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.

Pardon my french, but f... multitasking!

                                                        

  One of my many responsibilities as front desk manager at the yoga studio is to have clean cups and a full jug of filtered water for our students. One day, after I had been working there for only a few weeks, one of the massage therapists told me she had noticed that the jug was always full when I was working "It's funny, I can always tell when you're at the desk just by looking at the water".

  As she uttered those words it dawned on me that I was indeed a bit obsessed with keeping the water jug full.   Because of my many years in the service industry, I felt the need to always have the "service" area fully stocked and ready to go.  All of a sudden, in a slow motion slideshow of images in my mind,  all of the habits that I had carried over from years in restaurants that were no longer useful at this point in my life were revealed to me.

  One of these habits, ingrained in me through years of working bustling services, is multitasking. I have become an avid multitasker.  I actually list this on my cover letter when applying for jobs as one of my better qualities,  and I honestly believe that it's one of the reasons I always get a call back for an interview.

  According to me, I am also pretty darn good at it.  I assess the amount of the time things are going to take, prioritize them, and consider which ones will require my full attention and which ones won't, and then plan accordingly so that I can get all these tasks done almost at the same time. Brilliant right? Not always so...

  The water jug is my perfect example.  I place it under the faucet with the filter turned on and start refilling it, then I walk away to multitask: while the jug is refilling itself I will answer a few emails. But then the phone rings, or a class lets out, or a client walks in, or all of the above, and before I know it the jug is overflowing, wasting precious filtered water, as the fact that I am refilling it has completely escaped my mind.

  Lately, I have started to reconsider my position on multitasking.  We are currently bombarded with information and to do's at every minute of our life.  The phone is lighting up every second with text messages, phone calls, tweets, or Facebook updates that we believe we need to attend to.  As we are taking a shower we are thinking of what we need to be doing as soon as we get out of it, and while at work we are trying to figure out not only how to get everything done there, but also how we are going to manage our after work to do list at the end of our day. 
I once had a friend confess that his years in the industry had led him to the point in which he found himself flushing the toilet before he was completely done peeing to ensure he was wasting absolutely no time at all.

 All of these tasks and to do lists that we take on,  make us believe we need to find a way -any way- to maximize our time, so we tell ourselves, if we can just do this while we do that, and at the same time start on that other thing, we can get everything done that much faster right? Actually, wrong!

   Turns out, multitasking actually makes us less productive.  Not only that, but research has also shown that it decreases our memory, creativity and our ability to focus on one thing and one thing only.  According to the research by Dr Clifford Nask, professor of communications at Stanford University, multitasking makes us chronically distracted, and contrary to what we multitaskers might think, we are actually not that good at it after all.
http://www.npr.org/2013/05/10/182861382/the-myth-of-multitasking

  After so many years of having to do a thousand things at a time in order to perform my job and excel at it, my transition into the yoga studio turned out to be more of a challenge than I expected.  On my first few weeks, my manager kept telling me to "slow down".
  Excuse me? You want me to do what?  Of course, everything I have learned through years of studying and practicing yoga resonated with what she was saying, I just had never thought about it -let alone heard it-  in the context of work.

                                                  

   Most people in our side of the world know yoga as a series of postures or exercises that when practiced regularly promote better health.  There are however eight limbs to the practice of yoga, with asana (postures) being only one of them.  The purpose of practicing all eight limbs, is to unite mind, body and spirit, as well as to connect with the universal.   One of these limbs is Dharana which can loosely be translated as concentration.
  As I pondered on the potential benefits of switching from multitasking to working on a single task I thought of Dharana.  In turn, I realized that research or not, multitasking is the exact opposite of it.  How can I honestly concentrate on anything, if when doing something, I am focusing on something else? And more so, how will I ever be grounded, and achieve peace (of mind, spirit or anything for that matter) if I keep constantly pulling my body and my mind in twenty different directions at the same time?

(This is a great article on the power of concentration.
http://www.nytimes.com/2012/12/16/opinion/sunday/the-power-of-concentration.html?_r=0)

  So yesterday morning, in an attempt to become more grounded and more present, (and hoping that as a result I would also become more peaceful) I set my intention before my practice to not multitask. As I flowed from one asana to another, consciously guiding my body one movement and breath at a time, I committed to spend my day focusing on one thing at a time.  I decided to use a mindfulness meditation practice I learned many years ago to help guide me along the very unfamiliar path of "single tasking".

