41gMaRd4tqL._SX338_BO1,204,203,200_I am trying to listen to and SEE connections. They’re everywhere, I’m just too drowsy sometimes to notice them.

Making sense of connections doesn’t matter nearly as much as simply becoming aware of them. And so here is one that just happened – occurred in frickin’ neon, actually!

About 20 minutes ago, I was trying to recall the name of a book I’d seen in Chicago a few weeks ago – a book that made me think of various ideas I’ve had for books and that I wanted to check out for further inspiration.  I couldn’t quite remember the title, something with wander – so I googled about and came up empty. A subdivision in Vermont? No. A walking stick company? No.

My attention went back to my work. I’m in the midst of going through a friend’s syllabus, printing it out in order to think about a possible workshop we might lead together. There are links throughout and I opened one article, “But Does It Make You Happy?” that caught my eye.  I skimmed it and saw an allusion to living smaller – less stuff, less space, less $$ – and followed another link to a woman who blogs about her downsized life at rowdykittens.

The very first post on this blog alluded to the book I’d been trying to find just a bit earlier: The Wander Society. It’s a celebration of curiosity and non-linearity.


The Dark Twin and Her Five Helpers

nNot Enough is my Dark Twin who lives below the sea. She is waiting for me to join her – to look her in the eye and to accept her as my other half, to swim with her and make mischief together. Although she’s in no particular hurry – after all, she’s been circling me since I was a little child – it would be nice if I could meet her this lifetime. She looks at her conch shell watch and notices that we are turning 50 soon. This gives her an idea – she’ll send her helper Impatience to remind me of the time.

Impatience is one of a harem that lives with Not Enough and does her bidding. Not Enough is the an entire darkened sky; Impatience is a cloud. Not Enough is the stormy ocean; Impatience and her kin — Invisible, Doubt, Martyr, and Under Accredited — are the waves. Each one pushes me up toward the sky and crashes me back down. Each one is a reminder of how I am not enough.

I’ve come to hate each one of them and the way she gnaws at what feels like my birthright to be beautiful, at ease, and authentically alive. Each one has her clever means of keeping me in discomfort, of fogging my vision.

Invisible makes me feel small and unseen. When no one “likes” me on Facebook, she reminds me that I’m not worth being noticed. When everyone I invite to a dinner party is busy, she conjures up the image of the dodge ball games in elementary school when I was chosen last.

Doubt has a stutter. She starts me and stops me. She pushes me ahead — “Go! Go! You’ll be great!” — then thinks better of it and quickly, abruptly pulls me back. The call I made on Friday feels like a shitty idea on Tuesday now that I’m sitting a coffee shop waiting for the appointment to arrive. The workshop I signed up for in January … well, could I get out of it now? Doubt simultaneously believes I need something more and that I’ll never get it.

Martyr holds me by the ankles.  I stand in the kitchen – the Epicenter of my Martyrdom – cleaning pots, filling bowls, dicing and chopping. Martyr has cruelly used activities and people that I dearly love against me. Of course I’ll cook for my kids. Of course I’ll walk the dog. Of course, of course … and in that course I find myself exhausted and angry because Martyr, forgetting to add a pinch of joy, tastes only of salt.

The last and most awkward of the group is Under Accredited. She loves to read other people’s bios, whether on workshop descriptions or on book flaps. She spies the trainings and degrees, the work experience with the funky museum job and the time spent overseas. Anything that speaks of a level of experience that is outside my grasp is hers to wrap around me — round and round until I’m bound and cannot move.

By comparison, Impatience can actually pass herself off as helpful. She keeps me moving – the Wicked Witch on her bike, hurrying to chase the tornado. Her nips and bites get me to finish work on time. She takes credit for my successes and rebukes my failures as laziness.


Who are you, Impatience?   “I am your mother waiting for you to grow up so she can have her life back. I am your grandmother who never got chosen for the clarinet competition, wishing she’d been born at a different time. I am your grandfather, the farmer, staring at the sky, ready to plant, ready to harvest, chasing time. I am your father, grinding his teeth and making to do lists in thick, black ink. I am you, obsessed with a calendar that can move faster and faster to take you out of childhood and into adulthood. I am you, watching your baby and toddler while craving time to write. I am you, terrified of death, of what is not yet done.”


