And all shall be well...

For a number of years, I've written a blog called The Preppy Yogini. Bits and pieces of this blog have made their way into various yoga and book circles. I feel incredibly fortunate to have had The Preppy Yogini be so well received. It's been a lifeline for me in many ways. I've met some incredible people through The Preppy Yogini and it has opened doors for me in ways I never could have imagined. 


And yet, as I wrote in a piece called The Bohemian Sloth, I've felt myself stepping away from my Preppy Yogini persona. I've spent the past 15 months battling cancer, and its physical aftermath, for the second time. No longer am I a yoga instructor. No longer am I particularly preppy. It's been a time of great changes in my life...in what I can do, in what I want to do and to what I will aspire. Blessed Julian of Norwich was an anchoress in the 14th century. She was quite literally walled into Norwich Cathedral. She had two windows: one opened into the cathedral, so that she could be a part of the worship in the church. The other window was outside. It allowed her to receive food (and I'm assuming, to get rid any waste). More importantly, it allowed her to speak with people, to pray for them and to be a part of their lives. She was a mystic and a little "out there" in her theology. And yet, she was also ahead of her in many other ways. She felt God's presence as a Loving, Kind Mother. Imagine that concept in the medieval world!


While the idea of being walled up anywhere is terrifying from a claustrophobia standpoint,  I have to admit that I felt some affinity for Blessed Julian for the past year. While I've done some traveling and I have gotten out of the house, I have also been home more than ever have. I've always been a doer, a mover, a goer and a 'be right in the thick of things' kind of woman. I've worked, I've volunteered, I've gone out to lunch with friends and noodled around art museums. I have spent more time in quiet contemplation, over the past year, than ever before. It's a heady thing. I've had to learn how to simply be in peace without anyone else to entertain me. I've learned so much in the past year...most of it having to do with meditation, harmonious quiet and silent images. I'm done a great deal of praying. I've read a tremendous amount, even for a bibliophile like me. I've come to appreciate the beauty in stillness in a way I never had before. I've always been an admirer of Blessed Julian, but I've come to understand her better...even in the smallest way...to know what it's like to simply be alone.

My new blog,  And All Shall Be Well, will not be  a collection of my own life experiences and lessons from, as I had in The Preppy Yogini. It's my goal to write short essays that may be used in meditation, for inspirational reading, for prayer and for uplifting imagery. This won't be a running diary. Rather, it will simply be a tool for others to use in their quests. I like to describe myself an Episcopalian with dashes of Jewish roots and twists of Zen. I feel honored and blessed by Native American, Celtic and Norse traditions. And All Shall Be Well is most definitely written with God in mind and in heart. But, I'm hopeful that, whatever one's faith tradition, there will be illuminating pieces that will speak to many. I plan on drawing from many sources for my own inspiration.


St. Paul wrote in Philippians, "Finally, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honorable, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things."  It's my hope that the pictures I'll paint with my words will uplift and will be worthy to 'think on'.


(Note: I will not take down The Preppy Yogini, I've accomplished what I had hoped to..and will continue to update. But, I hope you join me as I work on And All Shall Be Well. Namaste, Peace and Thank you.)

Writing

We should be taught not to wait for inspiration to start a thing.  Action always generates inspiration.  Inspiration seldom generates action.  ~Frank Tibolt


The most common questions I'm asked, when people inquire about my blogs, revolve around where I find my inspiration. People want to know if I make notes when special events pop up, and if I have a special writing ritual. Do I write for a certain number of hours each day? Do I only write in the morning? Do I keep a journal? What incites me to put pen to paper (or rather, fingers to keyboard) when a thought pops into my head? Do I pitch anything, or do I keep it all? In short, how do I do what I do? 


The short answer is "yes" to all of those queries. I do make notes, when I think about it. I do prefer writing in the morning, though I don't have a time minimum or maximum, and if the muse descends at 2 am, I'll write then. I do keep a journal, although it's mainly written in shorthand notes that even I have trouble deciphering.  I'm inspired by art, by books, by my family, by the circumstances in my life, by exercise, by rest, by food, by friends, by music, by films, by nature and by just about everything else in the world around me. I write whatever is on my mind, and if I think it's not ridiculous, I'll keep working on it. If I think it's dreadful, I'll delete it. I like writing with a cup of coffee by my side, but it's not absolutely necessary. 


The next question, after the "how do you write?" curiosity, is the bigger one: "Why do you write?".  This is the far more complicated posit. I've always written. From the time I was very young, before I had the power of spelling at my disposal, I created little books with drawings on each page. I was able to tell the story to the viewer. Writing has been my medium of choice for communication. I'm an abysmal talker and tend to babble when awkward silences fall. I can't think of the right things to say during countless situations, and therefore, end up with my foot in my mouth, having spoken exactly the wrong thing. I wish, far too frequently, that I could recall my words, just as a fisherman might reel in a line that's been cast astray. Words, once spoken, can never be taken back. 


