Love itself describes its own perfect. Be speechless and listen.
…commentary on the orbit
Love itself describes its own perfect. Be speechless and listen.
Out of nowhere El-D announced today that he is done being El-D. This is perfectly fine by me. Henceforth he will be called BeauJeau. Just thought you should know why there’s a new man in my life.
So anyway, I somehow convinced BeauJeau to do an acroyoga class with me last night. Full disclosure: beer and wine were involved before hand – not a lot, but some, which probably had something to do his agreeability.
As a yoga teacher I feel it’s my duty to advise against drinking alcohol before practice. In other words, don’t try this at home kiddies!
Before we started with the acrobatics, we did passive partner work on the illiotibial band, which was quite enjoyable. Relaxing on the mat and having my IT bands fondled was the best part of the class as far as I’m concerned. Alas, the aggressively cheerful and energetic couple leading the class insisted we get off the mat and get to doing some balance work.
BeauJeau was the base, I was the flyer. I tried being his base at one point, but that didn’t work at all. I’m too little and he’s too big. He made a good foundation though. At one point he lifted me up with his feet while I struck a flying superman pose. Then I did the same pose balanced in his hands. I was Jennifer Grey to his Patrick Swayze…
We saw the writing on the wall
And we felt this magical fantasy
Now with passion in our eyes
There’s no way we could disguise it secretly
So we take each others hand
‘Cause we seem to understand the urgency…
Yes I swear it’s the truth.
…or that could just be the alcohol talking.
At one point in class I partnered with the instructor who somehow sent me doing somersaults in the air before I fully understood what was happening.
In BeauJeau’s words, the experience was summed up as “learning to do cirque du soleil.”
In my words, “I think I may be too old for this.”
In the final analysis, it was ridiculous and fun and nobody got hurt…unless you count the aftermath of today’s sore muscles – his abs, my biceps. Overall, it was a physical study in body mechanics, and in power/surrender, cooperation, trust, balance, and boundaries.
Yoga is yummy in so many different ways.
One cat just leads to another.
Don’t we love to turn our little blue world upside down?
*Yogi Goaty Goodness*
I’m not making this up.
It’s something that exists in the world now.
Nosowitz, D. (August 29, 2016). Goat Yoga: It’s Yoga with Goats. Modern Farmer. Online
And within the course of a week life went abruptly from this
This was the first summer in a bunch of years I didn’t teach a summer course, which freed up a considerable amount of time, energy, and brain power. I know exactly where all that extra time, energy and brain power went because I am still keeping my weird little daily spreadsheet to track the time spent on my goals/resolutions. For the month of July it went like this:
When I showed El-D the spreadsheet last night he said, “Geeze, you could work for the government. The engineers would love you.” They really like spreadsheets too apparently. And then he asked, “How many hours did you spend putting numbers in your spreadsheet?”
Hmph. A couple seconds a day! The spreadsheet, as lovely as it is, isn’t the goal, it’s just a tool to help me understand where my time and attention go. It also gives me insight into how I flow across time. For example, fifteen minutes of meditation is forever long. Sitting around doing nothing but listening to my own thoughts is horrendous most days. Truly. Sitting down to write at a computer – not much better and sometimes worse. Sitting down to write on paper, doable and sometimes enjoyable, and sometimes absolutely necessary. I flow way differently in the garden. I’ll set a timer inside then step out the door and become completely absorbed by everything until I get hunger pains or it starts raining or somebody shows up and stares at me expectantly, or something else happens that draws me back into a world where there is such a thing as a clock ticking. Today I disappeared into a game of peek-a-boo with a praying mantis for who knows how long? Anyway, I guess the point is time is a weird concept. Or maybe it’s that spreadsheets are great.
“You haven’t the time? Time is all you have, your life energy to spend as you will.”
This book was not my idea. Me and Earl and the Dying Girl was one member’s choice for next month’s discussion in a book club I was recently asked to join. This is exactly the sort of reason I generally avoid clubs: people inevitably want you to spend a whole bunch of your time doing stuff you don’t want to do…like reading about a high school girl dying of cancer. But I begrudgingly decided to just do it because I like these book club people and because I am working to expand my repertoire of kidlit.
The story revolves around Greg (the “Me” in the title). During his senior year of high school he is guilt-tripped into hanging out with Rachel, the dying girl, by his mother who is friends with Rachel’s mom. Then Greg’s best friend and “co-worker” in film-making, Earl, starts hanging out with them too. Hilarity ensues. They begin working on a new film, but after several false starts, one involving sock monkeys, they decide to take a different approach:
“We were inspired by You Tube. God help us. Like whiny boring people all over the world, we decided that the best way of expressing ourselves was just to stare into the camera and talk.”
The whole book was delightfully funny. On purpose, even. It had this whole meta-analysis narrative embedded in the story that fixed a lot of the problems that a book about a dying girl is bound to have for the reader.
The author, Jesse Andrews, nailed the description of the social atmosphere of high school. There was a fight scene — well if you could call it that; it was more of a get-beat-up scene — that summoned images of Lord of the Flies in my mind. It managed to be both oddly disturbing and amusing. The characters, even the minor characters, were quirky, multidimensional and layered. The view of other characters from Greg’s eyes were along these lines:
“Mr. McCarthy had a look on his face of deep concern. It was definitely out of character for him and it was sort of distracting me. It was like when a dog makes a human-style face at you and you’re temporarily thrown off guard by it. You’re like, “Whoa, this dog is feeling a mixture of nostalgic melancholy and proprietary warmth. I was not aware that a dog was capable of an emotion of that complexity.”
And speaking of emotions of complexity, last night as I finished the book, I sat in bed a confused mess – literally crying and laughing at the same time over the ending while marveling over life and death in general.
And this is exactly the sort of reason I join book clubs.
My pickle journey began on a crisp January day this year. I was flipping though Annie’s Heirloom Seed Catalogue, while fantasizing about warm weather and all the stuff I wanted to grow in the garden.
Me: “Hey! We could grow corn and make our own popcorn!!”
El-D Squidward: “No. The deer will eat it.”
Me: “Then we need to plant enough for the deer to eat too! What could be better than homegrown popcorn!?”
El-D Squidward: “Being dead…or anything else.” (ok, maybe he didn’t say that part exactly, but the sentiment was expressed in the look he gave me.)
I continued flipping pages in the catalogue and came to the page with cucumbers. Homemade pickles! I kept this thought to myself, lest I be told a plague of cucumber-eating locust were expected this year.
I pondered pickles for few months, then ordered the seeds for Boston Pickling Cucumbers. The date was March 24th.
I planted them on May 6th. Little fuzzy plants began pulling themselves out of the ground a few weeks later.
El-D saw them coming up and built them a fancy trellis. On May 11th it occurred to me that I really needed to be growing dill if I was going to make pickles, so I planted some.
As the cucumber blossoms started turning into fruit, I realized that this pickle thing might acutally happen. The search for recipes began in earnest. I watched the Good Eats episode on pickle making as part of my research because Alton Brown is THE MAN.
After painstaking research, I finally decided on Curbstone Valley Farm’s Classic Dill Pickle recipe. Four stores later, I had managed to acquire almost all the ingredients. (Where the heck does one find juniper berries??).
Today, pickle preparation began. Today alone was a 5 hour labor of love.
I have the scalded skin to show for it. Seven months after the pickle idea popped into my head, I have this…
<cue angels singing here>
Sing it with me y’all!
…and now I only have three weeks to wait. This batch will be ready August 2. *sigh*
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