In three prominent aspects of life where anyone could wish to be happy, peaceful or prosperous, I was body-slammed yesterday. First from the front, immediately following on the left and before that wind had even completed being knocked out of me, from the right, until I was flat on my ass staring up (and/or looking in) thinking, “I mean, seriously? You couldn’t have like, EASED that a bit and spread those out over a week, or like… over the course of 2010?”
I’m pretty sure everyone’s familiar with that downward spiral when one big, bad, negative thing happens and suddenly every other minute disturbance in your life piggybacks onto it. It’s like an instantaneous pity party Evite gets sent out to all of the things that may be less than stellar within your daily existence. So not only are you dealing with the Huge thing (or in my case yesterday, three Huge things) you also get the garnishes all up in the mix, such as “oh, AND my lower left hand kitchen cabinet’s veneer is peeling, this zit on my chin has taken up permanent residence, plus no one ever asked me to my senior prom… “ and so on.
What was so nice about yesterday (and believe me I am stretching it here because nothing about it felt anywhere remotely close to nice at the time; if nice is Manhattan, yesterday was Point Nemo) was that I didn’t take part in the spiral. Make no mistake, it was there; I saw it coming. I felt it whoosh over me, the pain, the emotion, as one thought after another jumped in to take hold and dig that stiletto into my heart and mind for an excruciating rip. And instead of letting the wave take me over, instead of fighting against it or trying to block it out, I rode it.
I left my office at 6:30, exiting into bitter, freezing February rain. (I mean, again, really?) Instead of going to the bar (didn’t even consider it-- yay) or to the freezer section of my deli (bypassing the urge to catch up on the entire season of “30 Rock” via nbc.com with New York Super Fudge Chunk as my one night stand…DID consider that one) I went to my yoga shala and to a Hanuman kirtan.
Hanuman is the Monkey god. I don’t practice Hinduism other than occasional pujas (ceremonies) and kirtan (devotional chanting) and I have but the most basic knowledge about some of the gods and the reasons they are around, etc. (From my mother’s perspective: I’m Ghandi, from a Hindu priest's: Sarah Palin.) However whenever something if offered within the walls of where I practice yoga, I know it will be authentic, and then, pure, if you will.
Wikipedia told me people pray to Hanuman for peace of mind and strength. The timing couldn’t have been more appropriate. Strength is usually my strong suit, so when that one day out of every 175 comes along when I am losing it, and I don’t want to turn to vodka or ice cream and sex is not an option, I’ll try Hanuman. At my yoga school, on one of the most miserable nights in a while, in a room of only a dozen people, probably more than half of which were followers of Hinduism, I find a girlfriend of mine from an entirely different social circle of friends. Synchronicity: this was the Thumb telling me I was in the right place.
We chanted. I let go. And I have a volatile relationship with that amorphous phrase “let go.” Because really, that is like, THE most difficult thing to do when you are in the grip of something you should be letting go of. Quite frankly, many times letting go happens involuntarily—when you reach the point that is simply so painful that you cannot hold on any longer. This is most often the way people get tracked on any path toward self-realization, we don’t want to “let go” until we hit bottom. Until we are forced to surrender.
One of my dearest friends adores the phrase “surrender.” So much so that he wants a tattoo of it, on his chest, backwards so that he can see it in the mirror when he’s shaving. To him surrender is opening, a release. That word does not work for me. It sounds hard. It sounds like your ass being whooped sideways by three Huge things on a lonely, cold, February evening.
Maybe I’m just a masochist, but that’s what it took for me to surrender. Yet the surrender, the letting go is only part one of two. Part two is grace. And grace only shows up in emptiness. It only shows up when there is something to fill. When you are not grasping for it, but you are open to receive it. When you say “ok, I have no vodka/sex/ice cream/way to fix the veneer on my kitchen cabinet. Ok. Ok. That’s ok.”
So I let go, into a realm I am familiar with, but nowhere near expert in. I let go of control, and I sang like no one was watching me. (they weren't) And in the interest of brevity (sparing you my poetic espousing outlining the details of my metamorphosis,) the me going in and the me coming out?... two very different people.
When one of the other ladies asked me afterwards what the exact wording on the last sanskrit chant was, I told her, “I don’t know, I just say what I think it’s supposed to be.”
I didn’t have to be perfect. I didn’t have to be right. I did not need a future home depot agenda already mapped out for my kitchen cabinet or even a solution to any of the three Huge things. I just needed to surrender and say, “Hanuman, I’m out of options, I’m going to let you take it from here.” I don’t know why. I don’t know how. But Hanuman got it right when I, sure as sugar, couldn’t.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Saturday, February 20, 2010
the lenten bent
I’m a pretty sorry excuse for someone who was raised Catholic in the eyes of religion. As noted by a Facebook status update last week, it was the arrival of pączki to a Polish bakery shop window that alerted me to the approaching Lenten season. (I also gave a silent “yay” to open boxes of Cadbury creme eggs arriving on deli countertops citywide.) On NY1, in reverence to Ash Wednesday (the official kick-off to Lent) a local Archbishop spoke,
"We take on those ancient enemies of sin, selfishness and Satan and eternal death, and we do it, that battle, in union with Jesus on the cross.”
I know we’re all using different routes to approach a common goal, but wow, Catholicism. Dude, you’re harshing my buzz. I think everyone’s looking for a little bit of peace of mind and a connection to something more beautiful but I personally never found bloody violence to be an inspiring motivator. It’s not that I have a gripe with the core of Catholic teachings, which all point to the same Truth, or the metaphors inherent in its stories. Catholicism at its essence is shiny; I’m just not wild about their current marketing director. Grandiose ideas of Satan and selfishness never quite translated when I had other details of life to consider. The phrase “Battling with Satan” does not make for an attractive letterpress inviting peace and harmony with oneself and humanity.
All that aside, the Lenten season is a sacred time for Catholics and is supposed to mirror back to us Jesus’ 40 days in the desert, so that we can reflect and learn from his turning inward. One traditionally gives something up, and as a child in Chicago, the community wide, adhered to ritual at the time was no meat on Friday. Or, in my family, Fish Stick Fridays every week for 40 days. That would hardly be considered fasting by current detox trends, but for a mother with two screaming marginally violent little girls in a household that daily served ham or kielbasa, Mrs. Gorton’s was the wheatgrass equivalent of 1985.
Although I have yet to meet a Catholic that has a Lenten intention deeper than giving up sugar or not lying for 40 days, of course they are out there. As I was growing up, even through years of Catholic school, the spiritual principles of fasting were never flushed out to the extent that I ever understood WHY I had to give something up during that time other than I was “supposed to.”
Ironically enough, these days fasting for spiritual purposes has become one of the foundations of my practice. (Pączki and Cadbury crème eggs aside… literally.) Obviously not something that can be done on a daily basis, “fasting” can be defined as any variety of deprivations. A person can go on a media fast or ‘brahmacharya” in Indian tradition is choosing to withdraw from sexual activity. (And no, not having any action for a long while does not designate bramacharya… yes, I asked.) For my purposes here, I’ll follow in Jesus’ footsteps (for once in my life) to discuss abstaining from food.
The way I learned it and the way it continues to unfold for me is that a fast is used in times of change or even as the seasons merge to the next by providing clarity, stillness, a deeper connection to the world around as well as a reconnection to that quietest part of oneself. Not to mention, it’s like the best thing ever for fending off illness and disease. (Also, reveling in a super tight body a couple of times a year and going extra deep in those yoga binds aren’t unwelcome side effects.)