When I write, I feel as if my voice is the way I want it to sound. If I make an error, it's an error that, at the very least, I've given some consideration. The written word provides me the ability to convey my thoughts in an edited, contemplative manner.  I can delete. I can enhance. I can recreate. I can discover that a tangent is far more intriguing than the original idea. I can let go of all ubiquitous strains, or I can embrace them.  By writing, I can learn what I'm truly thinking and where my heart indeed rests. It gives me a window into my soul, my psyche and my subconscious. I learn more about myself, by reading my own writing, than I possibly could in any other way. Writing, for me, is much like meditation in this way. 


Sharon O'Brien, author and noted Willa Cather scholar, wrote "Writing became such a process of discovery that I couldn't wait to get to work in the morning:  I wanted to know what I was going to say." I quite agree with her. When I sit down to write, the words often take me by surprise. I'm just as excited to see what my fingers type as I would be to sit down and read a novel by another writer. It's a fascinating process to me and I'm often amazed by what emerges. I might sit down with the inspiration for one piece, and another seems to flow right out. I'm always interested in what I'll say next because I learn and grow each time.


"Why do I write?" is the big question. "Because I must" is the answer.

When words fail

Words without thoughts never to heaven go. ~ William Shakespeare


One story my mother loves to tell is that I didn't walk until I was close to my 2nd birthday. I did, however, speak well before my 1st. She laughs that I was like a minute carrot, roots stuck firmly into the ground, issuing orders, telling funny tales and making pronouncements. Like a Baby Buddha, I simply sat and spoke. And spoke. And spoke. The power is speech seems to be one with which I was born. The words flowed out, even before I really understood what I was doing.


Speaking became a bit of a problem. My mouth, once fully engaged, never quite learned how (or when) to shut. "Motor Mouth", "Blabber Mouth" and "Gabby" were the epithets my cousins named me. I couldn't keep a secret to save my life. I spoke without an internal censor. I spoke without thinking first how my words would effect others. Words filled my head and immediately found their way onto my tongue. My mother and grandmother, in both frustration and with hope, encouraged me to write what I was thinking, rather than allow my intricate, internal monologue to keep those around me abreast of every idea. It was a great plan. I wrote a prolific amount. My mother and grandmother, both lovers of the arts, helped me "publish" my little books and many of them survive to this day. Writing gave me a way to get out all those ideas, each of those thoughts and every bit of my concepts out of me, without boring the daylights of my family. It also, I'm sure, kept me from embarrassing them further. I was a massive, undulating volcano erupting dramatic stories. These, I learned, didn't have to be told. They could simply be written.


Slowly, I learned what it was okay to say, and what it was better to write. I still put my foot into my mouth a great deal. I still reddened the faces of my parents, when I declared things to others that were best left private. But, for the most part, I learned the valuable lesson of subtlety. I also learned that, when I felt bottled up inside, ready to explode with a torrent of conversation, sometimes it was a wiser plan to scribble in my journal than to loose the canon of my mouth. Additionally, I learned the valuable lesson that journaling taught me; when I wrote how I was feeling, what I was doing or the stories in my head, I could learn from them. Those words remained with me, rather than flowing away forever. I could go back over them, read them, scan them, devour them. I could edit....sometimes profoundly editing my feelings, along with my words. I ascertained that I could write letters that never would be sent....just to get those emotions, that threatened to detonate my spirit, out by writing them down. My writing became a source of inspiration, a private cell for confession and a  medium of self-therapy.


It came as a great surprise to me, and a source of severe discontent, when I found myself unable to write recently. The words, once a white capped, endless ocean, became a dry riverbed, desolate and forgotten. The cancer robbed me of the gift (and curse) of my power of speech. When I was in Arizona recently, while walking around my mother's beautiful desert home, I took a good long look at one of the arroyos nearby. It had every indication that it once held a bountiful current. The lines in the sand were echoes of the water that had flowed freely, leaving behind large rocks and tiny pebbles in its wake. I thought, "I'm that arroyo. I once held water. There are a few nuggets left behind. But, other than that, I can feel where the rushing waters used to course. I can hear the distant reverberation from where the words used to spring. But, now, it's silent and still."


With a bit of regret, and a great deal of grief, I walked back up to the house, missing my words all the more. My words were my comfort. They were my own form of living water within. Without them, I felt unmoored and adrift. I felt fear rising in my throat, with no outlet...either spoken or written. I was once riding a raft over a plethora of ideas, concepts, contentions and conversations, and I now felt stranded, unable to convey the smallest prattle. I felt trapped in silence, and stranded there in the desert. When I tried to write, what came out was infantile, boring, meaningless, confusing and simply unfinished.


