Enroute to LaGuardia, I was in a cab, a little earlier than I would have liked, bathed in the dawn of a slight emotional malaise. This morning I awoke in a sea of a sort of general uncertainty towards assorted aspects of my life that could, on a wildly optimistic disneyfied day, be seen as (cue: wind chimes) an ‘ocean of potential.’ Stirring vulnerably to a 7am cell phone alarm as it graduated to louder tones, alone in bed, with a slight sauvignon haze lingering, it was more an uncomfortable disposition than an adventurous one.
Later, settled into the backseat of a cabbie who favored a jagged, unsettling driving style, I closed my eyes to multitask travel with a few minutes of meditation. I had only made it through chakra one of seven when the familiar, assigned (Tune_AssemblyLine) ringtone of my sister pierced through the calming instructions being carried by my earbuds. Not having spoken regarding my arrival arrangements, I swayed from the meditation dedication to answer.
She (not really sure why she called… I, not really sure why I answered) was irritable, and that’s a generous assignation. It unearthed that there was nothing to arrange or discuss; it seemed all had to be coordinated with my mother. The sole (perhaps unintended, unconscious) purpose of her call was to let me know she was sick, had been sick all week, and then to convey exasperation that my mother had “of course" not taken a moment from her post-cancer-removal surgical recuperation to inform daughter #2 in New York of daughter #1’s sickness in Chicago.
I will now justify the following statements (perhaps unfairly, but dear reader, it is, after all, my blog) by prefacing the reminder: me: post sauvignon haze, 7am cell phone alarm, ADHD cab driver.
Sis: irritable beyond what might be deemed rational or appropriate given the circumstances.
Me: (not out loud, in my head, of course)…Really? My careers are stalled at huge turning points, some close relationships precarious, and I am decidedly in need of a three day juice fast as witnessed by a bloated kidney that is not tucking nicely and efficiently away in marichasana d. Oh yeah, and by the way, mom had CANCER and is recuperating in bed. Really? We need this 8am attitude?
With some force that was larger than me (perhaps, at least, thank goodness we DID get through that 1st chakra) my sleepy sauvignon haze did not rise in a ruthless, victory-seeking showdown to compete with my sister. Instead I found myself spouting out a reasonable “You know what, hon? Why don’t we talk later?” (Although, the thought to float in an inadvertently patronizing “Sweetie, you don’t seem to be yourself” mid-sentence, did come to mind… yet I somehow managed to keep it simple and sweet, my reply bereft of arrows.)
Hanging up, I went back to chakras #2-7. The cabbie’s driving was about as even keel as Lindsay Lohan’s life trajectory. Hi, nausea. Finishing, sighing, hoping it did SOMETHING, I opened my eyes to an indeterminate portion of Queens and the very first thing to snag my vision was a billboard in the distance. A blank, whitewashed stretch of unused advertising space hovering above the BQE and scrawled across the bottom in a huge, rebellious, graffiti tag of two-foot-high, spray-painted letters spelling out: BLESS YOURSELF.
It jarred me to the present moment.
One really can’t ask for a clearer sign from the universe than a giant billboard. It wouldn’t even be negligent, it would be just plain stupid to not pay attention.
I happen to facilitate this experience known as deeksha, which is quite literally translated as a blessing. Although its primary purpose is to SPREAD the love, one can indeed, bless oneself. And I’m not ashamed to say, I do bless myself. Maybe not every day, but often.
And, so, what the heck? Why should I care if the cabbie thinks I’m crazy pants? His driving certainly hasn’t been a model of balance and equilibrium. So I blessed myself. Right in the backseat of the cab. It didn’t feel naughty; it felt necessary.
It would really help my story if I came out the other end of the blessing refreshed, renewed, perhaps exhilarated or at least reset. To be dead honest, I didn’t feel much different afterwards than before going in.
But that’s what’s so tricky with all of this stuff, isn’t it? Being tied to our American mindset and conditioning of wanting/needing it now/yesterday with scientific studies and incontrovertible proof might just rob us of some of the magic that can be life.
It’s impossible to quantify the glitter. You can’t ziplock away a baby’s giggle, flash-freeze a kiss to take with you for travel, take out a ruler and designate 3.75 inches between slightly irritated and cheerfully helpful to others. And there are no scientific tools to measure a person’s development.
