Bitch Island 🧟‍♀️🏝

A couple of my girlfriends and I have this bit; apparently every divorced guy was married to the Wicked Witch of the West. Every. Single. One. While I’m sure some of these women have been cold/difficult/nagging/insert your fave adjective here, I’m guessing they’re not ALL that terrible. Not to mention that these divorced chicks have PLENTY to say about their ex husbands. So where are all these awful women hanging out?? I mean, while we all occasionally meet psycho bitches, I have yet to encounter mass herds of them cruising the streets (unless you live on the Upper East Side of Manhattan).

I like to joke that these female monsters are all living on Bitch Island. That since no one can really attest to their existence, they must be hiding out en masse in some probably exotic locale, laughing and drinking champagne in their Lulu Lemon outfits and Birkin bags, purchased with their alimony settlements. Trading stories about how their ex hubbies sucked in bed while thinking they were Ron Jeremy. How listening to them talk about sports was like being forced to hear the world’s most annoying ringtone over and over. How their increasingly softening bellies were an embarrassment to their Soul Cycled wives. This is what I picture taking place on Bitch Island, where Adderoll is dispensed in gum ball machines and PMS warrants free massages round the clock. Estrogen patches arranged artfully in pretty baskets in the en suite bathrooms.  And there is a special staff whose job is solely to bathe these women in compliments, while actually bathing them in a scented mineral bath. On Bitch Island no one has to pretend to give a shit about their mother in law, or the dreadful coworker and his wife. No one needs to pick up vile, stretched out, yellowed underwear off the floor. These bitches are done with playing the good little wifey, and can let their true inner demon fly. They’re being badmouthed anyway, so who cares?? They may as well do whatever they want. After all, such is the true nature of the Bitch. And since like attracts like, they love to congregate on an island designed for them by them. They aren’t bitchy because they’re unhappy, which is usually the case. Nope! They’re assholes because they just damn well feel like it. No more pretenses. No more phony role playing. They know they’re being dragged through the mud but they couldn’t care less. The inhabitants of Bitch Island are immune to the opinion of others. Feelings aren’t considered cool there. However, selfishness, greed, materialism, and frigidity are.

When I recount certain tales from the Ex Wife Anthology of Meanness to my friend Shira, she wisely counters with , “Oh please, I’d loooooove to hear her take on this”. Which is a good point. I’m of course only hearing one side of the story, and we all know that there’s three sides; his, hers, and the truth. It’s a little scary for me since there’s a whole other perspective that I’m not privy to, when dating new dudes. Even if most of what he’s saying is completely valid, she could have well earned insight and intel. There’s only one answer; time will tell. Listen, I’m also someone’s ex wife. Should I book my ticket to Bitch Island too? Should I run for mayor? I know some pretty amazing divorced women, and there are men out there who claim they’re the worst. What I do know is that one day one of those Bitches will be so dear to me, because as a result of her ensnaring and abusing her ex, I will cross paths with him and ride off into the sunset.  If her being a nightmare gives me my Guy, then I shall most gratefully declare her the best Bitch on the whole island. And her next PMS massage will gladly be on me. Estrogen patches and Botox for everyone! ️️XO

Female Journalist

I had a thought that hit me like a bolt of lightening the other day. I’m constantly going over the coordinates of the past several years and finding new revelations on how they all truly connect. How each thread   in my life has been woven together to form this tapestry that is my current state. I know that’s something I often write about, but it’s something I’ll keep reiterating. Each new layer of purpose that’s revealed to me keeps reaffirming what I learned a couple years ago; that I’m being guided and led to the right places. My path is no accident, and while I know that as an adult, I still feel like a small child whose hand is being held by Source. Especially as a grown up and mother who makes millions of decisions, it feels delicious and safe to be led and held by something else. Allowing myself to lean into that is one of the most beautiful parts of being a human being.

So here’s the thought that shook me; that my blog was sent to me specifically for Svadhyaya, the yogic practice of Self Study. I always say how I’m so grateful that the blog allows me a platform for self expression and creativity. It’s my microphone for a voice just beginning to flex her vocal cords. But it’s more than that. I was thinking about how I have a number of channels to serve as a release, but that I don’t journal enough. I have this beautiful little green journal one of my teachers gave me that’s mostly blank. This bothers me because I don’t like not using things. Journaling is obviously one of the most effective ways to clear our systems. It’s a proven aid in observing to let things go. Then I thought, wait, of course I journal! I do it here every week. This blog is my journal. Blogging for the Inspire section is forced Self Study. It’s not just a place for me to speak; I have to come up with stuff to say in the first place. There are times I can’t wait to write. There are other times I don’t feel I have anything to say, but to meet a deadline I have to find something within me to delve into. Which is often when I learn the most about myself. So it hit me that, holy crap, Someone knew I needed this in my life at a certain time in order to dig my true self out from under layers of illusion formerly known as my existence (I said existence, not life. Note that).

My mental shift had begun four years ago because my soul had been crying out for so long. It was time to listen to Her. I wasn’t cognizant of any of this at the time. Only in hindsight can I see what was unfolding, now that my eyes (all three of them) are finally open. So there I was, in mental, emotional, and spiritual turmoil. Confusion, unrest, and discontentment. Desperate for a connection I didn’t know was possible. And then boom; enter Tzvia Rush, who said to me, “you should really be blogging”. I had never read another one before. I wasn’t on any social media at the time, and sending an email was still new to me. As the idea of having my own blog took shape, so did my spirit. It drove me to dive deeper and deeper within so as to excavate and hunt for material. If I’m going to write here, I damn well need to figure myself out first. I’ve said that the blog help get me through my divorce, by giving me purpose and a shape to the wild horse thoughts stampeding through my mind. But on a deeper level it strapped me down, shone a light in my face, and was like, you are not getting up until you scrape yourself clean. No change comes without intense Svadhyaya. Call it self study, awareness, self reflection, whatever. It is a must that is constant. We can’t fix what we don’t know. Blogging wasn’t just given to me as a coping mechanism. It was given to me to finally get to know myself. Without all this journaling I’d know almost nothing about who I am. Writing the posts, rereading them, then reading them again when they’re put up allows me to study the content objectively. The growth in my writing is gratifyingly clear from the start of the blog to now. The more I immerse myself in svadhyaya the richer my material is. The better the material, the more it resonates with my readers. The more resonance, the more I connect with you. The more we connect, the safer we all feel. Connection is safety. It’s support. And we can’t ever provide that for others until we first provide it for ourselves. That comes only with the humble willingness to know we have to start from scratch. To work it out on paper, to talk it out in therapy, to twist it out during asana practice. It’s not easy to read about our flaws, mistakes, and lousy pattens in black and white. But it’s harder to avoid it. Blogging doesn’t allow me to avoid anything anymore. It’s why Lady Blaga has grown; this is an honest space for utter non avoidance. This was the right avenue for me to explore myself and do it in a community setting. The collective has always had such a hold on me, I’m very much a team player. All I have I want to share.