I'm beginning to see the tiny trickle of a new stream...the genesis of a brook. I am hopeful that it will expand, stretching out its banks and moving forward. The words, once caught in my throat, are beginning to venture out. In the meantime, I'm learning the value of silence...both of my pen and of my voice. It's been a challenging lesson. Stillness isn't an easy concept for me. My monkey mind usually loves those jumping movements from thought to thought. Yet, I haven't had a choice. My illness and recovery have taken my words from me, and forced me into an internal communication exile. But it's okay. I have faith the estuary of ideas will return. I can hear its stirring. In the meantime, I can also learn to value its absence. Quiet of mind and pen can be beautiful too.

Lost

"Not until we are lost do we begin to understand ourselves." - Henry David Thoreau

Not long ago, I wrote a piece about my favorite college professor, Dr. Lichtenstein. In "Lessons in Writing and Living" , I explored my memories of an extraordinary teacher, who had a profound effect on my life. Alice Lichtenstein taught me to be the writer I hope I'm still growing into becoming. Additionally, she inspired me with life lessons, to continually look forward while remaining grounded in the present moment, and to always listen to my voice, as a woman and as a writer. Serendipity has had an amazing role in my life this past week. Not only was I able to rediscover Dr. Lichtenstein through her newest novel, but as I read it, I found that I heard her voice speaking to me just as clearly as she had in the classroom at both Wheaton College and Boston University. It's not often that a writer can achieve a highly complex, fascinating and profoundly moving work. It's even more complicated to remain true to one's inner voice, one's philosophy and one's belief system while writing fiction. Dr. Lichtenstein has done just that with "Lost: A Novel".

The novel's plot is the search for a college professor's elderly husband, who wandered off, lost in his dementia. Hindering the search is inclement upstate New York winter weather, and being surrounding by heavily wooded areas. Masterfully interwoven with the search process, the protagonist, Dr. Susan Hunsinger, are the lives the search and rescue coordinator, Jeff Herdman, as well as Corey, a troubled preteen boy whose path crosses the lives of Susan, her husband, Christopher and Jeff. The narrative is intense, the prose brave. What begins as the search for the lost Christopher Hunsinger translates to a much larger picture; each one of the characters is lost, but the elder Hunsinger's journey is the literal one that can be measured, documented and resolved. For the rest of the characters, not only the main ones, but each one dancing on the periphery of the story, must find his, or her, own path in the world. As the novel reaches its bitter, poignant and palpable conclusion, the reader is left learning how lost each of the characters truly has been. Each one may not have been navigating the frigid forest, but may have been floundering in relationships, guilt, uncertainty and each one may not have seen the light beckoning them forward...towards a place of warmth, understanding and answers.

Hearing Dr. Lichtenstein's voice in her work challenged me in many ways. I began to ask myself the hard questions; "How am I lost?", "What am I missing?", "What do I truly need?" and most importantly, "What am I wandering towards?". At every junction in our lives, we find ourselves in places, in situations and in circumstances we never envisioned. Some of these aimless wanderings turn out to be exceptionally fortuitous. Others tend to sneak up on us. I may think I know where I am, where I'm going and what my intentions are, and may still flounder about, lacking even the most rudimentary clue as to where I'm meant to be. I feel as if I've set out on one journey, map in hand, directions well written and necessary supplies packed. Yet, when I arrive at my destination, I realize that I was heading the wrong way the entire time...and certainly had brought the wrong provisions. I tend to stumble through life, absolutely confident in my steps, until I discover I've managed to bungle the very trip itself. It's both humbling and troubling.

Yet, without realizing that I'm off course, there isn't any way to make course corrections. My GPS (or built in navigation system) in my car has changed my life. Born with a severe handicap of inability to properly read maps or follow directions based on anything other than landmarks, driving has always been an adventure for me. My GPS now tells me how to get where I'm going. However, if I take a detour, it corrects my course based on side trip I've made. Instead of asking me to backtrack and go back the way I came, my mechanical voiced co-pilot lets me know the 'new way' of finding my destination. I love her. I do yell at her, when I'm alone in the car, when she tells me to make U-turns (legally, of course), but overall, she's been a great asset to my many trips around New England...and even cross country, between Arizona and Maine. I realize how much easier my life would be if I had a GPS to guide me through my decision making processes. How helpful it would feel to know that there's a machine that has my back, who is going to politely correct me when I go off course, and who only has my safe and timely arrival as her mission!

Since none of us come with Tom-Toms or Garmins built into our psyche, the best we can do, when we realize how woefully lost we are, is to stop right where we are. If we're physically lost in the woods, rescue workers always say to stay put initially. We may have had a nagging suspicion that the direction we're heading in life is leading to a dead end. We may also begin to get that gut level feeling that we're just not doing the right thing. Rather than race further down the wrong path, we need to come to a complete stop. We need to evaluate where we are, what we're doing and most of all, what we want to be doing. We need to talk with our family and friends and, without overloading them with drama, get their impressions. Those who know us, and love us, are best qualified to act as our navigation system, when we are sure we've gone too far into the woods. Listen with an open heart and an open mind. Pray. Journal. Try new experiences. And, then, when you're ready, set that new course, knowing that you're on track once again.