I don’t as of yet have the evidence that that moment of blessturbation will bring any peace or joy or balance to my life. But taking that moment helps me to build the faith that it will. These moments, these things that we all do to cultivate mindfulness are not to wish away a slight hangover or to switch our moods between extremes (although those things certainly can and have been welcome side effects.) These practices are not instantaneous pill-popping remedies to mask symptoms, they are the long term solution.
Whereas I still have that minor headache, and I would be lying if I didn’t say I really hope my sister will be in a better mood by the time I see her, the self-bless will come in handy later-- when something huge and horrible happens (and there have been a couple of those moments in the last six months) and I am not a wreck, but I am here. Still standing, And not just standing, but smiling. And not just in my own bubble, but available, present to and for others. Open hearted. Hopeful. Aware. Awake. That’s what it’s for.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
the gala gourmet
In a dimly lit, midtown ballroom, I stood high heeled, spruced, glammed, trying to eek out one more night on the town in a last season Nanette Lepore purple leopard-print dress. There’s a movie star, there’s our gala’s honoree, there’s another movie star, here are many of my friends and colleagues in the theatre world—successful artists doing great work. One is nominated for a Tony Award the following morning, there are artistic directors, musicians, actors, at different levels of prestige, but all with a commitment to that difficult (yet unavoidable) life in the arts, surrounded by the generous few who fund those endeavors.
I will sit through dinner (my sole purpose of being placed next to a prominent board member is to be pretty and charming, perhaps slightly sexy, but of course not outwardly so) entertaining a table of Princeton grads my parents’ age, trying to tactfully and gracefully whisk away inquiries with: “You know, I actually don’t get down to Palm Beach much each winter” and offer empathy for daughters’ Southampton weddings’ oversized guest lists. Tonight is not about my thoughts or ideas or even talent. I am here to smile, to be grateful, to be eye candy.
This benefit was for old school theatre and old school money. Classic, high minded, intellectual, effete.
Two weeks ago I attended the opening of a ground-breaking new rock musical on Broadway and its celebration was much more a Page 6 splash of photo ops. I am bringing up the comparison of these two events not in terms of status, but rather in terms of consciousness, and more specifically, consciousness as it relates to food. In the rockstar world, where my friends are East Village juicing vegans and my clients celeb forward thinking pioneers, in the party’s generous displays of faux-trashy culinary abundance, there were plenty of vegan options on hand.
Although I’ve mentioned here before that I’m not interested in labels, there has been a natural progression in my body and mind’s awareness to the effect of animal products on my physique and also how the impact of what I ingest affects the world on a global scale. There is plenty of information available as to how eating a burger impacts global warming, in fact may be THE biggest negative influence on climate change, and not to mention the way it influences worldwide economics and our use of fossil fuels as a human race. If people are not aware of these correlations, it’s either because they are ignorant of the interconnections or our societal conditioning is so strong that we don’t WANT to be aware of them.
So although at the rockstar soiree I was solidly dedicated toward a vegan bent, by the time my highbrow event rolled by, I had slipped slightly into an easier, more unconscious state of “Oh, one taste won’t hurt.” The week prior I had a bite of my date’s Soho House burger. One night I bought a pint Haagen Dazs cookie dough ice cream. A little touch of parmesean on a ceaser salad with egg in its dressing was allowed entry into my body’s menu.
My deal with myself was to acquiesce when the food was spectacular. Babbo. That every once in a while slice of Joe’s. The gelato from the stellar place when it’s made with artisanal standards.
I am told I am a harsh critic. Fine dining for hundreds of people is difficult, if not impossible. The one time I have ever had superb food-- I mean SUPERB food—at a large event, was a wedding at the Mandarin Oriental in London. One time in a solid 15 years of fancy pants parties.
So, when at the old school gala, in a room of heavy hitters with deep pockets, I saw a slider, making its way to me, presented elegantly on a platter amidst a dozen of its buddies, the small dollop of meat housed in a refined white roll (also usually absent from my diet,) I rationalized: “oh, one doesn’t hurt.” This parlayed itself into other “innocent” transgressions: the salmon appetizer (its color clearly designating it farmed and not wild, and therefore potentially and probably full of toxins, dyes) the cheap champagne, the post event cab drop-off at the gelato spot down the block, rather than the foot of my apartment.