I like being inclusive. So this is my journal, dear Readers. I’ve left it on my bed, open, so you can happen upon it and enter my process. As I go further into the infinite depths of Self, I encourage you to do the same. You’re really beautiful, pay much more attention to that than you ever have. Learn yourself and leave no part overlooked. Journal, release, express, get it out. If you let it in then you can also let it out. None of this nonsense is permanent. Paper and a pen can be the only friend and therapist we need sometimes. Thank you, thank you, thank you to the Divine for shoving this opportunity down my parched throat. I did not know I needed this but You did. Which is why you gave me the ability to write in the first place. All dots were connecting from my youth...

It’s wondrous what forms for us while we are carefree children skipping about. The more I learn the more I can love. Study of Self is the key to liberation, but only if we move forward with our knowledge. Write to make things right. Read all your chapters, edit them, and decide how you want your story to build. I was just a first draft until now. It’s quite nice to turn myself into a badass screenplay. Corrections, it’s all about the corrections.

Fencing 🤺

There’s something I’ve been working on that I really want to share with you. Unsurprisingly, it stems from yogic philosophy. Yoga has eight limbs, or tenets upon which it’s primarily based. These limbs, or branches, are essentially a code of ethics for how we should treat ourselves as well as others. Since how we relate to others is an offshoot of how we relate to Self, our treatment of ourselves is gloriously necessary in order to have optimal interpersonal interactions. Self care isn’t really taking time to get a manicure. Yes, that’s a nice thing to enjoy, but self care really means how we care for ourselves on the innermost level. The levels unseen within our minds, hearts, and souls. It is by doing this work that we tend to all our crevices and folds, and nurture ourselves like a mother to a newborn. If we can’t care for ourselves properly then we are kind of screwed, because it’s simply impossible for another being to go spelunking into your soul and reach those parts of you. It’s like how someone else can’t fix your thoughts or feelings. Sure, they may love you very much, but they are limited in how deep they can reach you. All the sincere hugs in the world won’t calm your mind for you. By following the limbs of yoga, we learn the necessary principles required to truly care for and conduct ourselves with utmost reverence and respect.

The limb I’ve been working on lately is Restraint. This is very challenging for me. As I’ve told you many times, I’ve always had to provide for myself on many levels. I’ve had to “make things ok” from a very early age, so I’m conditioned to be very goal oriented. I see something I want and I just go for it. Not in a psycho way, just a determined way. But as I’m learning this new spiritual language, what I always saw as focused determination was really an attachment to the external. You might even call it an addiction. I think I know three people who don’t fall prey to this, and that’s because they have worked years on it. Everyone we know is attached to external fields. Having the need to check your phone every five seconds is an attachment to something outside you. Attachment to anything other than You is a detachment. It’s that black and white. We subconsciously reach all around us as a means of separating from ourselves. This can only point to some kind of lingering dissatisfaction with our current state. Think about it, when you’re enjoying yourself in a particular moment, you’re not looking to peace out. You’re not texting, your mind isn’t wandering, you’re not listing what you need to get done. You’re present. But so seldom do we like and appreciate our present. Many people feel they are present but it’s often superficial. For instance, one can think, “I’m at the gym. I like working out. My butt looks good in these pants. I have the luxury of coming here. My life is good right now.” However, if while going through the motions all the while the mind is going off the rails, bouncing wildly around, then that’s not being in the Now at all. Doing something in the present doesn’t at all mean you are Being in the present. The reason being present points to restraint is that we are more able to restrain ourselves when we have an inherently deeper level of satisfaction. When we fight all these distracting urges we return home. We can control our habits and impulses better when we have achieved truer plains of inner contentment. The pull to any external thing is lessened. Our desires to flail outward temper as we calmly and intentionally reach inward.  This is an extremely liberating feeling, to not be a prisoner to meaningless bullshit.

The goal of yoga is to liberate the mind and clear our systems so we are at our best. We will never be our best if we are out of control. Being out of control is only something we know if we are or if we aren’t.  It doesn’t mean the world sees us tearing through the streets like Animal from the Muppet Show (though I’m loving that visual). A person can look put together, have done all her errands like a good girl, and be totally unhinged within the prison yard of her mind. So she can’t stop shopping, emailing, making plans, making assumptions, making up drama just to deflect from this confusing, unnamed source of anxiety she’s become so used to. Just like a guy can have a controlled, steady, successful job but is addicted to whatever just so he can get through the weeks thinking he’s living a fulfilling life. I know I’m oversimplifying with the gender roles, but you get my drift. The point is that restraint is only something you know if you have. I have my shit together in tons of ways but lack restraint in others. And I’m never happy when I give in to my destructive urges. I’m disappointed when I’m in breach of trust with myself. But I feel this all converging the more I learn about myself. Because the more I uncover the closer I get to what I really am, which is a being of loving awareness (I love you, Jack Kornfield. What a gift you are.). And the more comfortable I grow with tapping into this, the weaker the pull is to outside stuff.  And the more liberated and gleeful I feel. How great does it feel to not send that text you know you shouldn’t send? Or to not react with anger and agitation to a situation? Or to not lose patience with a family member? It feels so good, right? Restraint and control feel good because they train us to conserve our energy. We are made of light and energy, and any expenditure of that really gets so misused and wasted when it’s not properly harnessed. How lovely and wise is it to be so incredibly careful with where we direct ourselves? The anger we saved by not releasing it will recycle itself as energy better used. The obsessive thinking about whatever will be used to think about something far more productive. This is all a practice for a reason. It’s hard. But hard never killed anyone.