We can't always prevent ourselves from losing our way. Sometimes getting lost is part of the journey itself, even if we can't see the lessons immediately. What we can do, however, is to allow ourselves to be found.

Farming, Growing Things and a Brown Thumb

I never had any other desire so strong, and so like to covetousness, as that one which I have had always, that I might be master at last of a small house and a large Garden. ~Abraham Cowley, The Garden, 1666

My Grandma Rose was an amazing gardener. She was able to take a tiny cutting from any type of plant, coax out roots from it, and then transplant it into her garden. She lived in a historic Russian Hill Victorian in San Francisco, and despite the house's many period treasures, it was her beautiful English garden that captivated me the most. In the midst of a busy urban center, she cultivated her modest backyard into an enchanted space, complete with winding walkways, unusual breeds of flowers and vegetables, and a yellow wooden playhouse that divided time between her potting shed duties, and my dolls' tea parties. Grandma's garden always had something new to capture my attention, to draw me further in and to cast a spell upon my childhood self. I found peace there during stressful times, and pure joy, during happy ones.

These memories make it all the more tragic for me that I have not inherited Grandma's gifts for plant cultivation and landscape design. Additionally, I lack even the most rudimentary of 'growing' skills. Beyond that, I seem to have become the antithesis of my grandmother: where she could breathe life into any increment of flora, I seem to be the instrument of torture and death to them. I have long joked that I am the Dr. Kevorkian of plants....they seem to find their way into my home and yard when they want to end their own lives. Once, my friend, Mary, was in the midst of a major home remodel and had to remove all her house plants from the construction zone. Mary is one of many friends who are exceptional garden enthusiasts, and her yard has been featured in the House & Garden show several times. When she asked me to mind her houseplants, I begged her to find another host family. Seduced by my bright and sunny front windows, Mary promised that I couldn't possibly kill her indoor plants, if she placed them herself and left me specific instructions. She was wrong, and they were dead within a week. We are still trying to figure out exactly what went wrong....fifteen years later. I bemoan my lack of gardening abilities. I have read books, I have taken nature walks with landscapers and consulted specialists. Everyone is left with the distinct impression that I honestly have a Brown Thumb. It's a "gift". This time of year in northern New England, many of my friends are consulting seed catalogs and beginning to get their orders placed for the coming Spring. I'm simply listening to their conversations and wondering if I missed out on learning the secret handshake in Kindergarten.

Therefore, a game on Facebook has left me particularly excited. Facebook is a social networking site through which I've been able to remain in touch with close friends and family, as well as to rekindle friendships from long ago. The game "Farmville" was initially a sore spot with me. Several of my dearest friends were posting accomplishments, winning blue ribbons and having barn raising events. They were growing everything from rice to roses, and landscaping their virtual plantations beautifully. I had to roll my eyes and wonder how my vastly intelligent, well educated and interesting pals could be so enamored by a silly game. And, then I tried it. Despite the fact that I did manage to kill my first few (okay, more like first dozen) virtual crops, I did begin to enjoy the game. The better I was able to produce my produce, and take care of my livestock, the more I was rewarded. I found that improving my farm's layout, crop rotation, and type of seeds used truly helped them to flourish and grow. With each successful harvest, I was rewarded with the ability to expand my farm and try new seeds. For the first time in my life, I've found some measure of enjoyment in watching my yield accrue. There is something deeply satisfying about sowing fallow ground, choosing which type of plants to produce, watching them blossom and then in-gathering the results. Even though these plots of land are simply virtual squares, and my "Me" is just a character controlled by the click of a mouse, I'm proud of my little farm. I have a barn, a dairy farm, a chicken coop, a silo, scads of animals, a farmhouse and many plots of different crops; from grains to flowers to vegetables. I have grape arbors and cranberry bogs. My tomatoes and red and luscious. My roses are full and hearty. My sheep bah. My cows moo. And my ducks quack. It's a goofy cartoonish game, and yet I find the whole experience to be oddly satisfying. I can almost picture myself walking through the lanes between my fields, brushing my horses and fertilizing my grains. I can wish myself a cup of iced tea as I survey all that I have grown.

I still harbor the hope that someday my real yard will resemble something akin to my virtual garden. And yet, in every day life, I realize that I have the opportunity to create 'something from nothing' through my words. In writing, I have the ability to cultivate the soil of my imagination by reading good books and listening to the advice of others. I can plant my own seeds of ideas and nurture them along with practice. I can wait patiently as I work through rewrites and yank out any literary weeds that are sapping my energy. I can watch those first shoots of persistence spring up, and I can harvest them by finishing a piece over which I've toiled. While my writing will never resemble that of William Shakespeare or even John Grisham, I will have the satisfaction of toiling over each word in the piece, from beginning to end. In that, there is a sort of farming garden of words.