These days I’m a superfan of the new Blueprint Cleanse, a juice fast (they also do raw detox cleanses) which is so sexily marketed and easily delivered that it is a no-brainer for busy Manhattanites (and they Fed Ex nationwide, people—a vegan juicer musical director friend tells me BPC saved him on tour when he was starved for nutrients while traveling.) Although there are infinite ways to fast, I have found that a person needs to be doing it for the right reasons and with some guidance the first time around.
My virgin voyage was with the hottest woman of all time. (Which can’t be said for many of my virgin voyages, so already I was off to a good start.) My friend Melina is a ridiculously gifted Chilean painter. She has blond hair down to the small of her back, a tattoo that stretches from the (always tanned, yogic firmed) said small of the back up and around to underneath her breastbone. Hot. Yes, Melina is sexy, but it is her spirit that makes her shine.
Without getting into messy details about that first time, I’ll say it was a week water fast and colon detox. If I didn’t have Melina to explain why or how we were doing it, it could have been easily the most miserable week of my life. (This was done supervised in what would be loosely labeled as a healing center. Lest you get any ambitious ideas about embarking on a water fast solo: don’t. That must be overseen for safety reasons.) The major obstacle in any kind of detox or fast is overcoming those first few days of self talk where your mind will go anywhere from “what the f*&* are you doing you crazy sh*&%$^& lunatic.” To “who do you think you are, you’re not strong enough for this” and “(whimper) mommy… mommy… pierogi…” The other prominent roadblock is the "healing crises' or discomfort of actually detoxing, for which I continue to use the following mantra: "Mags, you've had hangovers WAY worse than this."
That first go around, with Melina as my fearless guide, we just kept moving.
“You can’t think about it—we have to stay in motion.”
She would hop on her motorcycle, I on my scooter (so not as cool) and we’d drive half an hour to a remote beach of Goa, where we’d lie listless for hours taking turns to get more water. We went trance dancing. Other friends smoked pot and drank beer. We drank water and I was flabbergasted to learn that I was somehow ok with it. It felt triumphant.
The world was a different place. Slower—you have no choice but to move more slowly and therefore pay attention to every movement. Clearer. Sparklier. I felt connected to some secret universe I usually could not see, as though pizza in the belly was some kind of roadblock to it. I’m not saying there weren’t some weak or miserable moments, there were, but the depths of revelation and peace I sank to were so profound, they far outweighed them. What Would Jesus Do, indeed. I was hooked.
My friends are now used to my sporadic cleanses in the city. I’ve been seen going into a speakeasy on the Lower East Side or a Union Square movie theatre, turning down vodka and popcorn respectively, as I hold a green juice or murky lemon and cayenne infused water in my hand. Fasting is like a reset button for my body and mind. Dare I say it? For my soul? There’s a framed fortune cookie paper on my desktop that cites: “There is no fear for the one whose thought is not confused.” When things seem a little muddied, cleansing provides that clarity.
Fasting is a strong spiritual tradition in almost every major religion, and although juices delivered to your doorman probably don’t fit within the designations of Ramadan or Yom Kippur, it is nice to see New York and even the nation getting hip to this centuries' old ritual. Blueprint Cleanse showed up at Fashion Week backstage as the refreshment for Jill Stuart’s show and in the Village Voice blogs last week. As with everything in New York, make it underground, make it sexy, make it hip, make it convenient (that’s the “if you build it”) and we will come.
"We take on those ancient enemies of sin, selfishness and Satan and eternal death, and we do it, that battle, in union with Jesus on the cross.”
I know we’re all using different routes to approach a common goal, but wow, Catholicism. Dude, you’re harshing my buzz. I think everyone’s looking for a little bit of peace of mind and a connection to something more beautiful but I personally never found bloody violence to be an inspiring motivator. It’s not that I have a gripe with the core of Catholic teachings, which all point to the same Truth, or the metaphors inherent in its stories. Catholicism at its essence is shiny; I’m just not wild about their current marketing director. Grandiose ideas of Satan and selfishness never quite translated when I had other details of life to consider. The phrase “Battling with Satan” does not make for an attractive letterpress inviting peace and harmony with oneself and humanity.
All that aside, the Lenten season is a sacred time for Catholics and is supposed to mirror back to us Jesus’ 40 days in the desert, so that we can reflect and learn from his turning inward. One traditionally gives something up, and as a child in Chicago, the community wide, adhered to ritual at the time was no meat on Friday. Or, in my family, Fish Stick Fridays every week for 40 days. That would hardly be considered fasting by current detox trends, but for a mother with two screaming marginally violent little girls in a household that daily served ham or kielbasa, Mrs. Gorton’s was the wheatgrass equivalent of 1985.
Although I have yet to meet a Catholic that has a Lenten intention deeper than giving up sugar or not lying for 40 days, of course they are out there. As I was growing up, even through years of Catholic school, the spiritual principles of fasting were never flushed out to the extent that I ever understood WHY I had to give something up during that time other than I was “supposed to.”
Ironically enough, these days fasting for spiritual purposes has become one of the foundations of my practice. (Pączki and Cadbury crème eggs aside… literally.) Obviously not something that can be done on a daily basis, “fasting” can be defined as any variety of deprivations. A person can go on a media fast or ‘brahmacharya” in Indian tradition is choosing to withdraw from sexual activity. (And no, not having any action for a long while does not designate bramacharya… yes, I asked.) For my purposes here, I’ll follow in Jesus’ footsteps (for once in my life) to discuss abstaining from food.
The way I learned it and the way it continues to unfold for me is that a fast is used in times of change or even as the seasons merge to the next by providing clarity, stillness, a deeper connection to the world around as well as a reconnection to that quietest part of oneself. Not to mention, it’s like the best thing ever for fending off illness and disease. (Also, reveling in a super tight body a couple of times a year and going extra deep in those yoga binds aren’t unwelcome side effects.)
These days I’m a superfan of the new Blueprint Cleanse, a juice fast (they also do raw detox cleanses) which is so sexily marketed and easily delivered that it is a no-brainer for busy Manhattanites (and they Fed Ex nationwide, people—a vegan juicer musical director friend tells me BPC saved him on tour when he was starved for nutrients while traveling.) Although there are infinite ways to fast, I have found that a person needs to be doing it for the right reasons and with some guidance the first time around.
My virgin voyage was with the hottest woman of all time. (Which can’t be said for many of my virgin voyages, so already I was off to a good start.) My friend Melina is a ridiculously gifted Chilean painter. She has blond hair down to the small of her back, a tattoo that stretches from the (always tanned, yogic firmed) said small of the back up and around to underneath her breastbone. Hot. Yes, Melina is sexy, but it is her spirit that makes her shine.
Without getting into messy details about that first time, I’ll say it was a week water fast and colon detox. If I didn’t have Melina to explain why or how we were doing it, it could have been easily the most miserable week of my life. (This was done supervised in what would be loosely labeled as a healing center. Lest you get any ambitious ideas about embarking on a water fast solo: don’t. That must be overseen for safety reasons.) The major obstacle in any kind of detox or fast is overcoming those first few days of self talk where your mind will go anywhere from “what the f*&* are you doing you crazy sh*&%$^& lunatic.” To “who do you think you are, you’re not strong enough for this” and “(whimper) mommy… mommy… pierogi…” The other prominent roadblock is the "healing crises' or discomfort of actually detoxing, for which I continue to use the following mantra: "Mags, you've had hangovers WAY worse than this."