On the other side of obsession, impulsivity, rumination, and a lack of control over our thoughts, words, and actions is freedom. It’s more attainable than you know. I’ve been meditating on a huge, field with a fence in the middle. On one side is a dilapidated barn with dry, muddy grass. I’m on this side. The other side is this clear, open, fresh, expansive space. The sky is brilliantly blue and the grass is emerald green. This part of the field evokes joy. Just looking at it feels wonderful. Here’s the kicker; the fence has no lock. I can exit the yucky side at any time and easily cross right over into the beautiful part. No one is stopping me. I can just go towards that delicious openness, and you know, I have been more and more. Restraining all these gnawing, egoic, human urges that are beneath us allow us to remove the numerous mental, emotional, and spiritual shackles we’ve become chained to over time. There will always be slips up and regression, always. It’s ok. Don’t berate yourself. That in itself is an act of liberation. Stop restricting and start restraining. It will feel uncomfortable because you’re not used to holding back. Not used to depriving yourself of all these distractions. The discomfort is actually positive, because it shows you a shift is happening. Ride out the shift. Surf on the waves of change,  and let them carry you to the steady mental shore you have been dying to reach but have no idea how. I get questions about this all the time, and the best thing I can say is just don’t give up on yourself. Walk through the fence to the beautiful side of the field where you were born. See you on the other side, my Friends. Go home to You.

Puzzle

There are a few things every woman should do in her adult life. One of those things is to watch the film “Puzzle”. I literally just finished it and and am sitting here in a daze over how impactful it was. It’s currently the holidays and my kids are away. I’ve been treating my home as a hotel and thoroughly enjoying my space to the fullest. One of my stay-cation activities has been a solo film festival. I haven’t turned on the TV much in a couple years, except to watch every episode of Bob’s Burgers for the 900th time. If you’re never seen that particular show, start today. It’s an easy way to act like you’re bonding with your kids, though to be honest, crawling into bed and lying under a blanket made of my sons while we watch TV, is legitimately the best part of my day. I physically ache for it.             

Having come upon a full week of solitude, I was determined to watch something on the tube. I missed being engaged like that; lying on the couch like a beached whale and allowing the talking screen to entertain me. I have always been very selective with what I watch. Now that I think about it, I’m selective with what I read, what I wear, what I eat, and who I hang with. Perhaps I’m a better decision maker than I knew... It’s maddening when in my occasional attempts to watch a home movie, that there seems to be nothing but boring, idiotic nonsense to choose from. I’ll spend 45 minutes annoyed, only to abort mission and turn on more Bob’s Burgers.

This weekend so far I’ve been 3 for 3. “Puzzle” is the story about a meek, unseen housewife who is clearly grappling with unhappiness in her small town, repressive life. The lead actress, the subtly radiant Kelly Macdonald, out the gate shows signs of how she’s squirming under the surface of her skin. We can feel outside thoughts and feelings start to hatch and slowly bubble up, then we watch as they rise to the surface. The character’s name is Agnes. Agnes picks up a jigsaw puzzle by chance and realizes she’s excellent at doing them. The puzzles give order and purpose to her day. She feels a rush of accomplishment at having made hundreds of right decisions. Watching this woman come into her power by doing puzzles was a fascinating take on the lonely, misunderstood mother/wife human condition. Agnes is so stifled that she has to initially hide her newfound interest from her family. Unsurprisingly, when she does tell her husband about it he is unsupportive. She’s crushed but saw that coming. That spoke volumes to me. It’s so tragic when the concept of support is missing in a relationship. She wasn’t taking up taxidermy as a hobby, she was putting together a freaking puzzle. Why was it so hard for her supposedly devoted husband to be happy she carved out a small portion of joy for herself? The husband was a textbook simpleton family man who genuinely didn’t understand why Agnes needed to do more than church volunteer work and buy groceries. The resistance lies in her desperately needing to grow as a human and him being scared she’d exist in some space apart from him. There was a quick scene in which in the midst of her cracking open, something I clearly relate to, she’s checking out on the supermarket line. She just looked so excruciatingly aware. It was a brilliant several seconds. That’s what I want when I watch a movie; the misery, confusion, and ennui of an underdeveloped wife. Romantic comedies are as we say in Yiddish, “nisht far mir” (not for me).

Agnes answers an ad in which a puzzle competitor is seeking a partner. The two form a bond that teaches her pretty quickly who she is and how she must steer her life in a different direction. What moved me the most was the metaphors and symbolism found in puzzles. WHO. KNEW. The way humans walk around so fragmented, in a million pieces we struggle to fit together, but fail at it time and again. How when we do have those rare times when we feel like all our pieces match up in harmony, all it takes is for one outside circumstance to knock us to the ground and break us. How easily we are scattered. How one lost piece throws off the whole. How damn hard it is to focus and put ourselves back together, to take another crack at constructing our whole picture. How filled with promise we are when seeing a photo of the finished product on the outside of the box, this beautiful image we want to create. So we buy it to have it, only then to realize with grating frustration that building the darn thing is an overwhelming task that requires patience and logic. We give up, it’s too hard. Watching tv is easier. Shopping is easier. Doing nothing is easier. Humans don’t like things that remind us we can’t do them, so we blame the thing itself and jump ship (this stupid puzzle!!). But the thing is, like a puzzle that is meant to have all its little pieces fit together in unison to become a fully actualized picture, people are the same. We are meant to put ourselves together over and over. We have all the pieces we need. Only when Agnes began to play with puzzle pieces did she become aware of her human and female pieces. Her connection with her puzzle partner became her connection with herself. There’s a wondrous comparison at the beginning and end of the movie with her husband breaking a plate into pieces, but I don’t want to give too much away. I want you to watch it, think about that scene, then write to me to discuss. This movie pretty much summed up my own journey over the past several years, and I have no doubt it applies to many of you as well. We see each other in each other, that’s why we are obsessed with observing one another. It’s easier to watch it happen to someone else, right? Not really, no. It’s always harder to leave yourself in a box, untouched, with none of you interlocking. I’ll end this post by reiterating that this is a movie every woman should see. For Herself.