Perhaps someday I'll have rosemary by my garden gate, and a small pond with swans swimming, surrounded by lavender and lilac. Or, perhaps, I'll leave this part of my life as metaphor and leave the real gardening up to experts.

Lessons in Writing and Living

We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations. ~ Anaïs Nin

Twenty five years ago, I was a student at Wheaton College, and sitting in a creative writing class with Professor Lichtenstein. Professor Lichtenstein was one of my favorite teachers. She was beautiful, smart, intuitive and had an enthusiasm for her subject unsurpassed by other instructors. She taught us about life beyond the traditional New England campus, and encouraged us to find our life's purposes, regardless if they had anything to do with her class. Professor Lichtenstein told us that there were three vital elements to a meaningful paper, as well as to a meaningful life:

1. Always be aware of your voice. Hear your voice in your work, in your conversations and your passions. Listen carefully if your voice becomes a parrot for someone else's opinions, thoughts or ideals. These augmenting meditations are helpful in forming a complete picture of our own reflections but should not overshadow them. Our thoughts should be intrinsically our own.
2. Always be aware of the present moment. Understand that the past is over and the future is yet to be. Heed being aware of your surroundings, how you feel and what your experience is as it happens. It's far more elusive to try to recapture moments after they're gone, especially when our minds were elsewhere. There is nothing more vital that paying attention, with rapt absorption, to the life you're living now. Once those feelings are gone, it's impossible to reclaim them. If you never had ownership to begin with, you cannot recreate a sentiment that never existed.
3. Always keep childlike enthusiasm and spirit alive in your heart. When we're young, we feel things with a depth of emotion that we lose later on in life. When we hear the ice cream truck's sing-song music, our youthful hearts skip a beat and we want to run outside, quarter in hand, to buy a Good Humor Strawberry Eclair bar. The lightness of being a child gets squashed down by loss, by hurt, by failure, by fear, by anxiety. The more you can rekindle that spark of tender fervor, the more likely you are to appreciate the little things in both life and writing.

I have to admit that, at the time of these lectures (of which I've paraphrased a year's worth here), I was already struggling with all three of these areas in my life. At 19, I didn't have a clue as to what my voice was. I was daydreaming of a young marriage, a Volvo wagon and three children before I was 30. I would shift gears and think I'd want to be a career woman, living in the city in a fabulous apartment. My thoughts would change again, and I'd picture myself as a world traveler, never resting one place for long. I didn't know my political leanings, my personal style or even my favorite foods. I tended to like whatever was in front of me at the moment. I wasn't trying to be irresolute. I simply couldn't 'hear' my voice yet because the opinions all around me seemed to carry far more weight. As I matured and discovered that I did have tastes that were exclusively my own, I began to understand Professor Lichtenstein's motive in this comment; it's languid to change opinions based on what's going on around you. It's a simple thing to be easily led. It takes character to know who you are, and to express that in words, both on paper and in speech. It also means that you will have a greater sense of self-awareness.

Living in the present moment was also a tough area for me to work on. I've always had my head in the clouds. I could never wait for the next weekend, the next chapter in a book, the sequel to a movie. I spent years wasting time just to get to the next stage of life, in which I'd waste more time. And yet, during my Yoga Instructor training, this was one of the most powerful areas to explore. In setting the tone for my classes, I've had to learn to suspend time outside the door, not only for myself, but also for my students. During the 75 minutes of our class time, our focus is exclusively on where we are physically, emotionally and spiritually at the present moment. There is no wiggle room for daydreaming and mental list making. As my Yoga style and skills have developed over the past decade, I've discovered that I've been able to translate this to the rest of my life. It's had a profound effect on my writing, as well as on my enjoyment of each moment that I'm given in this life. What a sad existence it would be if we arrived to the conclusion of our lives never having truly felt the twinkling junctures that punctuate our journey. The trip is far richer if you take notice of it.

The third area, as Dorothy said upon leaving Oz, is the one I'll miss the most. Childhood's captivating magic is far more elusive than the first two points of Dr. Lichtenstein's lectures. In a way, I've discovered that it actually combines the first two principles. When you're a child, you know who you are. You may know, without hesitation that you live in a white house on a street that's lined with trees, and that your best friend lives around the corner.You know that you love your Grandma but aren't too crazy about the mean neighbor that refuses to let you Christmas carol at his house. You love pizza with your own favorite toppings and like having sleepovers. Within each defining characteristic, that makes you understand yourself with full awareness, is the enjoyment of time passing around you but not touching you. I can recall whole days spent at the beach with my friends, or riding my horse in the Santa Barbara foothills or biking around the harbor in summer time Maine with exceptional clarity. I wasn't thinking about what I'd do next. I did not consult a day planner or check my voice mail. I was simply living the splendor of life, as it presented itself to me, without wondering about the next step. That alchemical process of letting life unfold around you, rather than forcing it to happen in particular way, is an area of childhood I miss deeply. As a writer, it's important to consider a predetermined outline, form, structure and style. But, if I leave out that conjuring metamorphosis of allowing the words to 'will themselves to be told', my work will be shallow and lacking in passion. I need to find the balance to create a structurally sound, and still emotionally evocative, piece of work. I also need to feel the same balance in my everyday life; paying my bills on time, being a responsible community member and showing sound judgement, while still finding freedom to just allow unplanned experiences wash over me, charming me and inspiring me to continue to grow.

