the woman – Page 5 – the chelsea chronicles

I am a writer

This week, to bolster my chances of keeping the goals/resolutions I set for myself, I attended two yoga intention setting workshops.

The first workshop was held at Capitol Hill Yoga on New Year’s Day. I had no idea what to expect. I went in thinking, “drink less bottled water, be more outwardly and innerly graceful, finish writing my novel.” I came out with my higher purpose.

CHY owner Stacey DeGrasse initially threw me off-guard by explaining we weren’t there to set resolutions but to determine our sankalpa. What the hell is a sankalpa, I thought. Now that I know, let me explain. While a resolution is a determination to do something, a sankalpa is a vow we make to support our higher purpose. Your sankalpa has to be heartfelt, authentic, easily stated in a simple phrase, and able to be stated in the present as if it is already fulfilled. Stacey recommended to the group, a mix of people who had never made a resolution to those who set numerous ones each year, that we focus on only one sankalpa. But definitely no more than two or three. (I mean, really, one? This is DC after all.)

It didn’t take but a millisecond for me to realize my sankalpa. While the action required to achieve it is the goal I went into the session with (to finish writing my novel) my sankalpa is: I am a writer. Once it was clear, I felt energized. I did an hour of hot yoga to seal the deal and came out eager to get to my computer. I’ve barely left its side since then, clocking about 6,000 words (and hours of editing) over the last few days. Not that they’re all quality words, but in the moment I’m all about quantitative progress.

I almost canceled workshop number two, held at Flow Yoga Center. When you know your higher purpose, you know your higher purpose, right? However, teacher April Puciata’s workshop was also valuable in helping me root my sankalpa. Her session actually felt like a continuation of the first workshop. She walked us through a deep meditation from which I emerged with my sankalpa firmly planted in my core. I am a writer. I am a writer. I am a writer.

And I got a little nap in too.

mirror, mirror on the yogic wall

Since having a life-balance-happiness epiphany in a yoga class in New York my friend Margaret brought me to in August, I’ve been trying to incorporate more of the practice into my life.

My first thought was to test a few different studios, taking advantage of the “one month unlimited” deals that many offer for new students. While studio hopping made me feel a bit of a yoga slut, it did expose me to some different places for relatively cheap. (They suck you in, make you like them, then triple the price, but it’s all in the name of inner harmony, right?)

My first stop was a small studio-not-to-be-named in Columbia Heights. The commute was awful. Parking was worse. And many who practice there eschew leg shaving. And some, deodorant. I know it sounds shallow, but I like my yoga pretty.

Next I tried Flow in Logan Circle. I like it there. A lot. Except its fiscally challenging location: next to Whole Foods and across the street from Lululemon. Though in a private deal I made with myself when I splurged on a regularly priced full month of unlimited classes, I can only go into Whole Foods if feeding my children is dependent upon it. And no more Lulu visits unless I forget to pack yoga pants. Unintentionally forget, that is.

Capitol Hill Yoga offers a pleasant setting and challenging classes that aren’t over-crowded, but the schedule rarely seems to work with mine. (Though for those who have workplace flexibility, I highly recommend the 4:00 class on Mondays taught by Joan.)

Last week, Nancy and her neighbor Riikka invited me to join them for hot yoga at Mind the Mat. And when I say invited, I mean I crashed on their plans to do yoga and then cook a fabulous holiday dinner. (But I made up for inserting myself by contributing my new favorite dish, Leek, Shiitake and Truffle Risotto.)

And this is where the mirror comes in.

I’d never done yoga in front of a mirror. After four relatively short months of yoga practice, I was feeling pretty good. In my heart, my “Warrior Two” is solid. I gracefully move from “Reverse the Warrior” to “Triangle Pose” with ease. I look strong and determined and lean. But the mirror told a different story… I was like who is this clumsy, uneven person trying to do yoga in front of me? Yeah. Right. That’s me.