That first go around, with Melina as my fearless guide, we just kept moving.
“You can’t think about it—we have to stay in motion.”
She would hop on her motorcycle, I on my scooter (so not as cool) and we’d drive half an hour to a remote beach of Goa, where we’d lie listless for hours taking turns to get more water. We went trance dancing. Other friends smoked pot and drank beer. We drank water and I was flabbergasted to learn that I was somehow ok with it. It felt triumphant.
The world was a different place. Slower—you have no choice but to move more slowly and therefore pay attention to every movement. Clearer. Sparklier. I felt connected to some secret universe I usually could not see, as though pizza in the belly was some kind of roadblock to it. I’m not saying there weren’t some weak or miserable moments, there were, but the depths of revelation and peace I sank to were so profound, they far outweighed them. What Would Jesus Do, indeed. I was hooked.
My friends are now used to my sporadic cleanses in the city. I’ve been seen going into a speakeasy on the Lower East Side or a Union Square movie theatre, turning down vodka and popcorn respectively, as I hold a green juice or murky lemon and cayenne infused water in my hand. Fasting is like a reset button for my body and mind. Dare I say it? For my soul? There’s a framed fortune cookie paper on my desktop that cites: “There is no fear for the one whose thought is not confused.” When things seem a little muddied, cleansing provides that clarity.
Fasting is a strong spiritual tradition in almost every major religion, and although juices delivered to your doorman probably don’t fit within the designations of Ramadan or Yom Kippur, it is nice to see New York and even the nation getting hip to this centuries' old ritual. Blueprint Cleanse showed up at Fashion Week backstage as the refreshment for Jill Stuart’s show and in the Village Voice blogs last week. As with everything in New York, make it underground, make it sexy, make it hip, make it convenient (that’s the “if you build it”) and we will come.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
my monkey mind
I’ve always been fast, I enjoy being fast, but certainly have always (and continue to be) too fast for my immediate family, from whom I continually hear, “Slow down, I don’t understand what you are saying… can you just be patient Margaret… and please just let me do it, you don’t have to do everything.” Fast is getting work done twice as quickly as others, which means more time for me. It means Manhattan is energizing and not draining; it means there is so much more life to fit into my day.
The downside of fast is that a mind moving quickly—a super effective tool when working, reasoning problems out, exchanging witty flirty banter with cute urban men, is a ridiculously ineffectual quality when trying to find a way to harness the mind, relax, meditate. Not to say that one cannot be meditative while being fast—in fact it’s very easy to do so. Athletes, stock brokers, any high powered executive or even artist, chef, what have you, that flow, that go-to state they go to, that “zone” IS a meditative place. Someone may not call it that, but any place where everything else falls away is the sweet spot, whether you dub it pure intention, connection to source, human ambition, or the zone, it is, for all intents and purposes, whether fast or slow, a higher state of consciousness. We’ve all been there. But what I’m talking about is the calm after that. How does a person obtain the mental equivalent of jumping out of a car going 100 miles an hour and onto a beach chair, without the use of a six pack of sandy coronas to get there?
Whether we recognize it or not, all of our minds run first thing in the morning. Well, maybe some jog. Some are even slower; their minds are as an awakening dazed puppy, who looks around the room sleepily and blinkingly adjusting to his surroundings as if needing a few minutes to remember where he was last dropped.
If times are busy, eyes open, body starts to find its wakefulness and it’s: “what time do I need to leave to get to that meeting, I think I’ll wear that red blouse today, should I go to yoga or spinning, I’m seeing so and so at 6:30, so I’ll eat after, ooooh, maybe so and so will be there.” If depressed it could go something like: “oh m’fer another g’d*** day, ugh, I’m out of coffee, of f’ing course, how am I going to get out of this bed. Just get out of this bed. I’m so tired.” And if we’re happy and blissed out, let’s say newly in love, the thoughts might be positive, but they still come: “oh, look at so and so lying next to me in bed, look at him snoring, he’s so cute, I love that he snores just a little and not a lot, because it’s just enough to be cute but not enough that it’s a problem, oh, I’m going to kiss his ear he’s so cute… ohh, I’m going to wake him up he’s SO cute…” and so on.
To wake up, and think, “I am in my body. Let me scan through and see how my organs are feeling. Let me connect to gratitude and be thankful for all the blessings in my life before moving a muscle. Love you mom. Thank you apartment for providing me with warmth and shelter. What up, spleen?, I don’t really actually have any idea what function you have in my body, but you’re awesome, thank you for rocking it out each and every day so that I can remain breathing and your spleen function-y things keep happening.”… Well, let’s just say that doesn’t happen naturally. We can get there, but that is not, as human beings, innately our go-to place.
You can say all you like about slim thighs and a solid headstand , but Masters claim yoga’s main objective is “chitta vritti nirodha.” Being Sanskrit, one could probably google infinite nuances of translations, but I was first taught this is ‘ceasing the fluctuations of the mind.’ Or calming the monkey mind is another way of putting it. Meditation does the same thing. Presumably yoga makes the objective more challenging when said spleen is trying to hug the outside of your right knee and your head is gazing back in a 180 degree direction the other way. To calm the chitta vrittis that are screaming “oh my god, I want to throw up, die, this hurts, why the hell am I doing this, this just can’t be/right/natural, I’m not capable of this,” to calm those and go past them, to allow them to cease, to get into the “zone,” that’s nirodha.
My spectacular friend Erika Shannon teaches a class called Intensati (the love child of fierce, gorgeous Patricia Moreno) that wields the boons of intentions and affirmations. What they essentially do is leap over the chitta vritti to tap you into that zone space, and you unknowingly are able to push yourself much harder than you thought possible. (It’s the main tenet of Dr. David Hawkins work in the highly lauded “Power vs. Force.”) I would like to think I am in terrific physical condition. Or rather, last week, I would have liked to think that I was maybe not an Olympic athlete, but at least looked and felt damn good for my age. Needless to say, I took Erika’s class three days ago for the first time in a couple of years, and my sweet ass still hurts. I, and 79 other sweaty downtown New Yorkers, were guided and inspired to operate at our highest potential, and that took rising above our minds.
One of the most revelatory moments while living in India came a few months into my impromptu residency there, with a few more months stretched out in front of me. In India, I learned to relax. I learned the magic of doing nothing. I lay in bed for hours and hours and hours at a time reading and it was the first time in my life I had done that. I’d always been a voracious reader, but as a little girl would walk reading books on the way to Catholic school, or stay up all night at 8 years old to zoom through the latest Nancy Drew, frantically fighting the clock of dawn. In India, I read and did nothing else. I learned the art of taking my time.
So, one morning, I awoke and my mind was running. I had no job, no pressing deadlines, no romances to speak of, no one to answer to, no worries or responsibilities whatsoever, and it was still running. Running with: “hm, I wonder where we’re going to eat lunch today, maybe I should organize something at so and so’s house, is it hot outside?, maybe I’ll go to the pool, should I get highlights? So and so and so and so are so cute. I love them. Maybe I’ll write them a card today.” And I woke up. I realized that I had absolutely nothing to do, had been in India for months, but my mind had not stopped fluctuating. Chaos in my life had nothing to do with men, New York, my family, my job, the size of my ass, the pimple on my nose, it had everything to do with the structure of my mind.