Last Thanksgiving Sucked

Hey there. So yes, every single day is a chance for reflection. However holiday time is really a forced means of seeing where your currents are currently holding. On a random Wednesday it may be harder to look back on where you were on another past random Wednesday, but it’s easy to recall what you were doing last Thanksgiving. And look back we must. It’s our job to monitor ourselves. Each year means we’ve completed another lap around the sun. We aren’t just meant to exist like zombies with no evolution, and in order to prevent that we need to check in with ourselves constantly. How we’ve grown, how we regressed, what we’ve changed. This is scary in that if there’s been no clear growth or learning then we are forced to face our stagnancy. To think we just existed like blank machines for 365 days is an uncomfortable thought. That is cumulative though, and unless we look at ourselves under a microscope, we will inevitably be faced with years worth of sameness. Even if you generally like your life there are always ways in which we can grow and further enrich our lives. We can love better, communicate better, give more, be more patient, say hello to more strangers, the list is endless. Liking your life doesn’t mean it can’t be fuller. The fuller we are, the better we can handle this whole human gig.

As I reflect upon where I was exactly a year ago, I can say with certainty that I was miserable last Thanksgiving. I was in another country in a series of unexpected, somewhat frightening situations with a person I thought I knew. Without getting into detail, let’s just say I was blindsided by the turn of events that unfolded. This was a trip I’d excitedly planned for several reasons, and to say it went off the rails is an understatement. I was scared, alone, unmoored, and lonely. Being alone and being lonely are completely different btw; I’m often alone but almost never lonely. So when I do feel deeply lonely, something is very wrong. Being so far away, I was kind of trapped and had to ride out the week. There were times I felt physically unsafe, and needless to say I’m not used to that. I had to force myself to become really resilient that week, and I did. I wrote a post about that and I meant it. Any hard circumstances catapults us into forced growth. Sink or swim. I dealt with things I never had to deal with, and I survived and made the best out of things on the outside, despite being really unhappy on the inside. But the week passed as I knew it would, and now a year has passed as I knew that would too.

The past couple days I have been really thinking about the difference between these two Thanksgivings, and I am overcome with delicious bouts of gratitude at the distinction. This year I’m safe, I’m home, and I’m spending the day with people I love who love me too. I have a large, carefully chosen family. My children are safe, happy, and traveling with their father. My oldest is having the time of her life on her gap year program. I am alone in my home but not at all lonely. I am writing, DJing, going out with friends, and watching movies on the couch. I’m enjoying lying in my bed in front of the fireplace mid afternoon. I am immensely enjoying my present circumstances. I would never allow the shit from last year into my current life. The quality of men I’m dating is way higher. My standards have been thankfully and unapologetically raised. How I value myself, my time, and my energy is leaps and bounds ahead of how I treated myself last year. After being flung into space post divorce, I’m finally settling into my true self. It takes a long time to learn who you really are, what you really need, and what you won’t tolerate. I didn’t learn this in my 20’s and 30’s. Truthfully, had I had learned that then it still would look different than it does today. I’m older and more seasoned. Me at 28 can’t possibly be the same at 40, it shouldn’t be anyway; that would mean I became stuck somewhere. Stunted. Divorce is a funny thing in that it can lend the illusion that you’re ready to bust out of your former situation and take on the world. I wasn’t of the ilk of women who gained 30 pounds and sat home crying with Ben and Jerry. I was ready to roll, or so I thought. It has taken two years of intense self study and daily spiritual work to move me through all these tunnels of realization. It’s not done, it’s never done, but the platform I’m currently standing on while waiting which path I need to take next is just right. I’m going to just collect myself and sit down for awhile. Observe. Rest. Breathe into my own growing power. It’s nice to be still while everything and everyone is frantically moving around. I’m so proud of how far I’ve come, and even more excited about where I’m going. But for now, I’m going to honor the pause and just chill. Life is good, Man. It’s so freaking good. And I give thanks for that with my ever expanding heart every single day. Last year is over. It ended as all things end, both good and bad. Tomorrow is merely a hypothetical. Come sit next to me. Let’s marinate in the Now.

Cutting Class👩🏻‍🍳

Check this out; a few weeks ago ya Gurl taught a cooking class. The class was a surprise bachelorette party for an adorable bride to be. I happen to be friends with her mother so that made it even more of a labor of love. Truthfully I’ve never done anything like that before, but I welcomed the challenge with excitement. I figured I can cook and yenta it up with pretty much any inanimate object, so why not?!

At this point in the Blaga journey my attitude is flowing with whatever Now is offering me. Allow for the Now is a favorite mantra. Being receptive to my atmosphere. That ranges from honestly viewing the reality of tough emotional situations to embracing new opportunities, and everything else in between. What time is it? It’s always Now. So to be fully present we need to give ourselves over to our surroundings. That’s how we flow with them, by agreeing with them. This is especially good advice when it comes to the really hard stuff life is sending you. Don’t fight the Divine, you’ll lose. Rather, work with it and let it teach you what you need to learn, and take you to where you ultimately belong. Think less, Be more. In the past when presented with a new undertaking I’d have accepted the offer but stressed about it. I’d have been fraught with anxiety and tried to control the outcome by mapping out each and every detail. I’m soooooo much more chill about newness now. It’s liberating to just enjoy and trust that things will work out, even if there are unexpected hiccups. It’s really so crazy to start listing hypothetically negative outcomes. Like, it’s actually nuts in that we are literally making shit up. If it’s not happening yet, it’s pure fabrication. And if it is happening then it’s meant to happen for a reason. It’s that simple. Our minds complicate this notion but it’s really a clean concept.         

I approached this task with a mix of extreme organization and a loose attitude of just making this fun for the girls. This would not be some uptight lecture of a cooking class. Cooking is such a joy for me. It’s fun, experimental, fully sensory, creative, and of course involves mistakes. Food is love and love should not be scary. That being said, I clearly remember the excited intimidation I felt at being a new bride who immediately wanted to cook for her family. All part of playing house, and I’ve always had a strong pull towards domestic nurturing. I had no idea how to boil water before I got married. This was pre internet (anything prior to 2016 is pre internet as far as I’m concerned) but my first apartment was across the street from a huge Barnes and Noble. I’d go there and eagerly peruse the cookbooks, then go home and get cracking. I got certain things down pretty fast, but it took years to become fluent. I’m still fascinated by cooking; taking raw ingredients and turning them into an actual meal. It’s like any creative process that begins with intention and ideas, topped off with love. What better recipe is there?                       