I count. Six weeks until I turn 50. 8 months left in my training. 3 years before my daughter graduates. 4 years until my boss retires. So many ways to count, each one adding up to Impatience.


I seek freedom. I seek a balm. I long for these robes to fall away, one by one, until I’m standing naked in front of Not Enough and we can embrace. I am so ready. In the middle of the night, blanketed by anxiety, I feel impossibly bound to this place of discomfort and stupidity. Not stupid like the kid who hasn’t tried hard enough, but like the donkey in a parable who simply does not have the capacity to know any more. Stuck.

I ache to ride over the waves into the soft  place where the ocean has grown calm. To delight in my Being. To dance.





girl in the bubble

ub6jhhtThe bubble – an ephemeral object of childhood wonder – has become something to fear or avoid. It’s even something to be ashamed of. We fear the burst of the economic bubble and dread a collapsing housing bubble. We fret that we live in socio-political bubbles, apart from people of other skin colors, political beliefs, or income levels. This kind of bubble – the very reason the suburbs were invented – is now something to worry about at 3 AM.

…as though putting one foot in front of the other is never going to land me ahead but will more likely get me 5-feet backwards, because nothing I can do – not one single little decent thing – matters.

Awake at 3 am — not clever enough, behind on payments, dying, the polar bears, my 95 year old grandma in Florida, the air, my kids, dying.. The pain can be intense, right? There are days when I feel it pressing firmly on my sternum (that’s exactly where it is – not higher or lower). It can feel terrifying at times, but more so I experience it as a thick syrupy goop that makes me feel so tired, as though putting one foot in front of the other is never going to land me ahead but will more likely get me 5-feet backwards, because nothing I can do – not one single little decent thing – matters.

Ooh, just saying that is setting off that pain in my sternum!

So with regard to bubbles, I am holding two contradictory thoughts. The first is not only to stay in the bubble – without shame or regret – but to actualy make your bubble as beautiful as you can. Fill it with your friends and family and the art you most love; play gorgeous music and cook delicious food. Most especially, allow the bubble to be the place in which you can experience total stillness, where you can let your heart relax. Because this walking around in the “IT” is heavy and the heart feels that. So let yourself float and open yourself to beauty.

Does that sound like some hazy lazy dazy piece of crap?  It wasn’t so long ago that I’d agree with you. But just by way of experimentation, go take a long hot bath, play your favorite mellow music, read your favorite words, stare into the eyes of someone  you love, and then tell me you don’t feel a whole lot better! Like there’s actual hope!

Here’s the other side of my bubble equation:  You’ve got to leave the bubble.  It’s okay – you can come back to it. It’s right there – hasn’t popped. But you need to live with this gentler heart and your eyes full of beauty and then go out into the world and stare into the eyes of someone who is feeling cloudy or even, dare I say, defeated – maybe even someone who is full of anger.

How many of us have had some small transformational moment by being in the presence of someone whose heart is gentle, beautiful, and full? You can feel it – that kind of presence and contentment, that kind of love – it spills over. It splashes on to you a little if you’re standing nearby. It actually makes you a better person just by being close to such grace.

In February, when I was at a yoga training (those two words actually belittle the experience, but they’ll have to do for now), we spent time one evening staring into the eyes of people we’d only met in the past 48 hours and asking them, “Who are you?” We each had five minutes to speak, which seems way too short to explain your entire Self and yet embarrassingly long when you really don’t know where to begin … and with a stranger. We did it once — with the partner asking the phrase again and again any time we paused or stumbled. When we were done there was a sigh of relief around the room – Whew! that was interesting and hard! We did it! Until we realized that we were in a line and we were going to move down a person and start again. And again.

The responses, which you’d think would be repetitive, grew and morphed, turned corners and became increasingly vulnerable.

We did this exercise for close to an hour, though I don’t know for sure as time started to pull apart in unexpected ways. The responses, which you’d think would be repetitive, grew and morphed, turned corners and became increasingly vulnerable. By the end, I couldn’t remember much of what I shared, but I remembered a lot of what I heard. Heartbreaking things. Tenderness beyond imagination. Gentle hope. And the eyes! Staring into each person’s eyes while listening to them speak was a privilege that I hadn’t realized I was yearning for.