I would like to say that I then and there levitated into an unspeakable level of ecstasy and grace, floating into a four hour reverie of my own oneness with the universe, like a cosmic eagle, taking off into flight of a new consciousness with gorgeously birthed wings. But I didn’t. Instead I thought “huh, how about that.” Then I went to go get an omelet.
Meditation is a tough sell because it’s not a one for one exchange. It’s not, “here’s $40, I’ll have the green sweatshirt,” “Oh my gosh this chocolate cupcake is divine,” “Oooh, that feels good, just like that, baby.” Although you can and most likely do feel better immediately after meditating, it is the cumulative effects of an ongoing practice that really significantly (and for once I’m not being dramatic or hyperbolic here) can alter the course of one’s life.
And what sucks is that meditating is hard. I mean, it’s not all floaty wonderland chocolate rivers of happiness and loveliness. It can get there, for sure. You can have moments, even weeks of that Na’vi deliciousness, and it’s awesome when that happens, but that’s not really the point either. The point is to be where you are and be cool with that. When a relationship unexpectedly halts, that ‘sure thing’ deal that was going to pay for your summer share falls through, when the stretchiness in your expensive pair of jeans is not quite stretchy enough for your Saturday night and you have to be at a bar on the LES half an hour ago, to have the chitta vritti going bonkers and be able to think, “You know what? That’s cool. I’m cool…” that’s the sweet stuff that meditation can bring.
Sitting still was not in my vocabulary. The only way it ever even factors into my life is the time that I take every morning to sit still. Sometimes I force it, sometimes it’s a welcome grace, but I’ve gotten to the point where I always do it. This isn’t any sort of great accomplishment as much as it’s become a practice that is a necessity. Whether for five minutes or 20. And if I don’t do it, I feel a difference. I am not as well focused in the rest of my day. It’s really as simple as that.
Of course there are a zillion other advantages of meditating and getting into that zone, and I feel them and could dissect and philosophize about them all, but for today, if it’s just increased efficiency and a little less chitta vritti all around? I’ll take that.
The downside of fast is that a mind moving quickly—a super effective tool when working, reasoning problems out, exchanging witty flirty banter with cute urban men, is a ridiculously ineffectual quality when trying to find a way to harness the mind, relax, meditate. Not to say that one cannot be meditative while being fast—in fact it’s very easy to do so. Athletes, stock brokers, any high powered executive or even artist, chef, what have you, that flow, that go-to state they go to, that “zone” IS a meditative place. Someone may not call it that, but any place where everything else falls away is the sweet spot, whether you dub it pure intention, connection to source, human ambition, or the zone, it is, for all intents and purposes, whether fast or slow, a higher state of consciousness. We’ve all been there. But what I’m talking about is the calm after that. How does a person obtain the mental equivalent of jumping out of a car going 100 miles an hour and onto a beach chair, without the use of a six pack of sandy coronas to get there?
Whether we recognize it or not, all of our minds run first thing in the morning. Well, maybe some jog. Some are even slower; their minds are as an awakening dazed puppy, who looks around the room sleepily and blinkingly adjusting to his surroundings as if needing a few minutes to remember where he was last dropped.
If times are busy, eyes open, body starts to find its wakefulness and it’s: “what time do I need to leave to get to that meeting, I think I’ll wear that red blouse today, should I go to yoga or spinning, I’m seeing so and so at 6:30, so I’ll eat after, ooooh, maybe so and so will be there.” If depressed it could go something like: “oh m’fer another g’d*** day, ugh, I’m out of coffee, of f’ing course, how am I going to get out of this bed. Just get out of this bed. I’m so tired.” And if we’re happy and blissed out, let’s say newly in love, the thoughts might be positive, but they still come: “oh, look at so and so lying next to me in bed, look at him snoring, he’s so cute, I love that he snores just a little and not a lot, because it’s just enough to be cute but not enough that it’s a problem, oh, I’m going to kiss his ear he’s so cute… ohh, I’m going to wake him up he’s SO cute…” and so on.
To wake up, and think, “I am in my body. Let me scan through and see how my organs are feeling. Let me connect to gratitude and be thankful for all the blessings in my life before moving a muscle. Love you mom. Thank you apartment for providing me with warmth and shelter. What up, spleen?, I don’t really actually have any idea what function you have in my body, but you’re awesome, thank you for rocking it out each and every day so that I can remain breathing and your spleen function-y things keep happening.”… Well, let’s just say that doesn’t happen naturally. We can get there, but that is not, as human beings, innately our go-to place.
You can say all you like about slim thighs and a solid headstand , but Masters claim yoga’s main objective is “chitta vritti nirodha.” Being Sanskrit, one could probably google infinite nuances of translations, but I was first taught this is ‘ceasing the fluctuations of the mind.’ Or calming the monkey mind is another way of putting it. Meditation does the same thing. Presumably yoga makes the objective more challenging when said spleen is trying to hug the outside of your right knee and your head is gazing back in a 180 degree direction the other way. To calm the chitta vrittis that are screaming “oh my god, I want to throw up, die, this hurts, why the hell am I doing this, this just can’t be/right/natural, I’m not capable of this,” to calm those and go past them, to allow them to cease, to get into the “zone,” that’s nirodha.
My spectacular friend Erika Shannon teaches a class called Intensati (the love child of fierce, gorgeous Patricia Moreno) that wields the boons of intentions and affirmations. What they essentially do is leap over the chitta vritti to tap you into that zone space, and you unknowingly are able to push yourself much harder than you thought possible. (It’s the main tenet of Dr. David Hawkins work in the highly lauded “Power vs. Force.”) I would like to think I am in terrific physical condition. Or rather, last week, I would have liked to think that I was maybe not an Olympic athlete, but at least looked and felt damn good for my age. Needless to say, I took Erika’s class three days ago for the first time in a couple of years, and my sweet ass still hurts. I, and 79 other sweaty downtown New Yorkers, were guided and inspired to operate at our highest potential, and that took rising above our minds.
One of the most revelatory moments while living in India came a few months into my impromptu residency there, with a few more months stretched out in front of me. In India, I learned to relax. I learned the magic of doing nothing. I lay in bed for hours and hours and hours at a time reading and it was the first time in my life I had done that. I’d always been a voracious reader, but as a little girl would walk reading books on the way to Catholic school, or stay up all night at 8 years old to zoom through the latest Nancy Drew, frantically fighting the clock of dawn. In India, I read and did nothing else. I learned the art of taking my time.
So, one morning, I awoke and my mind was running. I had no job, no pressing deadlines, no romances to speak of, no one to answer to, no worries or responsibilities whatsoever, and it was still running. Running with: “hm, I wonder where we’re going to eat lunch today, maybe I should organize something at so and so’s house, is it hot outside?, maybe I’ll go to the pool, should I get highlights? So and so and so and so are so cute. I love them. Maybe I’ll write them a card today.” And I woke up. I realized that I had absolutely nothing to do, had been in India for months, but my mind had not stopped fluctuating. Chaos in my life had nothing to do with men, New York, my family, my job, the size of my ass, the pimple on my nose, it had everything to do with the structure of my mind.
I would like to say that I then and there levitated into an unspeakable level of ecstasy and grace, floating into a four hour reverie of my own oneness with the universe, like a cosmic eagle, taking off into flight of a new consciousness with gorgeously birthed wings. But I didn’t. Instead I thought “huh, how about that.” Then I went to go get an omelet.