I prepped five recipes that I printed out off the blog into these really cute recipe booklets (when I say “I” I mean Shira). Singles today seem more savvy than my friends and I were. Young adults are just way more attuned to everything now days. They are more stylish, have cooler hair, better bodies, have more sophisticated palettes, and are just generally more with it. I know this makes me sound like a dinosaur, but with phones and social media, there’s this awareness that even orthodox ducklings have today that my generation lacked. We were just so in our carefully constructed bubble. I was impressed at how many of the girls seemed to have an inkling as to what I was talking about. They legit knew what was up, and my recipes were pretty sophisticated for 20 somethings. Everything my peers and I first learned was mostly likely brown and involved onion soup mix or that gross bottled apricot sauce (why tho?). I wanted to teach recipes that were really gourmet and impressive but uncomplicated. Beautiful, fresh, colorful ingredients that anyone can assemble. I divided the recipes into crates, with each crate containing the ingredients and tools needed to make it. I then divided the girls into groups, giving each group instructions. They really did it! Sure,  I guided and gave tips I only wish I’d known about 20 years ago, but props to this crew. I taught the bride how to toast nuts and seeds, make biscotti, and roast fish with a Mediterranean style sauce, among other things. We made salads, zested lemons, whisked vinaigrette’s. I even made a playlist to bring my DJ component into the mix. They all sat down to a full meal they prepared themselves, which made the food extra delicious.

But here’s the unplanned kicker. As I was saying goodbye and thank you, I kind of gave a little speech about how as important as it for a Jewish wife to know how to cook and make a beautiful home (listen, I’m old fashioned this way and proud of that), it’s by no means everything. We must not resign ourselves to an existence in the kitchen only. We are allowed and obligated to explore ourselves and become fully actualized women. Women before and after becoming wives and mothers. No one should be stuck making thousands of batches of chicken soup and that’s it. Be proud of your home but venture out too. This is not selfish or neglectful of your family. I think they were maybe slightly taken aback by my diatribe, as was I, but I felt like a camp counselor/big sister giving advice. I wish someone had said that to me, just like I wish I knew what kalamata olives were when I got married. No one told me, and it took too many years and tremendous struggle to teach myself that I had a right to do things other than cook. I love putting on my apron and I love taking it off too. Nothing tastes better than a life fully lived in all ways. Taste everything you can while you’re here. The bitter, the sweet, the regrets, and the delicious parts. It’s all on the menu of Life for a reason.

My Stripper Name

Spoiler alert; content of post not nearly as sexy as the title.

I am currently in the throes of stripping away decades of illusion. My head is hurting, I’m feeling extremely vulnerable, and for the first time I’m handling myself with gentleness. Going through any kind of rebirth is an excruciating process. Both mother and child must be tended to with extreme tenderness and care, and here I am starring in both roles. All that shedding that I’m always writing about has never been more raw and real. The time has come for a serious shift. I can’t ignore the signs any longer, and while it hurts so much I have concluded that discomfort never killed anyone. Finding comfort in the discomfort is where I need to be right now. I can do it because I know it’s temporary, as all things are. Thoughts and feelings are all temporary illusions created my our own minds and anarchistic egoism. It’s unbelievable how much shit we make up. It’s pure masochism, and though there are so many ways in which I’m good to myself, there have also been ways in which I have been failing myself. It’s important for me to know that this has not been my fault. I have been humanly absorbing emotionally surrounding cues from others for my entire life. All I did was get used to them, store them, and then subconsciously perpetuate them through my own unaware choices. Fun!

The anguish has been too great, and my only recourse is to deconstruct the narrow bandwidth of unconsciousness that has been squatting in my beautiful mind. I let it in unknowingly. I will now kick it the F out. Squatters don’t leave agreeably and peacefully. This work is hard. It rips apart everything we know and rewires the only systems we believe we are familiar with. Systems that are false bullshit, built on ego, fear, projection, attachment, and feelings of unworth. No infant sits in the nursery feeling unworthy. This is a story we pick up as we grow, which is ironic in that all it does is shrink us down. Our body gets taller, our physical muscles take shape, but our insides get so knotted and stunted. This is the challenge unique to humans. We get more messed up than anything else on the planet, as a result of our insane complex makings. However what this really means is that on the other side of this exists the possible opposite human experience; clean, untangled, bright, shining peace and tranquility. BUT HOW DO WE GET THERE????

This is the question I’ve been faced with recently. All the forks in the road I’ve been presented with over the past several years have led me to this giant fork. Always the dots are connecting. Always...

There is no place to unpack new awareness in a messy, cluttered closet. A complete and thorough stripping down is simply necessary. Old tendencies, destructive habits, erratic emotions,  insecurities,  feeling like shit at the drop of a hat; where is this coming from? I can’t take being enslaved to this anymore. It’s too hard to move about my day buried by these surface forces. Unless you are a seasoned monk living on a mountain in Tibet, you know exactly what I’m talking about. You might not want to admit it, but a part of you knows. I am a typical human body encasing the same spirit as you. Our struggles are the same. How we address them or not is what makes us different. That’s what will divide humans into varying levels of greater or lesser consciousness. We can only love in direct conjunction to how conscious we are. If there is any kind of veil or lack that covers us up, we will literally not see anyone else in front of us. Friends, lovers, children; we can only see others the way we see ourselves. If we have a hole we will attract others with those same holes. It’s a support group. I used to think I had it all together, but then I’d invite these experiences into my life that were not in line with that. I now know why; I was aching to soothe parts of others that needed to be soothed within myself. I recognized holes in others so clearly because they were mine. I finally understand what it means to have others be a mirror for ourselves.

Friends, this is a sad yet valuable piece of information. I am a giver, a lover, a nurturing healer (we all are at our essence) but I wasn’t directing those efforts inward. This is why receiving is harder for me; it’s foreign. Receiving from others can feel uncomfortable to a giver because it’s so unfamiliar to us. We almost give to avoid having to receive, since deep down we don’t feel we deserve it. Someone’s gotta give, so we steal that role first since it’s easier for us to fill it.There has been a part of my story that has told me I wasn’t deserving of all that TLC, but that it was always my job to spread it around like fairy dust.  Since I’m a good girl I listened. Which would explain why I keep falling down the same rabbit hole time an again. Different rabbits, same hole. Same Me. Until now. It’s deeply painful to admit to buying into a direct line to lack. What, Me?? I’m awesome so what are you talking about??

