vacation. I felt gratitude for how supportive and compassionate everyone is at Bloom (owners, employees and clients alike, a real community),  and for the fact that even though I was sad, and it was going to be a long day, I knew that by the time I left, I would feel better than I did now instead of worse (as the case usually was at most of my previous work places).

   A few minutes later, my friend Z handed me a treat he had brought in for me (peppermint, lavender and coriander tea, he had carefully prepared himself, following the tenants of ayurveda). As I thankfully received it, it dawned on me that I was currently actively involved in the process of developing new relationships, and gathering another set of loved ones, that I would inevitably someday miss, in the same way I ache for so many today. It seems that as I age, my heart's puzzle evolves from one of those that toddlers play with, made out of just a few giant pieces, to one with a few thousand tiny little ones, destined to end up at a puzzle aficionado's table.

 Many years ago, my friend P told me that maybe my purpose in life was to move around from one place to the next, meeting new people, and touching their lives as they touched mine.  I remember telling her that as romantic as her idea sounded, it seemed rather exhausting, not to mention like a whole lot of BS to me.
 As I sipped my tea, in a profound and bright moment of love, I wondered if she might have been right after all.

  As clients and teachers came and went throughout the day, I was too busy signing them in, welcoming them in, or chatting with them, to dwell on my broken heart (although a tear did fall here and there as I thought of a smile, or another tear that existed at that very moment in a parallel universe,
in a land far, far away).  Ten and a half hours later, as I closed up shop, the heavy clouds had burst into heavy tears, falling on the pavement at the rhythm of the loud thunder, conducted by the lightning strikes. Yet the storm no longer mirrored my soul.  For I was right, and a day at Bloom had made everything better. Plus, storms have always made me feel serene, calm, and at peace.

 I ran across the street to the train station, and as I watched the rain drops hit the ground, I couldn't help but notice the bubbles they formed on the puddles of water.  My lips curled into a smile, as I thought of my friend T (the one whose grandpa just passed away) and I watching the rain and the bubbles, almost twenty years ago back in the island.  Ever since I can remember, rain bubbles on the ground make me think of him.  I might not be able to be with him (or his family, or mine) to share our grief and comfort each other right now.  But he is always with me. And I remember that every time it rains, anywhere I am in the world.

And so I was awaken by the light of what I have always known: that love is the very essence of our self.  For the love we feel for others, for nature, for life itself, is the stuff that makes us us. When we speak of energy, of spirit, of source and connection, we speak of love. When we can't stop thinking about how good those apricots tasted fresh of the tree, it's love.  When we are blissed out in savasana after a great yoga class, it's also love. It is all love.  It is always, love.

 Sure, sometimes it hurts so much that we want to dig our fist into our chest and just rip our heart out and be done with it once and for all.  But the fact of the matter is, those who don't love, are angry, sad, lonely and annoying motherfuckers (sorry mom but they are...).  And those of us who do, are much happier, more peaceful, and way more fun to be around.
  Do as you might, but I'll stick to the latter.

 My mom once told me that for those of us who walk the path of love, the road is usually a rocky one.  I guess it's a good thing I collect rocks.
And in the end, I can vouch that the saying that " it's better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all" is definitely true.
Salud!

With love,
Now and always,
Ana.

Heartbroken Kumquat Syrup

Ingredients:

1     cup       Kumquats (preferably picked from a tree in one of your favorite people's farm or yard)
1/2  cup      Sugar
3/4  cup      Water


Method:

Slice and seed the kumquats. Inhale deeply and rejoice as you experience their unique and delicious aroma.
 Pat yourself in the back for deciding to preserve them instead of eating them all at once like you did with the apricots.

 Save the last one and eat it whole as you savor through its flesh the moment when you picked it. Get a little sad. Then be happy you were there.  In a saucepan, combine the kumquats, water and sugar, and bring to a boil.  Reduce the heat and simmer until the liquid is a syrupy consistency.

 Use as a base for kumquat soda or cocktails, and cheer to everyone you love who is far away, in this world or another.
 Alternatively you may also use it as a garnish for cake, custard, or ice cream, when you feel the need to throw yourself into sugar's evil arms for comfort.
  I will be enjoying mine atop chocolate pudding tonight, accompanied by a crunchy black olive whole wheat sable, as I think of each and every one of you, with a smile (and maybe a tear) on my face.

Shedding layers for Spring

                                            

  For the first time in our married life my husband has gone away on a trip without me.  Somehow, in the almost eight years we have been together, I have managed to go on several little vacations without him, while he has only had the pleasure to travel in the presence of my company.
I guess I had it coming...

  Upon finding out of his good fortune in being selected for an all expenses paid trip to Peru, my first instinct was to figure out a way to go with him. Once the sensibilities of adulthood settled in my brain, and I realized that I wasn't going anywhere other than to work, I proceeded to show my support, admiration and excitement for him (no, really).

However, in his absence, I have met a side of myself that I don't remember ever encountering before: A sheepish little girl who is apparently terribly afraid of sleeping alone.
Mind you, I have lived alone before.  In a studio in San Francisco's tenderloin district, which is not really known for its safety (or its cleanliness for that matter).  I went to work and I went home, and nobody knew if I had made it in alright until I showed up at the restaurant the next day.  I didn't know my neighbors, and my closest friends lived miles away, yet I always felt safe, and I was never scared in my home.