Meditation is a tough sell because it’s not a one for one exchange. It’s not, “here’s $40, I’ll have the green sweatshirt,” “Oh my gosh this chocolate cupcake is divine,” “Oooh, that feels good, just like that, baby.” Although you can and most likely do feel better immediately after meditating, it is the cumulative effects of an ongoing practice that really significantly (and for once I’m not being dramatic or hyperbolic here) can alter the course of one’s life.
And what sucks is that meditating is hard. I mean, it’s not all floaty wonderland chocolate rivers of happiness and loveliness. It can get there, for sure. You can have moments, even weeks of that Na’vi deliciousness, and it’s awesome when that happens, but that’s not really the point either. The point is to be where you are and be cool with that. When a relationship unexpectedly halts, that ‘sure thing’ deal that was going to pay for your summer share falls through, when the stretchiness in your expensive pair of jeans is not quite stretchy enough for your Saturday night and you have to be at a bar on the LES half an hour ago, to have the chitta vritti going bonkers and be able to think, “You know what? That’s cool. I’m cool…” that’s the sweet stuff that meditation can bring.
Sitting still was not in my vocabulary. The only way it ever even factors into my life is the time that I take every morning to sit still. Sometimes I force it, sometimes it’s a welcome grace, but I’ve gotten to the point where I always do it. This isn’t any sort of great accomplishment as much as it’s become a practice that is a necessity. Whether for five minutes or 20. And if I don’t do it, I feel a difference. I am not as well focused in the rest of my day. It’s really as simple as that.
Of course there are a zillion other advantages of meditating and getting into that zone, and I feel them and could dissect and philosophize about them all, but for today, if it’s just increased efficiency and a little less chitta vritti all around? I’ll take that.
Friday, February 12, 2010
straight up, splash of cactus
I adore sugar. Addiction is too lame a word to describe the enduring affair I have with it. If someone invented an edible bath made of sugar I'd be walking around with bubbles coming out of my ears. In college I used to make raw cookie dough and never get to heating the oven—I’d just leave the vat in the freezer until I could get through it, which usually didn’t take very long. Even now, not a day goes by when I do not have some dark chocolate, more often than not, a whole long bar of it. 70% cacao, organic and fair trade of course, but nevertheless…
As I modified my health habits and began to see what a little monster processed white sugar really can be, instead I turned to the natural sources, and so, agave, stevia, maple syrup, honey, rice syrup, even sometimes evaporated cane juice became staples. And soon I realized these sweetners seemed to be popping up everywhere. Not just at crunchy granola health food restaurants, but at places where people ate to be seen just as much as they ate to ingest.
And today I sat eating my agave-sweetened, gluten free, somewhat less guilt ridden ginger chocolate frosting’d loaf from the LES’ Babycakes bakery (which tasted BEYOND scrumptious and made me wonder why I would ever consider ingesting refined sugar again…) I thought—wait a second here people, hold the phone, stop the presses, PAUSE. All of this foodie non-sugar consciousness, I mean, who is fueling this? Not the men. I don’t think I have ever in my life heard a man say “Um, bartender, would you mind holding the simple syrup on that margarita, so I can have it “skinny”?” And fabulous gay men of my life, as much as I love you, even you cannot be so hefty a percentage of the fine dining set as to shift the markers, but women… my fellow ladies, it seems we are different. It seems we may be the X factor. We, for once, may be driving the market on the gajillion dollar restaurant industry in the city.
I live down the block from Minetta Tavern. Which is, as you may know, still months after opening, one of the hottest spots in town and ridic to try and secure a reservation. Although for a variety of reasons I have not had meat in some time and my body, my bowels, my yoga and my energetic output are enjoying that decision, I’m not one for labels. So much so that I want to know I have a burger in my future just so that I don’t have to call myself a ‘vegan’ or ‘vegetarian’ or anything of the sort. That feels too restrictive to me. Too pressured. Too Boulder. So, I have been waiting for that lone, quiet moment when I sneak into Minetta Tavern alone (or for some hot date to take me there, which has yet to happen,) sit at the bar and have a martini the size of my face with their black label burger.
I almost took that moment this past weekend, as I realized the first quarter of the Superbowl was approaching. I had no plans cemented and it would be dead empty in there. Or at least full of people who didn’t care about the Superbowl. Arty intellectuals and Europeans. Could make for an interesting evening. (I enjoy the Superbowl, but not to the extent that I am going to watch it alone in my apartment. In a group? Or our home team is playing?—terrif. Alone, I’ll get distracted by a hangnail in under four minutes.) Anyhow, so Minetta was an afternoon option, but I had only just eaten. And if I was going to go for broke with one of the town’s most lauded burgers, I certainly wasn’t going to layer it on top of hummus and kale.
That, however, did not stop me from considering it momentarily and perusing the Tavern’s menu online. As I was searching drink specials to see if I could be swayed from my standard martini, I noticed that every single cocktail was sweetened with agave. Now, I know that took a long time to point out, but seriously, people! Agave! At a restaurant that is supposed to have some of the best red meat on the isle of Manhattan.
And I reiterate—who is it that drove that designation into the menu? Perhaps a chef had a diabetic family member?… doubtful. He was some fat kid and found his way to the natural movement and a “kind” diet and therefore, agave? Hardly, this still was, essentially a self-dubbed “Parisian steakhouse.” It had to be the women.
Then I became curious. What about some other popular/lauded haunts? The great chefs, these wondrous artists of our time, are driving social change toward our eating habits because they so clearly recognize, natural, local, lovingly procured food TASTES better. And those with discerning palates now follow suit in daily life, keeping local as local as our own refrigerators.
Per Se concentrates on a 53 Page wine list, although its sodas are GUS- locally sourced and naturally sweetened. (I happen to know that when dining at French Laundry, naturally fruit sweetened sodas are paired with the tasting menus, for those not imbibing.) Keller states on the homepage: “Respect for food is a respect for life, for who we are and what we do.” This is no new slant—one would be hard pressed to find an above average restaurant in New York that did not use the words local or green somewhere on its menu, but it is interesting that it extends to the beverages, presumably when one could argue that sugarcane juice or even raw sugar is suitable… but it seems Agave and fresh fruit juices are the new cocktail superfoods.
Fruit juices abound, of course, at any one of dozens of new speakeasy/mixologist gin joints spread about town, popular as they are as of late. That’s not even a local trend—on a boozy night in San Francisco last year I was led to one hidden underground secret spot after another—all housing bartenders in garb of yesteryear. The barbershop-esque armband being the apparent across-the-board throwback to the bygone (and now resurrected) artistry of creative libations. The national consensus?...: fresh is best.
And what about other New York superstar restaurateurs? Of course, a little tricker because so many pride themselves on superb wine lists (the finest, of course, wouldn’t dare house a cocktail menu,) however even those are now designating NSA (no sulfites added) and organic wines. The best thing that ever happened to the North Fork is everyone’s recent “local” wine devotion.
As for cocktails, Eleven Madison Park sweetens with Lavender Honey. Jean Georges Yuzus his Bellinis. The Four Seasons makes their own in-house lavender syrup and touts organic vodkas. Craft spikes Orgeat Syrup (even I had to look that one up.) Pure Food and Wine, the ground zero for luxe au natural, stirs only fresh Norwalk pressed organic juices with their agave and maple sweetened cocktails. When I did a totally unscientific texting survey to several friends who were self proclaimed “foodies,” the questions were: 1- Do you know what agave is? 2- Do you have it at home? Half the men knew what it was; none had it at home. All the women answered affirmative to both questions.