Another thing I’ve learned; confidence, strength, and feeling outwardly secure are totally different than having lack at the core. Those things can swim around inside us simultaneously. Its synchronized swimming but everyone is drowning and the routine is a hot mess (side note; is there anything more demeaning than a bathing cap?? K fine, maybe those leashes we put on our kids at Disney). In breaking apart and re-piecing myself together, I have identified these waves of fear that I feel as stemming directly from rejection and abandonment. If triggered, it’s amazing how instantly I hide in those caves. The caves like when I visit, and it’s the ego who tells me I belong there. That if I leave I’ll get whacked. The ego will always aim to have us remaining steeped in poison. That’s it’s job, and we need it to overcome and level up. I can be going about my day feeling wonderful, grateful, and light but then bam; the inner voice that tells me I’m being discarded will arise. That inner voice looooooves the past, and so it will start to rattle off dozens of past examples in an attempt to prove itself right. It loves to point me in the direction of “see? You’re being disposed of. They took what they needed and bounced.” This voice will basically give a power point presentation in my mind as to why the 40 years of past instances are applicable to the present, even if logically they’re not related at all. It’s so confusing, and we question what’s real and what’s not. Old butterflies dust off their wings and flap about in a cruel attempt to make themselves relevant again. This makes me kick myself for giving so much, even though I know that’s our purpose on earth. Giving feels right to me because as Ram Dass says, “we are all here to walk each other home”. Clearly my past giving did indeed lead to dark places, and feeling taken advantage of always hurts deeply. The feelings of terror of abandonment and being rendered insignificant is something I’ve had to explore recently. Going to the roots of these reactions has been painful but crucial. I never thought I was afraid of pain, but I have been more so than I knew, since I had all these mental survival tactics to avoid getting whacked again. We collect when we lack; collect texts, collect plans, collect thoughts, collect errands, collect flattery, collect dates,  so often out of attempting to fill a hole we don’t want to see. Therefore, if the text doesn’t come, we can be filled with actual anguish. Which sounds crazy because it is. I have also discovered that I automatically go to a place of self berating when I express my voice or needs in even the slightest way. Did I say too much? Was I pushy in what I needed? Did I over assert myself? There are people in my life who have made me feel hunted and throttled; did I do that to someone else because I had the audacity to be open?

It’s obvious as to why I feel guilty at having a voice. It’s because I was never given permission to have one. It was always told to me in some way to shut up and follow orders. Perform, deliver, be an extension for others and get them whatever it is they themselves needed. This came as a shock to outspoken, comfortable sharing Me, but it’s been a liberating revelation. Another friend of mine going through a divorce said he’s  just learning to find his voice again too. It’s amazing how our needs get so buried under an avalanche of someone else’s emotions, and even more amazing how we allow that to happen in the first place. It comes from somewhere. There is a painful source that must be examined in order to cleanse. How sad I thought expressing my own basic boundaries and needs was considered outrageous. Listening to others is an essential part of the human experience. Was I not entitled to be heard too? One reason led to that belief: conditioning. You start to believe the stories others tell you, especially those you start hearing from youth. Then as we get older we make poor decisions that support those stories, simply because they’re familiar. There is some kind of messed up safety in making bad choices that perpetuate these lousy narratives; at least there’s predictability, right? It somehow softens the blow if we can be less shocked by the outcome, even if the outcomes aren’t desirable. To oversimplify, we can both “un” and “re” condition our choice patterns, but only if we do the work head on. That means examining the ugliest parts to our reality, the parts that dredge up all kinds of difficult feelings.

Cleaning up the inside is the only way to clean up the outside. Only after rebuilding ourselves will we invite good choices, patterns, and experiences into our lives. By being better we will attract better. This doesn’t happen overnight, but it does happen bit by bit. Each smarter decision, however small, will lead to greater better ones. What we eat, who we hang out with, who we choose to get involved with romantically, how we react to certain situations. Personally, I don’t think this type of necessary self study can be achieved without meditating. Going within is the only answer. Therapy is one dimensional in that it’s an entirely egoic enterprise. It’s worthwhile on a certain level but since it’s all “I and Me”, it doesn’t bring inner peace. It’s when we can’t see past the “I and Me” that we remain trapped in seeing ourselves only as human. Living as humans seems like that’s all we are, but we are so much more than that. More on this later, it’s too much for one post. One step at a time. Just trust me on that; tapping into that awareness is the key to joy. Not happiness, which is fleeting, but joy. Bliss. Serenity. The stuff we claim we all want. I love sharing this research with you, it allows me to build connection as I strip away at the layers that had prevented connection prior, namely connection to myself.

Oh, and if I were to really choose a stripper name based on the name of my pet and childhood street, it would be Roxy Crestwood. Definitely viable. Love you guys.

Falafel and Stereotypes

Recently I took my 8 year old son to dinner at our favorite falafel joint. One of those small places where the tables are two centimeters apart. Sometimes it’s entertaining to overhear the conversations of your dining neighbors. Other times it’s excruciating. This was one of those times.

The topics discussed amongst the two 60ish couples was straight out of the Jewish, bored, whiny, Oy Vey handbook. I ate my shakshuka to the tune of tales of sciatica. My salad began to taste like money, as I listened to the ups and downs of his salary trajectory. My son’s hot dog and fries was accompanied by the dissatisfaction each of them naturally had with their entrees.

“This can’t possibly be a turkey burger?? Mordy, do you think it’s really turkey??”

My fish tacos (I was ravenous that day) instantly became unappetizing against the backstory of a cousin’s psoriasis. Again, all peppered with them bitching about the food, sending it back, then complaining some more. Sigh; meal ruined. Even my baby was like, “Mom, get us out of here”. It wasn’t just the gross and boring topics being dissected. It was that this couples dinner was so stale, predictable, uninspired, and seemingly not that enjoyable. It seemed like a way to simply pass the time with other likeminded whiners to break up the monotony of routine. Which is totally normal and something we all deal with, but still. It bummed me out, Man. All of us knows how it feels to sit at a dinner table with nothing much to say, be it to our spouse or whoever else is across from us. It blows. It’s like, if I’m supposedly close to this human, WHY DOES TALKING TO THEM FEEL LIKE I’M STICKING A TOOTHPICK IN MY EYEBALL?? Shouldn’t conversation with someone we choose to spend time with (or love) flow naturally like a babbling brook? Being a conversationalist myself, I’m good at it in all scenarios, but it’s loathsome when it’s forced or when I’m the only one doing the talking. Then I resent it and fantasize about being alone. Being divorced adds another dimension for me too, as far as how I envision dinners out with my eventual person. Yes, I’m well aware that many dinners and evenings spent together won’t look like two people who can’t keep their hands off each other, while discussing Einstein’s Theory of Relativity. I’m not unrealistic. However I am an idealist at this stage while manifesting the kind of dynamic I want romantically going forth. I don’t want boredom. I don’t want bitching about the food simply to fill space with words. I don’t want to need other equally uninspired people to keep us company, so we can all fool ourselves into thinking that was an evening well spent.