                                     

    As I was going about my day, I would mentally describe what I was doing.  This would help keep my mind focused on the task at hand, instead of allowing it to slowly drift away into the future or the past without me even realizing it.  As a bonus (or maybe in a subconscious effort to not go cold turkey and to still somewhat feel I was getting more than one thing accomplished at a time) I decided to do this in French (the actual language not the one used at the beginning of this post) in order to practice what used to be my second language and has slowly and sadly become my rusty third.

   It was an amazing exercise in self study, or svadhyaya (one of the five niyamas or observances,
 another of the eight limbs of yoga).  I kept having to constantly stop myself from doing something else every few minutes -pr at least thinking about something else- because multitasking is such a part of who I am that most of the time, I don't even realize I am doing it .
  So throughout the day, gently and compassionately, I kept tugging my thoughts and my actions back to the present moment and action.  Amazingly, I not only finished my rather lengthy to do list at work, but was also able to tackle a few extra things. The day unfolded without any hint of stress.
  It seems that the research is indeed accurate: multitasking does not increase, but decrease productivity.  I found I was so much more focused and productive than I normally am, and all I had to do,  was do less.

                                                      
   My late teacher, the amazing Larry Schultz used to say: " We all think we have so much to do. We don't have to do anything.  All we have to do is listen to our breath."  I think I am finally beginning to understand what you were saying Larry...

  By the end of the day, I felt lighter, brighter and more at peace than the day before.  Of course, the real challenge is to now keep up with the practice.  But I am confident that one day at a time, or maybe one task on my to do list at a time, by practicing Dharana, I will become a bit more grounded, a bit more mindful, and if I'm lucky, a lot more peaceful.

         

 In the kitchen, multitasking can be extremely helpful in order to get dinner ready on time.  However, with some tasks, it is actually a recipe for disaster.  If any of you have ever had to clean the stove after your milk boiled over, you know what I am talking about.

Marmalade is one of those things, where focusing on the task at hand, instead of trying to accomplish a few things at a time, can prove extremely helpful if not essential.  At the stage where your  marmalade is simmering, and it's composition is changing from a pool of liquid with fruit pieces floating around in it, to a thick, spreadable, sticky concoction, it is of utmost importance to focus one hundred percent on it.

Turn away for too long, or forget to stir it at just the right time, and your marmalade might end up scorched, leaving you not only sad and with a burnt flavored final result, but also leaving your kitchen smelling like crap, and your pot having to soak for days before you can successfully scrape all the burnt pieces off  of it.

Below is the recipe, for a delicious lime marmalade, adapted from Bally Mallow's Forgotten Skills of Cooking cookbook. I hope you enjoy it!

Single Task Lime Marmalade

10   ea          Limes, preferably organic, washed and scrubbed
3     quarts    Water
5     cups      Sugar
3     ea         Star Anise
1     TB        Ginger,  minced
1     TB        Rum
                    Pinch Salt

Place a small saucer and a few stainless steal spoons in the freezer.

  Using a microplane, zest the limes into a stainless steel (or copper if you have it :)) saucepan.  Juice the limes into the pan, and add the water and salt.

Tie everything that is left of the fruit, and the the star anise into a cheesecloth bag and add to the pan along with the ginger.

   Bring to a boil and simmer until reduced by two thirds, then remove from the heat.  Meanwhile, place the sugar in a stainless steel bowl, and place the bowl in a preheated 200 degree oven for 15 to 20 minutes. When ready, the sugar should feel hot to the touch.  Be mindful not to leave it in for too long, or the sugar will begin to melt around the sides of the bowl and start to caramelize.

   When the limes are cool enough to handle,  take out the cheesecloth bag, and discard the star anise.  Using a food processor, blend the remaining pieces of lime, with a little bit of the liquid from the pan, until the pieces of pith are no larger than 1/4 or an 1/8 of an inch.  Use as much as liquid as needed to prevent your food processor from overworking.  Add the mixture back to the saucepan, and bring back to a boil.  Add the warmed sugar, stirring to dissolve, and bring back to a boil again.

  Reduce the heat to a brisk simmer, and cook stirring regularly, until the marmalade is the consistency of a thick jam.  To test for doneness , scoop a spoonful of marmalade with one of your frozen spoons, and return to the freezer for few seconds, until it feels room temperature.  When done, it will have the consistency of jelly.  Pour into sterilize jars and process in a boiling water bath for ten minutes. Enjoy over toast, or with a nice sharp cheddar.