Where I felt it, was not that night, but on that confrontational magic carpet that doesn’t let any slider slide: my yoga mat the next morning. Whether it’s boy trouble or consciousness in cuisine, the showdown with my chakras in my ashtanga practice brings up all and lets me know very very clearly what works and what doesn’t.
I really have absolutely no interest in designating things as “bad” or “good” in terms of “should” or shouldn’t’s.” In my mind, those polarities do not exist, but there is, however, a natural progression toward feeling better for yourself and that I find, in turn, supports the evolution of our world around us. It’s not that vodka, meat, candy of the tangible or media varieties make connection impossible, it’s just that it makes them harder. I have found these things to be an obstacle to higher levels of ease and natural sparkliness. So, it’s not about deprivation, but more about the conscious knowing that—if I eat this, do this, it will affect this.
This can only come with awareness and experimentation. And should and MUST be an organic process of unfolding. A couple of years ago, I had a determined exercise in disaster that was a self-enforced six months of a raw food diet. Its tenets made intellectual sense to me, but its rigors proved to be too much to handle for my body—I wasn’t ready to be there yet. I’m not sure that I ever want or need to be ready to be there.
These things happen slowly. I have used all natural cleaning products for some time now. Recently I entered into an apartment with someone whose cleaning lady had just departed. He inhaled deeply, “doesn’t that smell fantastic?” Lysol lemon permeated the air and I was instantaneously nauseous from its toxicity. I wouldn’t have known this would happen, but it shows how conditioned we can become to chemical and processed scents, products and foods that we fool our bodies into thinking they are normal, even “fresh.”
There are countless books on food affecting levels of consciousness, from yoga sutras dating thousands of years back to the current popularity of Michael Pollen’s books who doesn’t give a whiff of anything holy or spiritual in his eating recommendations, but simply shows us how and why fresh, local and simple is best.
Perhaps for the first time, it is the younger, hipper, more affluent neighborhoods and groupings of people that are making sweeping change. It’s becoming sexy to be in the know. The documentary “Food, Inc.” should be mandatory viewing not just because it’s short, a great overview, accessible and easy to digest, but because it’s what people are talking about. So if conscious consumerism isn’t one’s bag, at least we can make the choice to participate with the cool kids in knowing what the conversation is about.
When we progress into deeper levels of knowing and have an understanding of the more subtle energies of the bodies, one can feel the emotional, physiological and digestive discomforts that processed foods, chemicals and animal products have. For heaven’s sake, philosophy is so boring, the only way that we can use these concepts is to experiment and see what works for ourselves.
The last 36 hours I’ve felt out of sorts with my digestive tract from the Monday evening party in my belly that was the slider and its string of friends. I made it through my yoga practice, but it was uncomfortable at best. My focus was drawn to a tightness in my midsection when that energy may have been better used elsewhere. Life just didn’t flow as effortlessly as I would have liked it to.
Whine. Boo. Snore. Aren’t I supposed to be so clean that these small detours passed though my body even easier? Shouldn’t the toxicities of life be affecting me less, not more?
In reluctant response, I did a mini fruit/veggie (ok, some hummus and chocolate too) focus until I knew the transgressions were out of my body. As soon as I felt them pass, I felt lighter. In tune, turned on, energy back. Alive.
Friday night I have dinner at my fave restaurant that makes the best chicken in town. I haven’t tasted this chicken in nine months and already I’m reasoning with myself. Do I order the chicken, tasting it wholly and consciously with each bite? Blessing and having gratitude with it beforehand? Trying to honor the spirit of the bird and what it means to eat it? Or do I stick to my pinot and a pasta and have one delish bite of my date’s chicken instead, savoring that moment and knowing that my belly and my connection will be more open in the am?
After my 36 hours of stuff and rinse, I sit here now with sports socks in hand, about to run by the Hudson. Not because I have to, but because I WANT to. That energy present may be worth the trade off, in and of itself. Not to mention, my running shorts… well, they’re kinda short and I still think they look pretty good. A bonus not only for myself but for future boyfriends as well. So, even if fossil fuels, global economies and siddha states of consciousness aren’t of interest, it’s nice to know that awareness can contribute to a sweeter physique at any age.