I know so many couples who maniacally calendar the shit out of their lives. Dinners up the wazoo, locked down in advance to keep busy. To have a reason to put on lipgloss and heels. To be out with their spouses without really interacting with them. Forgive the negativity. I just don’t ever want to run out of things, real things, to say to my Man. I don’t ever want his presence alone to not be enough for me. I always want to hold hands under the table. I want to be so happy at this said meal, just to be next to or across from him (preferably next to), that the food won’t matter that much. No complaining. No talk of money or ailments. No kvetching. I don’t know if this will always be possible. I do think there is the exception where this does exist, and it certainly doesn’t mean a relationship is bad if it doesn’t. Boredom is normal. People get tired. It’s hard to have a roster of dazzling and scintillating topics to discuss on a random Sunday night. It’s what I want though.

I’m setting my bar so high and placing my order for a guy I’m so content just to share a meal with, even if we sit in fully satisfiable silence. He will feel the same, and won’t even notice when I inevitably get food on my face. Anything and everything will be beautifully and equally shared, whether it’s quiet or appetizers. I’ve been starving for this and I’ll send guys back until the right one is brought to me ️.

Organize Yourselves

BEFORE

AFTER

BEFORE

AFTER

BEFORE

AFTER

BEFORE

AFTER

One of the practical keys to a successful life is organization. Not OCD arranging the cans according to height like in the film Sleeping With The Enemy. But keeping ourselves together in order so that we can function in an uncluttered manner. Uncluttered in both physical, mental, and emotional states. Removing excess so we can better see our surroundings, make better choices, and feel less overwhelmed by the billion pieces that make up the human experience. One of my yoga teachers, Tim, often tells us to “organize yourselves”, and by this he means how we organize and arrange our bodies. I’ve never heard another teacher instruct the class to do this, and I fell in love with this directive instantly. Many people think yoga can be lofty, hippie dippy, la la la, and with little focus on concrete and pragmatism. This couldn’t be further from the truth; by respecting and neatly handling the physical body and getting it in order, we are then better prepared to handle and deal with other parts of life in a calmer, less reactive way.

Organizing our lives is essential for remaining clear. We organize and arrange ourselves not to tightly grip reigns of control, but to maintain a gentle composure as we transition through the day. To maintain the integrity of our foundation, as my other teacher, Betsy, says. Organization always makes us feel better in that we feel more streamlined in our approach.

This is why after living in my house for 7 years I was itching to give all my closets a complete restructuring. As much as I’ve made efforts to simplify certain parts of my life, I’ve got lots of stuff. I shop way less but have collected and amassed a lot over the years. This is great when I need to prep for a fashion shoot, but can be a bit of a shit storm when I need to get dressed in the morning. I have stuff, my four kids have stuff; STUFF! I am in innate organizer but it was too big a job for me. Plus, when you live with it you stop seeing it. Also, to sit in my house tearing apart every closet would take weeks and a dedication I just don’t have right now. I’d rather spend my time doing other things. It was clear I needed to outsource.

Enter Jenna from Lumisa, a company that specializes in all things organizational. Having someone be in your home for days on end and see all your shizz, from the ratty underwear you should have thrown out years ago, to outdated toys, to expired pantry goods and NOT JUDGE YOU FOR IT is a big deal. Personality wise it must be the right fit. This person is spelunking into the bowels of your home, and uncovering caves you’ve forgotten existed. Then going to the Container Store and labeling everything.

Jenna is legit a ray of sunshine. She looooves her job and gives her clients her all. It was seriously a joy to see her print out “black thongs” both in English AND Spanish, so my housekeeper could learn the new system. Naturally we became insta pals. My beautiful pantry had become pretty gross over the years and she whipped it into shape. Baskets, lazy Susans, and bins were tastefully transformational. My clothing closets were organized by event and color. I had my own system where I knew where things were, but it wasn’t neat or attractive. My home is beautiful and it did bother me that it’s innards didn’t match up with the exterior.

Jenna kicked my closets’s butts, and totally gave my entire home a fresh feel. Prepping for shoots is so much easier now; she created system upon system so I can keep track of what I own. It gave me a renewed reverence for all I have lovingly selected and collected over the years. She gave order to the archives, which in turn has made my life calmer and easier. I seriously recommend hiring this Organizing Oracle to help you gain control over your life. Enjoy this little peek into the Lady Blaga vault to see how Lumisa can transform your closets. Don’t delay getting your life in order, in any capacity. Arrange yourself and be stronger in all your choices.

I can’t recommend Jenna enough! To contact Jenna email her at jenna.cognetti@gmail.com.

Tears for Fears

I have been going deeper within lately. This has been brought on by certain situations that dropped me off at a fork in the road in the middle on nowhere. Sometimes we have no choice but to Google Maps ourselves before going forth. This is one of those times for me, and I have felt truly grateful for the painful circumstances; they are here to teach me much needed lessons. Truthfully, I know nothing in my life will continue to change without me putting myself under this microscope. As we know, pain is much needed information. And as much as I’ve learned about myself, and however far I’ve come over the past couple years, I underestimated what keeps holding me back from further growth. This is all extremely humbling in that it makes me feel like a bit of a fraud. Who am I to advise anyone on anything?? I’m so blessed to have this wonderful platform on which to share, encourage, and support my readers. One of the most valuable pieces of feedback I consistently get is how encouraging, positive, and strong I am. During this time of deep self study, I realized I have been identifying with gripping, all consuming fear my entire life. I thought I was rid of it, but that’s not so at all. While I may have appeared brave to myself and to you, I haven’t been as honest as I needed to be. When we make certain outward changes, it can delude us into believing we have really turned around. Our lives are different so we must be different too, right? But putting on a blue shirt after years of wearing a green one doesn’t change the body underneath. Spanx are smoke and mirrors, when they come off your thighs are the same. Perhaps symbolically, I don’t wear Spanx. I hate them. They have always made me feel worse. The compression just reminds me that there’s something to compress, and I’m hyper conscious of being suffocated by what needs to be covered up. Spanx have never made me feel thinner or sexier. I feel way happier with my body just doing its natural thing. Underwear lines and a jiggly Mom tush are fine.