I have no idea where Professor Lichtenstein is today. I know that she's no longer at Wheaton, but I don't remember her first name to Google her. The lessons she taught me, however, have stayed with me ever since. I believe that I'm a better writer, and a far better human being, because of talks we'd have. She inspired me to continue writing, and although I'm not a bestselling author as she'd once predicted, I can't imagine experiencing my life without using the words she encouraged me to find. So, Professor Lichtenstein, wherever you are, thank you....thank you from the silly, preppy girl who wore an awful lot of pink, far too much Laura Ashley and carried a floral tote instead of a backpack. Thank you for teaching me to be my own person, living in and appreciating today's gifts. I am a stronger, kinder, and more intelligent person because of you.

The Time Between

But what minutes! Count them by sensation, and not by calendars, and each moment is a day. ~Benjamin Disraeli

As a writer, one of the of skills I find the most fascinating is an author's ability to account for the non-linear aspects of time. Talented writers can express this through flash-backs, through moving in multiple directions of a character's imagination or simply by writing with the fluidity of ocean currents, moving from one time to another. Not long ago, I read that "time is linear, but human behavior is circular". Moving between times in a character's life, or moving between characters living at different points in history, is an intriguing method in story telling. As time becomes less fixed and more movable, the characters can relate to one another, and the story can be told, by unwrapping each layer of scarf covering the singular core of the protagonist. As time becomes less of a fixed point in the literary horizon, the author is free to explore what actions happened before she came on the scene, as well as to look ahead as to the ramifications of an action years later. These perspectives can tell a story more deeply, while not boring the reader with dull facts about 'what happened before'.

Two books that used this concept with artistry and finesse are "Labor Day" by Joyce Maynard and "Dreaming in French" by Megan McAndrew. Both of these brilliant, insightful novels revolve around a young adolescent, struggling to come to terms with their own lives 'in between' childhood and adulthood, while still dealing with life changing events that forever bind their existence into a time 'before' and 'after'. The central story in the novels themselves can be looked as the "time in between"...the days during which everything changed. Yet, both of these extraordinary stories use time in a non-linear fashion; to help the authors to give background information that isn't dull, but is exceptionally relevant. Both novels explore the deep seated feelings of not belonging, of wanting one's parents to be 'normal' and of being uncertain of one's place in an increasingly adult world. Both of these stories tell, in the eyes of dramatically different main characters, the impact of feeling out of place, of not being a child any longer, but also not being ready for adulthood. These novels accomplish the feat of combining innocence with unyielding knowledge, of being equally balanced between a character's intelligence and inexperience. Both are gifts of instinctual genius....to capture the minds, thoughts, deliberations and allowances of the 13 year old mind during exceptional circumstances. I couldn't put either book down once I began reading.

The time in between childhood and adulthood seems to go on forever, when a person is young. I remember being 13 and feeling desperate to be 16. Then, at 16, I was desperate to be 18. I can materialize my adolescent self and feel her frustration, her joys, her insecurities, her gifts and her fears. I can conjure her up with a photograph, and want to look into her eyes, admonishing her to cherish every moment of youth, encouraging her not to cry over boys who will be forgotten or slights that will vanish. I want to whisper to her the secret of "you may want to move on right now...you may not like the way you look or the way your life is, but there will come a time that you would do anything for five minutes back in these shoes....". I want to give young Ellen a hug, make her a cup of tea, and without giving away too much of the adventure that lies ahead, assuring her that all will not only be well....it will be far better than well. I wish I could allow young Ellen to relax, to breathe and to imprint every single moment of youth on herself so that I could better recall it with clarity now. I would like her to see that her life will not be over when she sees the first gray hair, that her hopes and dreams will far surpass anything she could imagined for herself and that time itself will become her friend and companion. Time becomes one's medicine to help get over loss, one's ally in making choices and one's vault in which to bank one's precious memories.

I would also like to encourage my younger self not to discount the memories of older people. As a child and a young teen, I remember listening to the stories of my grandmother and great-aunts as they recalled their childhoods growing up in Winnipeg, Manitoba. It seemed to always be cold. It appeared as if everyone was always fighting, and that there was never enough money. Beyond that, I simply didn't listen. I would hear the same grievances rolled out every year, and the same grudges being held from infractions that occurred when they were my own age. I simply didn't listen with the rapt attention to the stories of our family because I thought these retellings, these hashings over and these tribulations were "boring" and "done". What I failed to realize was that my grandmother's recollections of her own adolescence were windows into the universal spirit of all coming of age stories. I wish I'd understood that within these squabbles lay buried family histories I'd never come to explain or perceive. In Grandma's own 'time between' would lie the answers to my own. I was even given the gift of non-linear time to explore and to enrich, but I wasn't ready to use the gift when it was presented to me.