But it’s not how you look, it’s how you feel. And I felt great after class. The ultimate and universal beauty advice applies across the board. Did you put on a few extra pounds over the holidays? But enjoy yourself doing it? It’s all good. Maybe you aren’t any closer to becoming a yoga instructor than you are into fitting into the jeans formerly known as your favorite pair. But if you are living honestly and happily, you’ll glow on the outside.

Just remind me never to bring a love interest to yoga class.

the fours have it

My unlucky number has always been four. And today, I turn it in duplicate. (How the hell did I get to be 44?) On top of it all, I have to spend most of this age in the year of 2014? What does this mean for the next 12 months?

I don’t even remember where and when the number four became a harbinger of doom. But we did make up recently during the playoffs. I was about to eat a fourth salted caramel with David Ortiz up to bat with the bases loaded. I started to stop myself, but couldn’t pull my arm back fast enough. I had just bitten into the delicious confection when he hit a grand slam. Which, by the way, is four runs.

With that spirit in mind, I refuse to feel jinxed. Whether today and the 364 days that follow end up as I imagine, plan, hope them to be, or something totally different, I will embrace each moment. Love. Laugh. Live. Create joy. Buy the expensive serum to ward off wrinkles. Wear the amazing push up bras (happy birthday to me) that defy what I know about my anatomy. And face it all with strength, grace and a sense of humor. Maybe just fewer salted caramels than I consumed in year 43.

photo shoot saturday

I was very honored when the wonderful women of Periwinkle asked me to join other local bloggers for a photo shoot today for their holiday look book.

As part of my effort to encourage the opening of an outpost on Capitol Hill, I said yes. Plus, who doesn’t want to be dressed in festive attire to have a photo taken?

So this morning, with my hair expertly styled by Mickey Bolek and my yoga pants on (for downward facing dog plans later in the day) I set out for my modeling gig.

The shop was decorated for the season and mimosa offerings graced the counter. Owner Elizabeth Mason was decked out in an amazing fur vest and had her own camera in hand, taking shots aside the photographer.

For my first look, I wore skinny jeans, a tunic blouse and black cardigan with leather detail on the sleeves. Kitten heels, bling and a wreath in hand, I played the part of holiday shopper.

A surprise second look may become my birthday dress. They squeezed me into a black v-neck Trina Turk dress, more bling, and my favorite accessory, a glass of champagne.

Overall it was a festive morning, and I can’t wait until the catalog comes out. I took the early shift, so I also look forward to seeing how the bloggers who arrived later in the morning were styled.

In the meantime, if you need a holiday outfit or just a gift for a friend (or your favorite blogger) head to Periwinkle. I can’t promise the treats and champagne will be available, but you can still soak up the season and maybe get some shopping done.

lovable losers no more?

I’m taking a break from the blogging hiatus to say, wow, the Red Sox are World Series champions once again.

I don’t mean to gloat. If Facebook is any meter, I realize many of you are “sick” of the Red Sox winning “all the time.” I get it. Three titles in ten years is not too shabby. But it’s still hard to undo decades of suffering, passed from generation to generation of New Englanders. I recall a conversation 16 years ago when my friends Amy and Thom announced they were pregnant, and Thom said, “I want a girl, but I won’t get one because my teams never win.” (As a matter of fact, they did have a girl.) I share this example to illustrate how New Englanders think. Three World Series titles will help in our collective recovery but you can’t just shed overnight a mentality built on a foundation of disappointment after disappointment.

With that said, on my drive in to work this morning I thought to myself, I just have to accept it. We fully put to rest any lingering impacts of the Curse of the Bambino with our first World Series clinch in Boston since 1918. We are the 21st century’s answer to the decade in the 20th century when the Sox won titles in 1912, 1915, 1916, and 1918. Maybe it isn’t a jink to say “I think my team is going to win tonight.” Would the outcome of last night’s game been any different if I had gone to bed in the 7th inning? Worn a different color bra? Gone to the game in person?

Of course the answer is no, but if 80 years from now, the Sox are in a drought rivaled only by the one we endured until 2004, I take full responsibility.

friday the 13th

I’m wicked superstitious.