I shared this experience recently in a conversation group that I started. A group of six of us – most of whom had never met before – have been listening to a spiritual podcast once a month and meeting for lunch and conversation. The topics are tough – race, politics, religion. And we are a mixed bunch. All on the liberal side of the fence, I’d say, but gay and straight, white and black, Mennonite and Muslim. When I told them about the “Who are you?” exercise, they were touched by it, but the conversation quickly moved on. Toward the end of our hour together, however, a pause entered the room and grew, taking up more space. Without anyone announcing it, each of us took a few moments to look into the others’ eyes. One by one, we acknowledged each other.

This is was an exercise both in leaving the safety of my bubble – taking in the intimate gaze of these other people who I knew before only in the most perfunctory ways. But it was also a way of making my bubble larger and more beautiful. Allowing in the presence of others – their hearts, their fragility and strength. A gift primordial and precious.

It’s a turn-around jump shot
It’s everybody jump start
It’s every generation throws a hero up the pop charts
Medicine is magical and magical is art
The Boy in the Bubble
And the baby with the baboon heart

And I believe
These are the days of lasers in the jungle
Lasers in the jungle somewhere
Staccato signals of constant information
A loose affiliation of millionaires
And billionaires and baby
These are the days of miracle and wonder …

~ Paul Simon

old souls

It was an amazing day. A day of sunshine and verdant spring fields that rolled up toward the azure sky and then swooped down into the slate blue waters of the Pacific. Cows wearing their black and white spotted coats, grazed lazily on the grass that was insanely green from the rain from earlier in the week. A few fields over, a dozen Tule elk stood with their backs to the ocean. They were all lady elk – no antlers in the group – and as we passed, Bella sang “All the Single Ladies” to them.

IMG_2702It was but one of more than a dozen songs she hummed, whistled, and sang throughout our sojourn to San Francisco, a drive up the coast, and then two days at Point Reyes. Walking around in the Mission in the rain (lyrics she doesn’t know, otherwise she’d have been singing them, too) never dulled her enthusiasm. In shop after shop, we stowed our sopping umbrellas in buckets by the front door, and I stood a bit too warm and very soggy, as she tried on clothes. She came out of dressings rooms beaming, laughed at socks with funny artwork, and oohed at beautiful jewelry. While I was impatient with the group of frat bros in front of us at Tartine – a place so popular that even the rain couldn’t keep the line down – who nabbed a table way before it was their turn, Bella said they weren’t so bad; after all, they were singing and might even be part of an acapella group.  She was adventurous – game for the Korean spa, amused to have crushed cucumber on her face and an unexpected dousing of milk. She tried pea shoots and dumplings and laughed at the intense smell of pot wafting through Amoeba records. She encouraged me to get new boots, telling me how good they looked and thanked me every night before we went to bed for the day we’d just shared.

IMG_2774I was thrilled that when we arrived up north at Pt. Reyes, we were greeted by blue skies and sunshine. The park graced us not only with elk but with an elephant seal who reared up from a bed of weeds near the parking lot, starling and thrilling us. A bobcat stood in a field and when we slowed the car, he turned and stared at us. On another road, a coyote walked along the shoulder, turning to peer at us before disappearing into the darkening woods.

On our last night in the park, we took a makeshift dinner down to the beach and sat on a dune so that we had a little perch. Bella made her way down to the water and was doing her funny dances and funny walks – she’d been doing this sort of penguin walk throughout the trip and it always made me laugh. The dancing was just a continuation of what she’s been doing since she could walk. Graceful and strong – I love to watch her move. Music lives in her body, whether there’s an actual melody in earshot or the endless soundtrack that pulses through her.

As she moved, I saw the continuation of who she has been on every beach we’ve visited in these fourteen years together. From that first beach on the Gulf Coast of Florida when I was pregnant with Tobey, to a few years later when she and her brother bolted naked onto the beach outside Kathy’s house in Malibu. From the sweet white sands in Michigan where she and her friend Zoe pranced, to Mexico where she bobbed in the warm water before plunging back into the pool with Tobey. Each time more elegant than the last, and yet with a sweet openness to the world and an unabashed silliness that life’s various losses and mean spots have not squelched.