"The time between" is an alluring concept to deduce. It can be a literary device. It can be a way of explaining moments that seem to stand out between two fixed points. It can also be a way to comprehend those times in a person's life in which she feels suspended between two sides of bridge. Underneath the bridge appears a bottomless chasm. On one side is the familiar, the known and the learned. But that side has begun to crumble and we have no choice but to cross the rickety, shaky bridge ahead. What is on the far side is shrouded in mist and we can't see ahead. Yet, we press, carefully, tentatively pressing on with each step, and hoping the sun will break through the fog that lies ahead.

If you happen to peer into the clouds and see what awaits, find a hush within yourself....and ask questions. You never know what the answers will be. I'm sure they will surprise you.

100th Blog Post: Inspiration & Gratitude

"Enthusiasm is excitement with inspiration, motivation and a pinch of creativity." ~ Bo Bennett

As I begin my 100th blog post, I am compelled to reflect upon how very much the Preppy Yogini has meant to me. This outlet has been a defining influence on taking the next steps on the path of my life. I have been immeasurably blessed by the love, interest and thoughts shared by readers (even those I'm related to!), and want to express my thanks to any and all who have taken an interest in my random, rambling thoughts. As I've been reading over my previous 99 posts, I'm not only thankful I've had this medium for learning to write more fluently, but for what I've learned about myself...my own history and my thought processes. Writing this blog has been a window that I'm grateful to have to gaze along my psyche. My humble gratitude aside, I would like to touch on just a few areas in which I have found my own personal growth and on which, I am continuing to discover my voice.

YOGA, it will come as no surprise, has been a defining aspect of my life. I began taking yoga classes almost 10 years ago, when a dear friend begged me to come to class with her. This invitation was given at a dinner party, over a glass of wine. She wasn't positive that Yoga was going to be 'her thing' but wanted to have me along for moral support. As fate would have it, my friend became a serious and dedicated runner, and I fell in love with Yoga. I began to study in earnest, and found extraordinary teachers to aid me in my quest to learn more. I found a confidence in myself and, for the first time in my life, began to look at my body without self-criticism and disgust at my lack of perfection, but with appreciation for all I could learn to do. When I was diagnosed with cancer in 2003, and then again with another serious illness that landed me in intensive care in 2007, Yoga was the single most critical part of my life in helping my recovery. Not only was I in excellent physical condition to withstand the harsh demands my weakened body was making on me, but my mind knew calming, restorative and peaceful techniques to aid me in some of the most invasive time and procedures. After my initial illness 5 years ago, I began my Registered Yoga Teacher training, and I have found it to be the best decision I could have made. Not only has this enabled me to give back and teach many of the thoughts and techniques that have blessed me, but I have discovered that in teaching, in sharing what I've learned, I myself have been incredibly blessed in return by my students' own journeys.

READING WONDERFUL BOOKS has been a touchstone in my life from the time I could pick up my first Dr. Seuss book. Being able to share and review books that have inspired me, entertained me, taught me lessons or simply made an impact on me, has been a large part of this website. In my mind and heart, a book that touches my life changes me forever. I carry that story, those characters and those ideas with me, and they become a part of who I am. As a lifelong bibliophile, I believe I embody Webster's definition of "a lover of books". I am a passionate, voracious reader. Like a connoisseur of fine wines, I enjoy basking in the moment of each high quality literary novel I read. My love of books has seen me through many moves throughout my childhood, my years being away in schools far from home, as a new Army wife in a foreign country, and throughout each new phase of my life. Books have been my companions, my friends, my teachers and my inspiration. I have discovered that, just as my quest for elegance and eloquence in yoga has spurred me on to keep movitated in my learning process, so has the hunt for extroardinary novels. It has been an unbridbled pleasure to be able to share what I've learned from those I have found exceptional.

From the moment I could pick up a pencil and scribble my first thoughts onto a piece of scratch paper at my little next next to my mother's, I knew I wanted to write. I had thoughts I was compelled to commit to paper. My mother and grandmother bound my first little books themselves and started me on my quest to learn how to truly express myself WRITING. Although I have never been a professional writer, it's always been my life goal to establish a career as one. I've been fortunate to have had the chance to incorporate writing into every other position I've held. As a teacher and Director of Education, I wrote and produced plays for my students, using historical events as the jumping off point. I discovered what many good teachers know: that children learn by *doing*. By acting in plays written about a specific area of significance, these students remembered what they learned because they made the play their own. Writing has also given me a philosophical and emotional outlet during both difficult times and joyful ones. By expressing myself through the written word, I've been able to share the passion I feel for meaningful subjects in my life, and I've been able to work through painful emotions during times of great stress. To quote Arthur Polotnik, "You write to communicate to the hearts and minds of others what's burning inside you. And we edit to let the fire show through the smoke." Writing has given me a map of my life, that I'm able to read in both directions.