Which leads me to believe that we (women) are asking for it, and we’re getting it. Since agave is a low glycemic indexed sweetener it means that blood sugar levels do not spike rapidly so we are also sparing ourselves (and our gentlemen) some hangover headache as well. (You're welcome.) Since local, fresh, and all natural is trendy and chances are we won’t regress back to our old ways of thinking and only grow more creative as we unfold, I’ll drink to that.
As I modified my health habits and began to see what a little monster processed white sugar really can be, instead I turned to the natural sources, and so, agave, stevia, maple syrup, honey, rice syrup, even sometimes evaporated cane juice became staples. And soon I realized these sweetners seemed to be popping up everywhere. Not just at crunchy granola health food restaurants, but at places where people ate to be seen just as much as they ate to ingest.
And today I sat eating my agave-sweetened, gluten free, somewhat less guilt ridden ginger chocolate frosting’d loaf from the LES’ Babycakes bakery (which tasted BEYOND scrumptious and made me wonder why I would ever consider ingesting refined sugar again…) I thought—wait a second here people, hold the phone, stop the presses, PAUSE. All of this foodie non-sugar consciousness, I mean, who is fueling this? Not the men. I don’t think I have ever in my life heard a man say “Um, bartender, would you mind holding the simple syrup on that margarita, so I can have it “skinny”?” And fabulous gay men of my life, as much as I love you, even you cannot be so hefty a percentage of the fine dining set as to shift the markers, but women… my fellow ladies, it seems we are different. It seems we may be the X factor. We, for once, may be driving the market on the gajillion dollar restaurant industry in the city.
I live down the block from Minetta Tavern. Which is, as you may know, still months after opening, one of the hottest spots in town and ridic to try and secure a reservation. Although for a variety of reasons I have not had meat in some time and my body, my bowels, my yoga and my energetic output are enjoying that decision, I’m not one for labels. So much so that I want to know I have a burger in my future just so that I don’t have to call myself a ‘vegan’ or ‘vegetarian’ or anything of the sort. That feels too restrictive to me. Too pressured. Too Boulder. So, I have been waiting for that lone, quiet moment when I sneak into Minetta Tavern alone (or for some hot date to take me there, which has yet to happen,) sit at the bar and have a martini the size of my face with their black label burger.
I almost took that moment this past weekend, as I realized the first quarter of the Superbowl was approaching. I had no plans cemented and it would be dead empty in there. Or at least full of people who didn’t care about the Superbowl. Arty intellectuals and Europeans. Could make for an interesting evening. (I enjoy the Superbowl, but not to the extent that I am going to watch it alone in my apartment. In a group? Or our home team is playing?—terrif. Alone, I’ll get distracted by a hangnail in under four minutes.) Anyhow, so Minetta was an afternoon option, but I had only just eaten. And if I was going to go for broke with one of the town’s most lauded burgers, I certainly wasn’t going to layer it on top of hummus and kale.
That, however, did not stop me from considering it momentarily and perusing the Tavern’s menu online. As I was searching drink specials to see if I could be swayed from my standard martini, I noticed that every single cocktail was sweetened with agave. Now, I know that took a long time to point out, but seriously, people! Agave! At a restaurant that is supposed to have some of the best red meat on the isle of Manhattan.
And I reiterate—who is it that drove that designation into the menu? Perhaps a chef had a diabetic family member?… doubtful. He was some fat kid and found his way to the natural movement and a “kind” diet and therefore, agave? Hardly, this still was, essentially a self-dubbed “Parisian steakhouse.” It had to be the women.
Then I became curious. What about some other popular/lauded haunts? The great chefs, these wondrous artists of our time, are driving social change toward our eating habits because they so clearly recognize, natural, local, lovingly procured food TASTES better. And those with discerning palates now follow suit in daily life, keeping local as local as our own refrigerators.
Per Se concentrates on a 53 Page wine list, although its sodas are GUS- locally sourced and naturally sweetened. (I happen to know that when dining at French Laundry, naturally fruit sweetened sodas are paired with the tasting menus, for those not imbibing.) Keller states on the homepage: “Respect for food is a respect for life, for who we are and what we do.” This is no new slant—one would be hard pressed to find an above average restaurant in New York that did not use the words local or green somewhere on its menu, but it is interesting that it extends to the beverages, presumably when one could argue that sugarcane juice or even raw sugar is suitable… but it seems Agave and fresh fruit juices are the new cocktail superfoods.
Fruit juices abound, of course, at any one of dozens of new speakeasy/mixologist gin joints spread about town, popular as they are as of late. That’s not even a local trend—on a boozy night in San Francisco last year I was led to one hidden underground secret spot after another—all housing bartenders in garb of yesteryear. The barbershop-esque armband being the apparent across-the-board throwback to the bygone (and now resurrected) artistry of creative libations. The national consensus?...: fresh is best.
And what about other New York superstar restaurateurs? Of course, a little tricker because so many pride themselves on superb wine lists (the finest, of course, wouldn’t dare house a cocktail menu,) however even those are now designating NSA (no sulfites added) and organic wines. The best thing that ever happened to the North Fork is everyone’s recent “local” wine devotion.
As for cocktails, Eleven Madison Park sweetens with Lavender Honey. Jean Georges Yuzus his Bellinis. The Four Seasons makes their own in-house lavender syrup and touts organic vodkas. Craft spikes Orgeat Syrup (even I had to look that one up.) Pure Food and Wine, the ground zero for luxe au natural, stirs only fresh Norwalk pressed organic juices with their agave and maple sweetened cocktails. When I did a totally unscientific texting survey to several friends who were self proclaimed “foodies,” the questions were: 1- Do you know what agave is? 2- Do you have it at home? Half the men knew what it was; none had it at home. All the women answered affirmative to both questions.
Which leads me to believe that we (women) are asking for it, and we’re getting it. Since agave is a low glycemic indexed sweetener it means that blood sugar levels do not spike rapidly so we are also sparing ourselves (and our gentlemen) some hangover headache as well. (You're welcome.) Since local, fresh, and all natural is trendy and chances are we won’t regress back to our old ways of thinking and only grow more creative as we unfold, I’ll drink to that.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
the grey days of fur
I don’t think I know any who would admit to buying fur these days. The whole fur trade animal mistreatment/massacre is apparently on an entirely different level than that of our animal food sources, or perhaps PETA just has a more accomplished track record in terms of their advertising dollars in admonishing that direction.
However, there is an area of fur that is decidedly more debatable than simply snubbing Park Ave floor length mink coats, and this is, the fur hand me down.
Fur has two purposes, fashion and function. My grandmother was a 60’s and 70’s designer in chilly Chicago, namely of coats for men and women. Having fled a post-war Communist Poland (after returning home from being put to work for the Nazi’s) you can imagine that she wouldn’t have minded putting fur into her creations. Fur meant warmth, and status. Two things Poland had very little of.
Status was, and still is, so tied to fur, my mother has a cedar closet in our basement to this day of coats that will die there. One particular sable coat she owned was treated, admired, as an investment, and sold as such—as valuable and tradable as real estate or fine jewelry.