Note: If you have never canned before, please see the links below for instructions on proper canning procedures.

http://nchfp.uga.edu/publications/uga/uga_processing_j_j.pdf

http://www.foodnetwork.com/how-to/photos/how-to-process-jam-jars.html

http://www.foodnetwork.com/how-to/photos/how-to-process-jam-jars.html

No pain, no gain?

Over the years, I have often heard people ask: why me?  Why has this happened to me? Every time it has been in reference to something that they consider painful:  an illness, a relationship gone wrong, the loss of a job, or whatever the case might have been.


I've never quite understood the question.  Although my first response is always an outpouring of love and compassion towards my suffering friend, my second,  is always to ask them if they ever question why all the good things that have happened to them occurred:  Why do they have such a wonderful family? Why did they fall in love with their perfect mate at a very young age and have been happily married every since? Why do they have the luxury of a warm home in this insanely cold winter? Why did they go on that awesome trip to wherever?


More often then not, the answer is no.  Because that's the thing about us humans.  We are such an entitled species, that we think all the good things are just meant to happen to us, but all the "bad" things are a bout of misfortune.

                               

The way I see it, it is all part of our path.  The good, the bad, the pretty and the ugly. So truly, if we think about it, it's all good.   It is all meant to lead us a little bit closer to our true selves.  Everything carries a lesson with it, we just have to be dedicated students, and we must trust. 

  Often, these lessons come in the form of pain: physical pain, emotional pain, pain posing as worry, pain dressed up as fear, pain made up as anxiety, and so many other faces, for pain is a disguise master.
  Pain is inevitable.  Some people are more fortunate - or at a different stage in their evolution- than others, and experience less pain, more laughter, and the other way around.
But the truth of the matter is that comparisons are useless, for when we hurt, we hurt.  And it is our pain,  and more often than not, we want it to stop more than anything else in the world.

  In one of the many English translations of the yoga sutras of Patanjali, Book 2, Sutra 1, reads:
"Accepting pain as help for purification, study of spiritual books, and surrender to the supreme being constitute yoga in practice. "

 Although some scholars argue that the word 'pain' is an inappropriate translation of the Sanskrit for all intended purposes of this blog post I will say that it is, because I have met many a breakthrough in my personal yoga practice through pain.
  For the record, since we are talking about yoga,  I am not referring to pain in asana here.  In my opinion, pain means not only a giant, waving, silky red flag yelling "STOP!!!!!!!!" but another one behind it crying "Oh no! You went too far!!!!"
Discomfort is another story...And that, is another post.

  One of my biggest lessons was first delivered (and continues to be so, as learning it is a work in progress) in the form of strong physical pain.
When I broke my leg, I never really questioned why it happened, I just went through the motions of dealing with this new reality that was now unfolding for myself, and in a domino effect, for my husband, my mother, my aunt C, my friend N, my employers and a few others via  long distance. 

                         

  The initial pain was indescribable.  We are taking about the pain inflicted by a major surgery, in which a very talented team of now anonymous doctors cut my left knee open, cut around my kneecap, drilled a titanium rod inside my bone marrow, and then drilled six screws, four at my ankle and two at the sides of my knee, to secure the rod in place.  Of course it was going to hurt!   And to add insult to injury I evidently couldn't walk, and I lived in a four story apartment, with no elevator, at the top of Nob Hill in beautiful hilly San Francisco. For those of you who don't know me,  I don't do well sitting still -or even sitting for that matter-.

  At first I was restless, and annoyed, and every position on that olive green suede couch was uncomfortable.  The pills made me so nauseous that I had to do without, using acupuncture, mantra, reiki and herbs to tame the pain. But I knew that it was a matter of time, after all the doctor said I would be walking again in six weeks, so I waited.

                                       

At the six week follow up appointment, in a room with a large glass window, and a gorgeous view of Pacific Heights,   the orthopedic surgeon after reading my x-rays and examining my flesh and bone limb, invited me to put weight on my left leg.  As I excitedly rested the bottom of my foot on the cold tile beneath me, the entire world as I knew it crumbled around me. All of a sudden, the lovely Victorian and Spanish style homes on the hill were all moving as if there was a major earthquake shaking the city.  I couldn't see, I couldn't hear, I couldn't even think.  All I could do was feel the throbbing, shooting, stabbing earthquake, that was actually happening inside my leg.

  Somehow, I regained enough breath to send some oxygen to my brain in order to formulate a few words and ask the doctor why it hurt so much.  He said I would be walking in six weeks.  There was no way I could walk.  He patiently explained that by walking he had meant "starting to put weight on it".  It was going to take time.  I would need to go to physical therapy.  Regain my strength.  And it would still hurt for quite some time after that. I was devastated. 