I offer this discourse not because burgers and Fantastic countertop spray are the enemy, but to perhaps stretch our ideas of what we can do for our bodies and our selves. Making an effort to recycle, considering what goes into our mouth and acknowledging a gratitude before we do, are gestures that link us to a higher and wider consciousness. If we knew that choosing quinoa kale salad over chicken would do as much for our evolution as meditation, blessings or acts of kindness, maybe not all at once, but one step, one blog post, one breakfast at a time… would we go there? Could we go there? Will we? Time will tell.
I will sit through dinner (my sole purpose of being placed next to a prominent board member is to be pretty and charming, perhaps slightly sexy, but of course not outwardly so) entertaining a table of Princeton grads my parents’ age, trying to tactfully and gracefully whisk away inquiries with: “You know, I actually don’t get down to Palm Beach much each winter” and offer empathy for daughters’ Southampton weddings’ oversized guest lists. Tonight is not about my thoughts or ideas or even talent. I am here to smile, to be grateful, to be eye candy.
This benefit was for old school theatre and old school money. Classic, high minded, intellectual, effete.
Two weeks ago I attended the opening of a ground-breaking new rock musical on Broadway and its celebration was much more a Page 6 splash of photo ops. I am bringing up the comparison of these two events not in terms of status, but rather in terms of consciousness, and more specifically, consciousness as it relates to food. In the rockstar world, where my friends are East Village juicing vegans and my clients celeb forward thinking pioneers, in the party’s generous displays of faux-trashy culinary abundance, there were plenty of vegan options on hand.
Although I’ve mentioned here before that I’m not interested in labels, there has been a natural progression in my body and mind’s awareness to the effect of animal products on my physique and also how the impact of what I ingest affects the world on a global scale. There is plenty of information available as to how eating a burger impacts global warming, in fact may be THE biggest negative influence on climate change, and not to mention the way it influences worldwide economics and our use of fossil fuels as a human race. If people are not aware of these correlations, it’s either because they are ignorant of the interconnections or our societal conditioning is so strong that we don’t WANT to be aware of them.
So although at the rockstar soiree I was solidly dedicated toward a vegan bent, by the time my highbrow event rolled by, I had slipped slightly into an easier, more unconscious state of “Oh, one taste won’t hurt.” The week prior I had a bite of my date’s Soho House burger. One night I bought a pint Haagen Dazs cookie dough ice cream. A little touch of parmesean on a ceaser salad with egg in its dressing was allowed entry into my body’s menu.
My deal with myself was to acquiesce when the food was spectacular. Babbo. That every once in a while slice of Joe’s. The gelato from the stellar place when it’s made with artisanal standards.
I am told I am a harsh critic. Fine dining for hundreds of people is difficult, if not impossible. The one time I have ever had superb food-- I mean SUPERB food—at a large event, was a wedding at the Mandarin Oriental in London. One time in a solid 15 years of fancy pants parties.
So, when at the old school gala, in a room of heavy hitters with deep pockets, I saw a slider, making its way to me, presented elegantly on a platter amidst a dozen of its buddies, the small dollop of meat housed in a refined white roll (also usually absent from my diet,) I rationalized: “oh, one doesn’t hurt.” This parlayed itself into other “innocent” transgressions: the salmon appetizer (its color clearly designating it farmed and not wild, and therefore potentially and probably full of toxins, dyes) the cheap champagne, the post event cab drop-off at the gelato spot down the block, rather than the foot of my apartment.
Where I felt it, was not that night, but on that confrontational magic carpet that doesn’t let any slider slide: my yoga mat the next morning. Whether it’s boy trouble or consciousness in cuisine, the showdown with my chakras in my ashtanga practice brings up all and lets me know very very clearly what works and what doesn’t.