I do not step on sidewalk cracks or pick up pennies that aren’t heads up. You won’t find me anywhere near the underbelly of a ladder. The number 13 is all the more ominous because its digits (1+ 3) equal my unlucky number 4. I don’t remember exactly when 4 took on that role in my life but 4s and multiples thereof are to be avoided. Well, except 12 because 1 + 2 = 3, which is my lucky number and has been since Steve Sax won Rookie of the Year in 1982.

Don’t even get me started on baseball. When the Red Sox won the World Series in 2004 it was all due to an elaborate block building routine Jack and I had before the start of each game. Picture frames aligned on the mantle? Check. Lucky underwear? Check. Unlucky t-shirt? Chuck.

It was suggested I remain indoors today. I replied with, “you mean my house with the AC that malfunctioned just as temperatures soared north of 90?” In this same house where I retain ownership of a broken mirror (with about 3 of the 7 years bad luck worked off) in my bedroom because it’s possible (though unconfirmed) this is the same mirror my great grandmother peered at herself in everyday for 60+ years?

(Now that I think of it, maybe the broken mirror in my bedroom reflects what’s wrong with my sex life.)

In the spirit of progress, I have relaxed my position as it relates to black cats. I mean, I love cats. And one moved in down the street from me, so we had a little talk the other day, came to a mutual understanding, and she won’t cross my path if I don’t look at her with disdain.

As for addressing today, 2013 has been one giant Friday the 13th, so bring it on. My fingers are crossed everything will be fine.

9-11

I tested myself the other day. Can I think about 9-11 without my eyes tearing up?

The answer is no.

My personal story is not especially tragic. I didn’t lose a loved one. I didn’t spend many tension-filled hours anguishing over the fate of friends, family or colleagues. I wasn’t trapped in the rubble, waiting for rescue workers and did not give birth waiting to get into the ER. I even had the assurance that my loved ones outside of Washington, DC knew I was safe thanks to a hastily cobbled together phone tree.

I don’t need a never forget bumper sticker to remind me of 9-11. How could I ever forget the sense of fear, confusion, and panic, normal emotions on any given day for a 9-month pregnant woman about to have her first baby, suddenly on steroids that crisp blue-skied day when our world irrevocably changed.

Memories of 9-11 and my impending foray into motherhood are forever linked. I remember the lilac maternity shirt I was wearing as we evacuated the Senate. I remember the pressure of the contractions as I waddled to Brigid’s apartment and how I (successfully) willed them to stop. And as I watched with horror the footage from the day, I remember the impromptu speech Congressman Steny Hoyer made to an apartment full of young House and Senate staffers from different offices, different parties. I remember how I held my pregnant belly and took his words to heart.

I remember the moment when I realized the passengers of United Flight 93 saved my life and the life of my unborn baby.

It sounds trite to say that I feared what kind of world awaited my baby. Every mother worries about that. Just because my kid was born four days after September 11 doesn’t set me apart. Mothers about to give birth today have equally real and present dangers to fear, just as mothers have from the beginning of time.

But with the benefit of 12 years behind me, I can see that this is the kind of world my child was born into: a world where friends help each other, where a few kind words can sustain you for the day, where opportunity abounds and freedom reigns. We might not always agree with our government and the decisions it makes, but we can express our frustrations at the ballot box. We are more tuned in to unattended packages on the metro, suspicious looking envelopes and what we pack in our carry-on bags. The world is markedly different than it was on September 10, 2001. But it’s the only world my son knows and as he grows, hopefully he will continue to make it a better place, as he has done for me every day since September 11, 2001, when really what he filled me with was not fear but hope.

new york, new york

A funny thing happened on my way to a business meeting.

I fell in love with New York City.

I’ve long held her in high regard for her street cred as a “real” city, her grittiness, her style. While I might hold a grudge against her for her taste in baseball teams, there’s an elegance to her that has nothing to do with Park Avenue and everything to do with her recovery from 9-11 and pizza by the slice at any hour of the day.

But with that said, New York always intimidated me.

I’m stylish by DC standards, but in New York, my clothes feel commonplace. Likewise, I’m creative and artistic in our nation’s capital, but in New York, I feel stilted and unimaginative.