One year, returning home from living abroad with a newly minted mindfulness, disgusted by the furs I owned (hand-me-downs from the aforementioned cedar closet,) I listed them on eBay. Only one was a particular loss: a vintage 60’s tweed capelet with a magnificent fox collar. Babcia’s creation for the Gold Coast’s luxe fashion house Burdi. It was the sort of item one would imagine Marilyn Monroe wearing to attend an event honoring Kennedy: dramatic, yet inescapably classic. That was a painful detachment—that step toward consciousness, hurt like a m’f’er. I shipped the tear stained box and paid my mortgage with the proceeds.
However these days, as aware we all cheerfully claim to be, I still see fur on every frigid city block. Just this week, I saw two of my closest girlfriends wearing fur.
One was hosting a private birthday party at a downtown, posh yet of course nonchalant, exclusive club for the creative scene. It was a short, fitted number—it looked to be very modern, as though it could have come directly from a Wooster shop window.
“Wow, this is gorgeous.” I cooed. Touching its exquisite softness—what was it? Fine mink? Well laid and dyed rabbit fur? How the heck would one know these things, as one does not, in the course of the average Manhattan day, reach out and pick up furry animals.
“It’s my mom’s from the 70’s.” She explained. And truly, I mean—COULD that go to waste? It was a seductive and luxurious jacket. A signature piece with sentimental value, from London in the 70’s to New York in the new millennium, what could be sexier than that?
The other friend lives in Vermont, and her fur hat, like a white snowball gracing her forehead was used not only for its cuteness, but for warmth's sake.
“It’s my grandma’s. And I need it in Vermont, man! It’s cold!”
Form or function, elucidations are offered in all instances when fur is concerned. This much we know.
I asked Vermont friend if she thought that wearing hand me down fur was acceptable behavior.
“Absolutely, otherwise you are only disrespecting the energy of the animal even more—leaving its pelt unused in some dusty box somewhere.”
And I, even in my post India awakening into self righteousness, have a confession. I wear a Postcard fox fur lined jacket given to me by my father a few years ago at Christmas. In fact, my sister and I received matching ones, which only led us to speculation about our items perhaps having fallen off the back of trucks. (Clients came to pay my father in goods around the holiday season and there always seemed to be one or two opulent items that seemed a bit out of place.) Whether that was the case with this coat, people have cars that cost less than its retail value. It’s a beautiful, lavish gift.
I adore it. It’s glamorous yet casual and completely practical. It encompasses everything I need as a woman in a daily New York City winter day.
Now, this is not the Park Avenue mink. This is not the mink coat for the woman who doesn’t even NEED a mink coat. (Um, her well heeled legs hardly EVER walk a city block, so why would it matter how cozy they are kept?)
What about fur for the woman who wants to ride a bike because it's cheaper/faster/environmentally friendlier/healthier/sexier/fun-er way to get around town, but needs the best layering she can find? What about not disappointing your Dad every time he says, “my darling, where is that coat I got you for Christmas? If you’re shivering, why don’t you wear that?”
And let’s be honest. North Face has yet to come up with ANYTHING remotely fashionable. That puffy sleeping bag thing we all now own will only do for date night if you are walking to the grocery store and back and you’ve been with your guy, like, minimum 6 months. I already wear countess layers of tights, socks, undergarments, etc… is it so much to ask to be allowed one small little fur collar, that I swear to God I didn’t even buy myself but can’t quite bring myself to get rid of?
And yet this coat could well be last vestige of inauthenticity to my being. (That statement may seem a bit dramatic but this is glamour we're talking after all.)
I wear the coat around town, but I will not wear it to my yoga school. I will wear the ugly long sleeping bag coat, or three other layers of thinner coats, but I will go to yoga in the morning in something else, come home and wear the Postcard jacket the rest of the day. This is how ashamed I am of it in front of those whom I respect (and although it is very unyogic to do so,) those who may judge. Those who would look at the fox collar and think, “wow, I really had a good opinion of Margaret, until…”
The moral mare's nest of wearing the Postcard jacket causes me such agita that this may be its last season. From here on out I will tell my father not to bring me gifts bearing fur.
But the question still stands—what about the others, the hand me downs? Pieces styling glories of former decades. Would it be insolent to incinerate our ancestors’ fluff? Or does wearing fur of any sort, recycled or otherwise, send the message that it is acceptable and therefore we should agree on an across the board moratorium to indicate, “yo… enough.” ? Do average men even care about fur or have any opinion whatsoever (other than from a profit perspective) or is this a movement that need only be driven by women?
I’m not sure. I do think the Postcard jacket is like a tired relationship. You see the end approaching, but you aren’t quite ready to let go just yet, so for now, let’s just all keep our eyes and mouths shut and have a little more romping and rolling together while we can.
However, there is an area of fur that is decidedly more debatable than simply snubbing Park Ave floor length mink coats, and this is, the fur hand me down.
Fur has two purposes, fashion and function. My grandmother was a 60’s and 70’s designer in chilly Chicago, namely of coats for men and women. Having fled a post-war Communist Poland (after returning home from being put to work for the Nazi’s) you can imagine that she wouldn’t have minded putting fur into her creations. Fur meant warmth, and status. Two things Poland had very little of.
Status was, and still is, so tied to fur, my mother has a cedar closet in our basement to this day of coats that will die there. One particular sable coat she owned was treated, admired, as an investment, and sold as such—as valuable and tradable as real estate or fine jewelry.
One year, returning home from living abroad with a newly minted mindfulness, disgusted by the furs I owned (hand-me-downs from the aforementioned cedar closet,) I listed them on eBay. Only one was a particular loss: a vintage 60’s tweed capelet with a magnificent fox collar. Babcia’s creation for the Gold Coast’s luxe fashion house Burdi. It was the sort of item one would imagine Marilyn Monroe wearing to attend an event honoring Kennedy: dramatic, yet inescapably classic. That was a painful detachment—that step toward consciousness, hurt like a m’f’er. I shipped the tear stained box and paid my mortgage with the proceeds.
However these days, as aware we all cheerfully claim to be, I still see fur on every frigid city block. Just this week, I saw two of my closest girlfriends wearing fur.
One was hosting a private birthday party at a downtown, posh yet of course nonchalant, exclusive club for the creative scene. It was a short, fitted number—it looked to be very modern, as though it could have come directly from a Wooster shop window.
“Wow, this is gorgeous.” I cooed. Touching its exquisite softness—what was it? Fine mink? Well laid and dyed rabbit fur? How the heck would one know these things, as one does not, in the course of the average Manhattan day, reach out and pick up furry animals.
“It’s my mom’s from the 70’s.” She explained. And truly, I mean—COULD that go to waste? It was a seductive and luxurious jacket. A signature piece with sentimental value, from London in the 70’s to New York in the new millennium, what could be sexier than that?
The other friend lives in Vermont, and her fur hat, like a white snowball gracing her forehead was used not only for its cuteness, but for warmth's sake.
“It’s my grandma’s. And I need it in Vermont, man! It’s cold!”
Form or function, elucidations are offered in all instances when fur is concerned. This much we know.
I asked Vermont friend if she thought that wearing hand me down fur was acceptable behavior.
“Absolutely, otherwise you are only disrespecting the energy of the animal even more—leaving its pelt unused in some dusty box somewhere.”