Tears rose suddenly and I gulped for air, the salt water on my cheeks an echo of the sea in front of me. I’ve known this girl, this woman for lifetimes. I’ve felt this way before – that Bella and I are travelers who are meeting not for the first time. In that moment on Limantour Beach, a little before we spied the seals, their black bodies darting through the surf, and before a pod of whales graced the horizon, I was again reminded of this deep knowledge of our ongoing voyage. What a privilege. What a beautiful privilege to share my life with such a grace-filled woman.

People keep telling me with a sense of doom in their voices – Appreciate every moment. She’ll be gone in a blink of an eye. True in a sense, yes, but really, she’ll never leave me and I’ll never leave her. There is an intricate weaving of our two lives that goes on and on, singing into the ultimate future.

french air

IMG_2520 (2)I went out this morning to take the kids to school and the air hit me. French air. A  heavy grayFrench sky. The cusp between winter and spring – daffodils an imminent possibility, but snow still just as readily available.

I was sixteen with skinny gray jeans that zipped at the ankle and a hot pink canvas shirt from Esprit de Corps – god, how I lived for their catalogs. My hair was bobbed – bangs. No boyfriend. Just me and my best girlfriends and our entire French class, led by Madame. After we landed at Charles De Gaulle, the first place we stopped was a restaurant on the Interstate – a buffet with hard rolls and unexpected cold plates. It was underwhelming and confusing. On the chartered bus that would take us to our hotel – a narrow walk-up near the Gare du Nord – I succumbed to the exhaustion of having stayed up all night on the flight. It was my first time over the ocean. My first time away from home for an entire week. My first time in Europe.

I don’t remember if a friend jabbed me awake or if it was simply the oohs and ahhs of my friends that drug me to the surface, but I woke up underneath the Arc de Triomph. The bus was circling what seemed to my teenage self like an ancient relic. It wasn’t even 200 years old and it would be more than a decade later on a trip to Israel that I’d truly grasp ancient. But in that sleepy moment, I was waking to another time.

The next week was lost on me in so many ways. History was still a riddle – something to be studied and not lived. We visited the beaches at Normandy  and I had but the faintest sense of where we were. Visited the Bayeux Tapestry – yawn. Standing in musty little museums in Tours with my host family, I mainly felt chilly.

What I remember most on that trip was shopping near the Pompidou Centre and finding the vintage one-strap petal-pink evening gown that I would wear to prom. It was from the late 50s and I reveled in its history, which would now be intertwined with my own. I remember the smells of urine in the street – pungent and startling. I remember the butter so intensely creamy and alive – as though I’d never really tasted butter before – and the furry black and white cows that we rolled past in Normandy. The blue windows in Chartres were just as startling as the town itself, completely closed down at two in the afternoon on a weekday or a mid-afternoon nap. There was the night that the most brazen member of our class went missing from the hotel. We never knew where she went, though she was back by morning. I was frightened by her ramble, but now part of me applauds her adventure.

France was a waking up. Waking up to the old. Waking up to the different – it seemed incredibly exotic at the time. My senses came online,  France itself a tuning fork that called them to a higher pitch.

I walk out on this nearly March morning and there it was. Crusty bread. Cemeteries. Churches. Cheese. paris-arc-de-triomphe-hdrThe dark-haired girl with clear blue eyes who would write me letters in her pointy, exacting script on aerogrammes for years to come. The entree into the fact of life’s enormity and how it rolls back beyond what the high school yearbook and geometry class ever suggest is possible.

between deaths we dreamed together

Stephen Levine left his body two days ago. I’ve known of him for a few years because Chris has told me about him and his wife Ondrea, who have spent their lives thinking about and writing about how to die consciously. Chris tells me about a lot of things – the man is endlessly curious about everything from hunter gatherers to better accounting systems – and so not everything he tells me “sticks.” Admittedly, the Levines did not entirely stick. Still, I vaguely knew there was this couple who were both older and in poor health residing in the desert of New Mexico and waiting to die, while still very vividly living. (Ah, Paradox!)