Fast forward to today, and it turns out I haven't spent one night alone since 2003.  We now live in a much smaller building than I did back then, where I do know my neighbors, who just so happen are going out of town for the same time period that my husband will be gone. That Murphy guy and his laws sure are something...
And all of a sudden, even though I cherish and very much enjoy my alone time in my every day life, the thought of sleeping alone in my own home, without anyone to reach out to if anything happens, scares the shit out of me.

In an effort to switch my perspective and take advantage of the multiple benefits of having the house all to myself, I decided to do a little Spring Cleaning.
As I dove into my closet, I felt light and clear, taking things off their hangers, and resolutely placing them on the donations pile without any hesitation.  Unfortunately, the lightness was very short lived.  Upon digging deeper I found myself once again wanting to keep  this or that shirt even though I never wear it anymore. I heard that convincing loud voice inside my head, dishing out argument after another rationalizing  my attachement to the object at stake. And with that monologue, in the same way as it always happens, the "maybe" pile was born.

  Once everything was off the rack I took a deep breath and stared at that pile. I tried to make some sense of what these things were, and why I had decided that they might be worth keeping regardless of the fact I no longer use or need them.
 There were things I had owned for years and had only worn once.  Others, I used to wear all the time but hadn't worn in years.  Yet Spring after Spring, and move after move, these items had somehow weaved themselves back in from the maybe to the keep pile, and into the precious real estate that is my closet. Why was I holding on to these things? Why couldn't I let go of my attachment to them?

                                             

It suddenly dawned on me, that my attachment wasn't to the clothes at all - although some of them are fabulous - but to what they represented to me: I was holding on to the fun and thrifty young woman who had purchased the pink tuxedo shirt; I was attached to all the good times I had when I wore the long orange silk skirt; I longed for the worry-less, idealist, romantic teenager who had picked out the fuchsia tie dye t-shirt from a stack of hundreds at a crowded flea market in London; I couldn't let go of the memory of my dad's loving embrace when he gave me the earrings he bought for me on a trip to South America; I was nostalgic for the single gal who used to wear the blue and green flower skirt when she went out on the town with her friends...

The maybe pile made me realize that I was afraid that by getting rid of the clothes, I would be getting rid of a part of myself.  Yet the truth of the matter is, the only reason why I no longer wear those items, is because I wear others: The vintage polyester polka dot shirt that the still fun, still thrifty, still young woman purchased at a second hand store;  The comfy blue tights that the yoga teacher wears to work every day;  The classic pearl earrings that my dad bought for me when we were visiting my brother in Barcelona; The slate blue and lace top that the adventurous young lady and her husband picked out together on their trip to Alaska; The tribal print dress that she likes to wear for a night on the town with her husband, with their friends, with their family...

 The yoga tradition teaches us that we are composed of five koshas, layers -or sheaths- : the physical body, the breath body, the mental body, the wisdom body, and the spirit body. It is through the balancing of our five koshas, that we ultimately find bliss.

In much the same way, we are composed of dozens or hundreds of layers made up from the labels that we -or society- attach to ourselves: husband, brother, mother, wife, lawyer, friend, chef, writer, doctor, grandmother, aunt, son, injured, happy, weak, tired, resilient...
At any given time, we are navigating the world trying to balance ourselves amidst the tornado of all of those layers.  A yoga teacher once said to us in class: peel the layers that you have come to identify yourself with.  What is left?  What was left, was our essence, our inner teacher, our true self. 

As we get used to our labels, we really do come to identify ourselves with them, and we sometimes settle into their roles in a way that is so automatic, that we forget all the other aspects of ourselves. Yet, just like with any good layered dish which tastes best when we manage to get a bite of all the components at the same time, it is the balance between all these different aspects of ourselves that makes us the unique individuals we are .

As I sat on my bed, surrounded by the keep, maybe and donate piles, I wondered if my new found fear of sleeping alone wasn't just like my maybe pile.  Was it possible that in wearing the comfortable, safe and wonderful label of being J's wife, I had somehow forgotten that in my keep pile, I will always have a strong, confident  and resourceful woman who is completely capable of taking care of herself, just as well -if not better- than her loving husband and her caring neighbors regularly do?

As soon as the though finished forming in my brain, I let out a burst of laughter. My fears were not only completely irrational, but they were weighing down the amazing opportunity of getting a taste of living alone again, and enjoying its many wonderful benefits, while remaining happily married to my sweet loving husband.

 Often, when closing a yoga class, I ask my students to become aware of the peaceful and tranquil state that they are in, and to recognize that they attained this state merely by breathing and moving their bodies.  I ask them to remember, that they can always go back to that place of stillness, peace, and light, whenever they want, whenever they need, throughout their day, and throughout their lives.  It was time to practice what I preach, and  I realized that as my husband always says:  "Everything is going to be ok, because it already is."

Much like the glistening white snow must melt before the perennial flowers can once again begin to sprout, at times, we need to peel of and discard some of our old layers, in order to reveal the colorful new ones that are ready to shine.I took another deep breath, and without a hint of hesitation, stacked the maybe pile right on top of the donations pile.

Later that night, after enjoying a delicious dinner and watching a French film that J would never have watched with me, I laid down right in the middle of the bed, using every single pillow, and smiled at the luxury of having the bed all to myself.