And, so I feel profoundly grateful for my first 100 blog posts. I look forward to writing more, to reading more, to deepening my yoga practice. I look forward to all of the wonders that await me, and am fully prepared for the tears and laughter that lie ahead. My thanks, my best wishes and my undying appreciation for being such patient readers.

What things there are to write, if one could only write them! My mind is full of gleaming thought; gay moods and mysterious, moth-like meditations hover in my imagination, fanning their painted wings. But always the rarest, those streaked with azure and the deepest crimson, flutter away beyond my reach. ~Logan Pearsall Smith

Alter Egos

The greatest discovery of my generation is that a human being can alter his life by altering his attitudes of mind. ~ William James

The use of an alter-ego has long been fuel for fiction, both literary and on film. Where would Batman be without Bruce Wayne? Where would Spiderman be without Peter Parker? Or, even Superman as Clark Kent? These superheroes would be mobbed, swarmed and be unable to function in society without their 'mild mannered' counterparts, masquerading as simple citizens. By having an alter-ego, living the 'normal' life, these superheroes are able to exist undetected by both friend and foe. They're able to listen to others, in the average world around them, and glean information that could prove incredibly helpful in their crime fighting efforts. They might have extraordinary powers, amazing gadgets and unique skill sets, but when it comes right down to the hard facts, being tapped into a social network has its benefits to their superhero lives.

One question has always haunted me, however: is it Superman who needs Clark Kent, or is it the other way around? When I honestly think about the fact of Superman just wanting to be a 'normal newspaper reporter', I have to smile. I imagine that Clark Kent would get awfully bored not being able to fly, not allowing himself to soar high above ground. I would be so bold as to allow myself to think that Clark Kent would not make it without Superman....and that he needs his superhero side to shine. After all...how many people really like Clark Kent just for being the 'nice guy'? Not many. I would imagine that, whatever his protests to the contrary, Clark Kent likes being Superman. He needs to be Superman. It fulfills the essential part of who he's missing. The heroic, well loved, popular, successful part of the man he wants to be *is* Superman.

A film I would have missed entirely, had I not been the mother of a 17 year old son, is "Fight Club", starring Brad Pitt and Edward Norton. This movie is an amazingly complex story, containing twists and turns I never could have predicted. Edward Norton's character is much like the stereotypical "Clark Kent". He's nobody memorable. He lives a dull, meaningless life and has trouble making connections with people. And yet, he meets (or rather, creates) his alter ego, played by Brad Pitt, and he befriends his other self. Where Edward Norton is soft spoken, predictable, conformist and yuppie, Brad Pitt's side of him is brash, bohemian, dangerous and free thinking. The essential aspect of this movie, the piece I found so compelling, was that the alter ego is viewed as a clearly different personification. In a brilliant bit of storytelling writer Chuck Palahniuk creates two distinct lives; both belonging to the same person. This defining difference is clearly what delineates the character of "Tyler Durden" from his fellow alter ego literary figures: Tyler Durden does not realize he is, or has, an alter ego. As Tyler Durden comes to the realization that he is living the lives of two exceptionally different men, he says, in one of my favorite quotes from the film, "People do it everyday, they talk to themselves... they see themselves as they'd like to be, they don't have the courage you have, to just run with it."

The idea of having an alter ego is one that many of us have had from time to time. When I was growing up, I wanted to be Samantha from "Bewitched". I wanted to be able to twitch my nose to cast a spell to solve problems, just as she did. I imagined myself living in a beautiful home, having adorable children, but knowing that, at any moment, I could give my nose a twitch, and have an elegant meal prepared. (I never understood Darren's hatred of Samantha's magic, but that's fuel for another post). Although I can't live as a suburban mother, with a hidden talent, as Samantha did, I do find that being able to write as the Preppy Yogini does give me a hint of what that feeling must be like...to a very small extent. Writing has been my creative outlet, my homage to the people who are far more intelligent and inventive than I am. It has given me my other world to explore....that can grow above my mundane life as a mom and a yoga teacher. I will never be Superman. I will never be Tyler Durden, with an entire separate being living a fantasy life of which I could only imagine. But, I can write hoping to become the embodiment of the traits I most admire.

I understand I will never fly like Superman, twitch my nose like Samantha, or create an entirely separate existence for myself, but I can attempt to be more creative, more inspiring and more thoughtful. I can hope to be kinder, gentler and more patient. By writing, both my blogs and in my fiction work, I'm able to work through all my own short comings, and hopefully, succeed more fully as a human being. If I can write it, I can attempt to be it.