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.

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.