I really have absolutely no interest in designating things as “bad” or “good” in terms of “should” or shouldn’t’s.” In my mind, those polarities do not exist, but there is, however, a natural progression toward feeling better for yourself and that I find, in turn, supports the evolution of our world around us. It’s not that vodka, meat, candy of the tangible or media varieties make connection impossible, it’s just that it makes them harder. I have found these things to be an obstacle to higher levels of ease and natural sparkliness. So, it’s not about deprivation, but more about the conscious knowing that—if I eat this, do this, it will affect this.
This can only come with awareness and experimentation. And should and MUST be an organic process of unfolding. A couple of years ago, I had a determined exercise in disaster that was a self-enforced six months of a raw food diet. Its tenets made intellectual sense to me, but its rigors proved to be too much to handle for my body—I wasn’t ready to be there yet. I’m not sure that I ever want or need to be ready to be there.
These things happen slowly. I have used all natural cleaning products for some time now. Recently I entered into an apartment with someone whose cleaning lady had just departed. He inhaled deeply, “doesn’t that smell fantastic?” Lysol lemon permeated the air and I was instantaneously nauseous from its toxicity. I wouldn’t have known this would happen, but it shows how conditioned we can become to chemical and processed scents, products and foods that we fool our bodies into thinking they are normal, even “fresh.”
There are countless books on food affecting levels of consciousness, from yoga sutras dating thousands of years back to the current popularity of Michael Pollen’s books who doesn’t give a whiff of anything holy or spiritual in his eating recommendations, but simply shows us how and why fresh, local and simple is best.
Perhaps for the first time, it is the younger, hipper, more affluent neighborhoods and groupings of people that are making sweeping change. It’s becoming sexy to be in the know. The documentary “Food, Inc.” should be mandatory viewing not just because it’s short, a great overview, accessible and easy to digest, but because it’s what people are talking about. So if conscious consumerism isn’t one’s bag, at least we can make the choice to participate with the cool kids in knowing what the conversation is about.
When we progress into deeper levels of knowing and have an understanding of the more subtle energies of the bodies, one can feel the emotional, physiological and digestive discomforts that processed foods, chemicals and animal products have. For heaven’s sake, philosophy is so boring, the only way that we can use these concepts is to experiment and see what works for ourselves.
The last 36 hours I’ve felt out of sorts with my digestive tract from the Monday evening party in my belly that was the slider and its string of friends. I made it through my yoga practice, but it was uncomfortable at best. My focus was drawn to a tightness in my midsection when that energy may have been better used elsewhere. Life just didn’t flow as effortlessly as I would have liked it to.
Whine. Boo. Snore. Aren’t I supposed to be so clean that these small detours passed though my body even easier? Shouldn’t the toxicities of life be affecting me less, not more?
In reluctant response, I did a mini fruit/veggie (ok, some hummus and chocolate too) focus until I knew the transgressions were out of my body. As soon as I felt them pass, I felt lighter. In tune, turned on, energy back. Alive.
Friday night I have dinner at my fave restaurant that makes the best chicken in town. I haven’t tasted this chicken in nine months and already I’m reasoning with myself. Do I order the chicken, tasting it wholly and consciously with each bite? Blessing and having gratitude with it beforehand? Trying to honor the spirit of the bird and what it means to eat it? Or do I stick to my pinot and a pasta and have one delish bite of my date’s chicken instead, savoring that moment and knowing that my belly and my connection will be more open in the am?
After my 36 hours of stuff and rinse, I sit here now with sports socks in hand, about to run by the Hudson. Not because I have to, but because I WANT to. That energy present may be worth the trade off, in and of itself. Not to mention, my running shorts… well, they’re kinda short and I still think they look pretty good. A bonus not only for myself but for future boyfriends as well. So, even if fossil fuels, global economies and siddha states of consciousness aren’t of interest, it’s nice to know that awareness can contribute to a sweeter physique at any age.
I offer this discourse not because burgers and Fantastic countertop spray are the enemy, but to perhaps stretch our ideas of what we can do for our bodies and our selves. Making an effort to recycle, considering what goes into our mouth and acknowledging a gratitude before we do, are gestures that link us to a higher and wider consciousness. If we knew that choosing quinoa kale salad over chicken would do as much for our evolution as meditation, blessings or acts of kindness, maybe not all at once, but one step, one blog post, one breakfast at a time… would we go there? Could we go there? Will we? Time will tell.
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