  I had thought -looking back on it maybe foolishly thought but hey, I've always been very positive- that I would be WALKING in six weeks.  As in leaving the house, and going to work, and doing stuff alone without getting in trouble when my husband found out I had been parading around the streets of our neighborhood without supervision.  Silly me.  That wouldn't happen for another six weeks.

  In the weeks, months and years that followed, I have had many "aja" moments about why this injury happened to me.  It has been one of my biggest lessons in acceptance.  The reason why I was so distraught was because what was happening, was not what I thought should happen.  My aversion to how things were, was a direct consequence of my ideas of how things should be. 
And there was NOTHING I could do about to change it.  It was what it was.  And it still is, what it is.  So, slowly, I started learning  to accept.  And like with anything in life, practice makes perfect, so in my giant life manual, the universe keeps writing more and more  chapters on acceptance, whenever I start to forget.

  I have learned to live with pain, because for some reason, almost seven years later, my leg hurts on a pretty regular basis.
Yet through this pain, I have found new meaning in the phrase : No pain, no gain.  It's not about enduring pain as a means to show off and let our ego puff itself out in front of others.  It's about diving deep within, and opening our mind and heart to the subtle yet insistent signs all around us, that carry with them the reason, the lesson, that our pain is meant to share with us.
  I have never wished that this injury hadn't happened.  I have never imagined my life without it.  And I have never asked why it happened, yet as time goes by, I keep being shown the many reasons.

 So the next time pain comes knocking on your door, consider welcoming it, with the same hospitality that you would invite joy, love, or adventure in.  Don't question it, and don't ask it for how long it's planning to stay.  Just host it, without any agenda, and as you learn to accept it, you will slowly start hearing the message it brought for you.


 

  Yesterday afternoon my friend A was sharing with a few of us the story of how she was a bit unsuccessful in her first attempt to make candied orange zest.  When I got home, all I could think about was the perfect combination of chewiness, bitterness and sweetness that a well made piece of candied orange zest engulfs.

  As I ran through the contents of my fridge and my pantry, as well as the steps on making candied orange zest in my head,   I looked at the clock and I pondered how much time and energy I would have to devote to the task in order to satisfy my completely irrational and capricious craving.  I decided it was just more than I wanted to deal with and as if on cue, my leg gave me one of those random stabs it likes to give from time to time.  Pang! No pain, no gain...

  In cooking, patience is key.  There are so many delicious meals that are so very tedious and take so much time to prepare.  But in the end, if it's worth it, it's worth waiting for.  And in the kitchen, just as in life, sometimes you can't gain, without a little bit of pain.  So with this in mind, I got my two oranges out of the crisper (one blood orange and one cara cara) and I set up to make this delightful treat.  The recipe follows.


Deliciously Painful Candied Orange Zest

2    ea          Oranges
2    Cups      Water
1    Cup        Sugar, plus more for dusting


Wash your oranges under cold running water. With a sharp knife, core the skin running the blade from the top to the bottom of the orange creating four segments.

  Slide your finger under the peel, starting at one of the top corners,  and carefully press the peel away from the flesh of the fruit, very gently, but with intention.
If you are impatient it will tear, and if you are not firm enough it will keep gripping the fruit.

Reserve the fruit for another use (such as eating it right now).
Place the peel in a small saucepan and cover it with cold water.  Bring to a rolling boil, strain, and repeat twice.

             

After the third blanching, use a spoon to scoop out any excess mushy pith and any fruit that was left on the rind, leaving the skin and some of the pith at about 1/4 inch thick.

Cut the peel into any desired shape.  The most common (and easiest :)) is to just slice in strips.

Place the sugar and the water in the pan, and add the peel.  Bring to a boil and immediately turn down to a simmer.  Simmer gently, being mindful not to let the syrup brown or reduce too much, until the zest is translucent.

This will take about an hour, maybe more.   If the syrup is thickening too quickly turn the flame down.  If this is still an issue, add more sugar and water, using the same ratio of 1 part sugar to 2 parts water.

Once your peel is at the desired stage, strain the syrup into a bowl and reserve for sweetening tea, or making cocktails or sodas.
Place the orange peel on a wire rack over a sheet pan and leave to dry in a warm place overnight.

You can dust your orange peel in sugar if you wish, but I find that without it's perfect without it. It will keep for weeks in an airtight container.  Enjoy!