That all changed on this trip, beginning with a simple subway ride.

I’ve only ever been on the New York subway with natives to hold my hand. I don’t know why I was so scared to use this system solo considering I’ve mastered public transportation in foreign cities where I don’t speak the language. But once I had my ticket in hand and some sense of assurance that I was on a train moving in the right direction, it was a piece of cake. I didn’t even mind the crazy man who sat next to me, grabbed my forearm in a friendly sort of way, and exclaimed, “take care now! It was great to see you today!” Part of me is disappointed in myself for all the long and expensive taxi rides I endured in the past out of fear of New York’s public transit.

My destination was the Upper West Side apartment belonging to my friend Margaret, who as the evening progressed, proved herself to be the mayor of her neighborhood. She knew someone everywhere we went and even managed to make a new friend. Before the night was over, the ease with which she navigated her corner of the city turned this sprawling metropolis into a small European town.

And I’m a sucker for small European towns.

I spent the time between meetings today daydreaming about when I can take Margaret up on her offer to use her apartment anytime I want. (I almost went home with her spare keys to facilitate my inevitable return.) I’m aching for a walk in Central Park on a crisp autumn day. I yearn for the solitude a city of 8 million residents can provide. I want to find a good people watching spot and sit for hours, maybe developing some characters for the novel stuck in my head. I want to master the subway and go back to Margaret’s yoga studio.

But mostly I crave a late night slice of pizza.

and I’m off…

A week ago, I was going to do a post on summer beauty. But I was too hot to think and realized it’s all pointless when it feels impossible to look fresh and put together in the DC heat and humidity.

Then last night I was going to write a post on packing. But let’s be honest, I suck at it. I mean, I’m good at folding and organizing and remembering everything (and I do mean everything) but I always bring one pair of shoes too many. At least this time I practically (almost willingly) left my precious hair dryer behind, but I more than made up for it, as evidenced by the grunt the driver made when loading my deceivingly small but heavy suitcase into the trunk.

Five dresses (think easy breezy, not work), four pairs of shoes (not including the travel pair), three workout outfits (maybe overly ambitious), two lipsticks (not including lip gloss) and one bathing suit (just in case) later, I’m in a car on the way to the airport.

And where am I going? I almost forgot to mention. San Francisco until Friday. Napa for the weekend. Enough said.

This trip to SF that I used to take quarterly already feels different. For starters, it’s the first time I’m not building a long weekend in wine country around a business trip in the city. Then there’s the whole not flying Virgin thing. (I’m not breaking up with you, Richard Branson… Your flights were just so much more expensive.)

The bottom line is I’m ready to get out of dodge and while Northern California apparently is not welcoming me with the cool weather embrace I crave, I’m thinking that a “heat wave” in San Francisco holds a different meaning from one here in DC.

I may have packed poorly, but I’m getting away. And I hope Napa has a lot of wine to help me drink to that.

getting dirty

I have really been wanting to get down and dirty lately.

(Get your mind out of the gutter. I don’t mean that way. At least not with you.)

Every day since my big gardening weekend three weeks ago, I have looked at my backyard with a wistful eye. But even though my enemy, WebMD, recommends gardening as a gentle, stress-free activity a concussed person can undertake, I’m not thinking it would be wise at this time. After all, the authors of that suggestion have not seen my backyard.

I need to pull ivy. I need to dig through the hard red clay that passes for top soil in this region to make holes large enough to plant shrubs. I need to mulch. Did I mention I need to pull ivy? Oh, and I have to contend with my other enemy, poison ivy, which has such power over me as to render me unable to recognize it in the wild, even though I rationally know what it looks like.

But when tasks like warming up a bowl of soup, driving to work, and reading the newspaper still leave me exhausted and lightheaded (by the way, a CT scan today revealed my head is normal) it’s hard to imagine I will beat the incoming heat and humidity to get done the gardening I want to do before summer’s end.

Which makes me sad. And makes me even more determined to get my hands in the dirt. You think I’m a girly girl and I am. But I also like to sweat and work hard and get my boots muddy.

Alas, for now the only mud in my life coats my brain.