So when I learned that Stephen had died, I finally found myself on their web site where I sat rapt with this video of the two of them. I’m not sure when it was made – I suspect in the past year. They are bright of spirit here, even though there is a sense of an end being close at hand.  Besides from the generous, wise words they share, there is so much to love about the video. I love, for instance, how at the :50 mark he pretends to eat her toe with gusto – making her laugh. I love their vibrant red shirts and their tattoos, which appear to be pretty fresh. I love the cat that comes and goes. Her snappy manicure and long tresses. His insouciance. The clutter of blankets and pillows on the back of the sofa.

Most of all, I love that they hold hands through almost the entire hour. And though they are not looking at one another, they are in total sync, complete harmony. They have clearly lived in deep respect, learning one another and coming to a place where love lives well beyond the realm of the physical container. I imagine that Ondrea is now both sad, missing this lovely and cunning companion’s physical presence, but also at peace, feeling him everywhere.

Here is a poem that Stephen wrote. I have no idea if it is intended as an homage to God, but I certainly hope that it is, at some level, a love poem for Ondrea.

Autosave-File vom d-lab2/3 der AgfaPhoto GmbH

Autosave-File vom d-lab2/3 der AgfaPhoto GmbH

There is a silence between breaths
when the heart becomes a sacred flame
and the belly uncoils which reminds me
how remarkable it is to wake
beside you another day.

Between deaths we dreamed together
between breaths, in that stillness,
which has joined us ever since.

In that first breath
we step onto the dance floor,
and waltz unnoticed through the void.
The sacred everywhere we turn
and turn again, as form so generously dissolves
and only the Beloved remains.

In this moment which lasts a lifetime
there is nowhere to stand
where you are not beside me
where you do not accompany me within.

-Stephen Levine


Pacific calling

9b12768612690bf728cdb84d7417ae40I am sitting more these days. Listening in. My anxiety – an ancient friend – has been hanging around quite a bit. That pulsing feeling in my chest is how I know it’s there. Tap, tap, tap. I come downstairs this morning after a long night of staying up with my daughter who is working on a speech. Chris tells me that North Korea detonated a hydrogen bomb and that the temperature in the Arctic Circle was warmer than that in Southern California yesterday. I moan. Tap, tap, tap.

He laughs and I turn on him:  “How can you laugh???”

He is quick and kind and generous in his words:  “Is the world a better place by your unhappiness? Will global warming change because you’re worrying about it?”

We’ve started allowing ourselves to dream toward the coast. A slow, unfolding dream. Two nights ago, both of us had dreams about California – of the hills and the ocean and the sweet feel of the sea’s breath. It’s a creeping hopefulness that embraces the possibility of a full, long life.

My friend called yesterday and mentioned his 20-something’s son return to Brooklyn after two weeks at home. “The house is quieter now,” he says, and I can hear the missing in his voice, the gap left by his son. I know I will feel this gap so strongly one of these days – too soon. But I try to lean into the adventure and learning, the beauty and newness that awaits my kids. Falling in love. First apartments. New foods. Sharing stories – about me, no less – with new friends. So much is out there. And while they are on their adventures, I am starting to see a possibility of mine. Of ocean. Of future creative collaborations. Of a larger vision of yoga and myself as a teacher. It’s hazy still, this vision, but it’s out there.

61u7hek8jkl-_sx258_bo1204203200_Bella has been working for days on a speech about a book. She’s nervous – speeches aren’t her thing (though it’s a really good speech, so she needs to stop telling herself this story!). Listening to her as she reads me snippets of what she’s written has been kind of wonderful because the book is my biography of Dan Eldon! I’ve gotten to hear her falling in love with Dan’s  life and spirit. And last night when she read me the ending of her talk, I knew that she’d gotten it. She ends by wondering about her own future safaris and asks, what will you do on your safari? Not unlike the Mary Oliver poem, What will you do with this one precious life?

Indeed, so much precious time awaits me. It’s so easy to feel that this is it – I’ve done my work –  I’m settling in for the long haul. But how hurtful to my spirit. Instead, I turn toward the Pacific and listen to the waves.