And I, even in my post India awakening into self righteousness, have a confession. I wear a Postcard fox fur lined jacket given to me by my father a few years ago at Christmas. In fact, my sister and I received matching ones, which only led us to speculation about our items perhaps having fallen off the back of trucks. (Clients came to pay my father in goods around the holiday season and there always seemed to be one or two opulent items that seemed a bit out of place.) Whether that was the case with this coat, people have cars that cost less than its retail value. It’s a beautiful, lavish gift.
I adore it. It’s glamorous yet casual and completely practical. It encompasses everything I need as a woman in a daily New York City winter day.
Now, this is not the Park Avenue mink. This is not the mink coat for the woman who doesn’t even NEED a mink coat. (Um, her well heeled legs hardly EVER walk a city block, so why would it matter how cozy they are kept?)
What about fur for the woman who wants to ride a bike because it's cheaper/faster/environmentally friendlier/healthier/sexier/fun-er way to get around town, but needs the best layering she can find? What about not disappointing your Dad every time he says, “my darling, where is that coat I got you for Christmas? If you’re shivering, why don’t you wear that?”
And let’s be honest. North Face has yet to come up with ANYTHING remotely fashionable. That puffy sleeping bag thing we all now own will only do for date night if you are walking to the grocery store and back and you’ve been with your guy, like, minimum 6 months. I already wear countess layers of tights, socks, undergarments, etc… is it so much to ask to be allowed one small little fur collar, that I swear to God I didn’t even buy myself but can’t quite bring myself to get rid of?
And yet this coat could well be last vestige of inauthenticity to my being. (That statement may seem a bit dramatic but this is glamour we're talking after all.)
I wear the coat around town, but I will not wear it to my yoga school. I will wear the ugly long sleeping bag coat, or three other layers of thinner coats, but I will go to yoga in the morning in something else, come home and wear the Postcard jacket the rest of the day. This is how ashamed I am of it in front of those whom I respect (and although it is very unyogic to do so,) those who may judge. Those who would look at the fox collar and think, “wow, I really had a good opinion of Margaret, until…”
The moral mare's nest of wearing the Postcard jacket causes me such agita that this may be its last season. From here on out I will tell my father not to bring me gifts bearing fur.
But the question still stands—what about the others, the hand me downs? Pieces styling glories of former decades. Would it be insolent to incinerate our ancestors’ fluff? Or does wearing fur of any sort, recycled or otherwise, send the message that it is acceptable and therefore we should agree on an across the board moratorium to indicate, “yo… enough.” ? Do average men even care about fur or have any opinion whatsoever (other than from a profit perspective) or is this a movement that need only be driven by women?
I’m not sure. I do think the Postcard jacket is like a tired relationship. You see the end approaching, but you aren’t quite ready to let go just yet, so for now, let’s just all keep our eyes and mouths shut and have a little more romping and rolling together while we can.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Ok, so apparently I blog now. I have been resistant to the entire blogging phenom, as it seemed all at once ostentatious, pointless, time-consuming, too public, too needy, etc. Yet lately I have been pushed by the universe to write, and this is a space I can quite literally ostensibly spout to my big heart’s content. Or until I get distracted or bored. Whichever itch arises first.
My “pushed by the universe” in this instance was hearing over and again from random peeps “Do you write?” “You should write more!” “Are you a writer?”… not that creative a list of examples, I'm aware, but you get the idea.
Most of what I’ve been dancing around in the last few years has been moving away from what my head wants to do and toward what the world/my instinct/that (sometimes nauseous, sometimes fluttery) gut feeling/intuition wants me to do. Random peeps + consistent, coaxing, casual comments concerning composition? = Universe’s Thumb gesturing toward blog.
The reason that this holds any interest at all (and I am not presuming to say that it does in the least bit, but people are even seemingly attracted to banal blogs) is that more often than not, the Thumb does not point in a direction that I am eager to go. Like, when the sh** hits the fan and the Thumb is pointing to sitting down to meditation and I go, “Um, Thumb, didn’t you mean that you should be gesturing to the Blue Ribbon wine bar stool and those last droplets of sancerre that are soon to be extinguished from the summer season? And maybe some tasty flatbreads to go with that? Like, maintenant? Surely, Thumb, you don’t want me to just sit on my ass and watch my thoughts for 15 minutes…? Dude, all I need to do is throw on a pair of slingbacks and cross 6th avenue and those last sips of August will calm me just as easily (and perhaps more deliciously) than some weird chanting Tibetan guy… ARE YOU THERE GOD, IT’S ME, MARGARET!?!?”
This struggle will go on for a few minutes. I somehow get my ass sitting for a few minutes. The struggle will continue in my head for a few minutes. The weird guy chants. I zone in. And more often than not? It calms me. Even if not totally, at least somewhat. And more often than not? I will sit on my ass quietly instead of choosing the bar stool. Or at least, sit and THEN choose the bar stool. And more often than not? I like that this relationship to the world, to the Thumb, is guiding me. Because lately I’m finding myself happier, healthier, prettier. Everything is easier. My frickin HAIR looks better. And I can still have the sancerre and the high heels. But I sure as heck don’t need them.
And this is what I shall blog about. This struggle. This release. Good food. Yoga/yumminess/oneness/sex/the city. The Thumb. My hair. Weird Tibetan chant people. The gymnastics of being a hippie in high heels.
Om to your mother.
My “pushed by the universe” in this instance was hearing over and again from random peeps “Do you write?” “You should write more!” “Are you a writer?”… not that creative a list of examples, I'm aware, but you get the idea.
Most of what I’ve been dancing around in the last few years has been moving away from what my head wants to do and toward what the world/my instinct/that (sometimes nauseous, sometimes fluttery) gut feeling/intuition wants me to do. Random peeps + consistent, coaxing, casual comments concerning composition? = Universe’s Thumb gesturing toward blog.
The reason that this holds any interest at all (and I am not presuming to say that it does in the least bit, but people are even seemingly attracted to banal blogs) is that more often than not, the Thumb does not point in a direction that I am eager to go. Like, when the sh** hits the fan and the Thumb is pointing to sitting down to meditation and I go, “Um, Thumb, didn’t you mean that you should be gesturing to the Blue Ribbon wine bar stool and those last droplets of sancerre that are soon to be extinguished from the summer season? And maybe some tasty flatbreads to go with that? Like, maintenant? Surely, Thumb, you don’t want me to just sit on my ass and watch my thoughts for 15 minutes…? Dude, all I need to do is throw on a pair of slingbacks and cross 6th avenue and those last sips of August will calm me just as easily (and perhaps more deliciously) than some weird chanting Tibetan guy… ARE YOU THERE GOD, IT’S ME, MARGARET!?!?”
This struggle will go on for a few minutes. I somehow get my ass sitting for a few minutes. The struggle will continue in my head for a few minutes. The weird guy chants. I zone in. And more often than not? It calms me. Even if not totally, at least somewhat. And more often than not? I will sit on my ass quietly instead of choosing the bar stool. Or at least, sit and THEN choose the bar stool. And more often than not? I like that this relationship to the world, to the Thumb, is guiding me. Because lately I’m finding myself happier, healthier, prettier. Everything is easier. My frickin HAIR looks better. And I can still have the sancerre and the high heels. But I sure as heck don’t need them.
And this is what I shall blog about. This struggle. This release. Good food. Yoga/yumminess/oneness/sex/the city. The Thumb. My hair. Weird Tibetan chant people. The gymnastics of being a hippie in high heels.
Om to your mother.
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