I am choosing to read into the metaphor of this; I am overall upfront and don’t intentionally hide anything. Hiding stuff doesn’t work since it just really means there are things that need to be locked away. Things you are scared to acknowledge or reveal. You don’t need me to tell you that those things will fester and bust out anyway, bigger and stronger after having been left alone to develop. The size of fear, anger, resentment, shame etc will multiply if not dealt with, just like the size of your ass will if you ignore that too. In my yoga anatomy book, it says that a muscle develops tone in response to however much resistance it faces. The more resistance and pressure, the more tone is achieved. Meaning, if we run from the hard stuff, it doesn’t really protect us; it just makes us weaker. Only in non avoidance and welcoming resistance can we tone and strengthen ourselves. Without toned muscles, our  body is weak. And a weak body cannot react and respond to pretty much anything. So too, a laden down heart and mind that doesn’t work itself out cannot respond properly either. All that we are made of, body, mind, and heart must first face resistance in order to then strengthen and be of service of us. Only then can we be of service to others (the point to life).

My book also talks about how if a muscle is weak or tight it will compromise and injure itself. I love this because it doesn’t just focus on typical strength. Strength is just one component. The tightness and lack of flexibility are just as, if not more so, crucial. When we are rigid we are a mess, plain and simple. Constrictions leads to blockages. Something that by nature should be flowing freely, can’t. A closed mind, a closed heart, a closed soul will lead to a very unhappy life. Rigid yet strong muscles might land you at the weight rack in the gym, but without intense stretching and opening, the body only comes so far. I did not know this during my former years as a gym rat. I had such a short sighted, arrogant approach to working out, which represented a short sighted, arrogant approach to life. Closeness is no bueno in any capacity. Yoga opens every single part of us. It’s why I love it; I was so ready to be opened up but I didn’t know how to do it alone. The goal is supple flexibility all over. The heart openers are my favorite, since really we are just waiting to love, beginning with ourselves. My teacher and friend Allison instructs is to “crack open your heart” during certain poses; is there a more beautiful directive out there?

Ok, so I love Love. I can’t say that that’s been the root of all the pain I have stored up over the years. It’s the other big one; Fear. It’s been this monster under the bed that I have been conditioned to become accustomed to, and have learned to distract myself from. By exercising, reading, texting, writing, DJing, socializing, hugging my kids, listening to music, or whatever, I have always found wonderful, healthy ways to find happiness. Coping mechanisms help us get through the day superficially. They don’t clean up issues though. They just redirect your attention. So when the hugs are over, the book is finished, the music has stopped, the text doesn’t come,  then we then keep searching for more means of distraction in order to get the next fix to avoid facing what’s eating at us under the surface of Happy Happy Joy Joy (that’s a Sponge Bob reference. Deal with it). It is in the space of utter silence that we do the most growing and learning. Which is why we live in such a challenging time, with all the noisy devices that we let control our lives. Even those not on social media are constantly checking texts and emails. There is never enough quiet. I have observed my fear of silence as I’ve gone through phases of being able or unable to turn off my phone before Shabbat. I always loved that element, then I dreaded it. I was filled with anxiety for several years at not being able to let my device distract me. I was petrified to put away my phone. This is common and unhealthy. Religiously I don’t think a phone is a big deal (blasphemy!). For me it’s a level of awareness directly related to being able to unplug and unclog, and be fully comfortable in the Is of quiet family lockdown. I have come back to this place recently, and this past Friday I couldn’t wait to shut my phone off. My brain needed a break. My feelings tied to my thoughts needed a break. Our devices fill our heads with so many excess thoughts, be it a silly thought about a cat on roller skates or a time sensitive email that must be answered. Checking the news, the weather, Facebook, whether that person texted you back, the carpool schedule, which photos to scroll through; THOUGHTS. If my goal through all I’m learning is to quiet and lessen my thoughts, then my attachment to my phone is a major detriment. In order to quiet my mind, I have to quiet my device. So, so hard, but as said above, the hard stuff is what improves us.

As I have been studying and observing my thoughts and feelings more, in order to separate myself from them, I have to uncover their root. I have found that whatever triggers set me off, and we all have them, are across the board born of intense fear. “I am feeling this way because of x”. In literally talking this out with myself, I fairly quickly was able to pin every excess thought and feeling pattern to fear of abandonment, fear of not being enough, of being unseen, and unimportant. I recently read that kids who don’t feel wanted grow up to become adults who settle for being needed. So we work really hard at proving our worth by constant doing. When someone wants you, it optimally means they’re choosing you just because they adore you. If you’re being chosen based on need, well, that’s conditional. “I need you because of what you provide for me”. Those of us who strive to be needed know this. Our proactive nature can stem from trying to prove our value. This is really very sad. It’s hard to look at yourself like this, but harder to not. Only in this self study can we clean this up. Which is why our triggers are a gift. They expose us to ourselves on a raw, private level. But we need to listen with commitment. We can only do this in silence, which is why meditation leads us to the truth. As leading spiritual teacher Eckhart Tolle says, sit in silence and welcome it, for it is only in those quiet spaces that we grow. Which is why yoga teaches to honor the pause. To bask in the Is that is always now. So in my pauses my instinctive fear monsters rise up out of nowhere, as if Freddy Kruger was your uber driver. I am now watching these fearful thoughts, then telling myself I am not my thoughts or my feelings. I am neutral by nature. My natural born state is neutrality since God made me whole and complete. I came into this world lacking nothing. We get scared when we feel holes within and can’t fill them. But here’s the thing; the holes aren’t real. Our mind loves to play tricks on us and so it invented these holes over time. When we are under the illusion of lack we make up for that by collecting painful, egoic, scary stories. And then we further feed the ego by giving it what it wants; to win in screwing us up. Over time we build up a pain body that is filled with insert lousy emotion/thought here. My pain body is fear. My stomach lurches at certain thoughts (sup, ulcerative colitis), I’m terrified of outcomes that I can’t predict or control, and petrified of these hypothetical scenarios that stampede through my mind. Shifting the awareness back to peaceful, complete, neutral consciousness behind the neuro-reactive process, is a move towards re-patterning. Before I can rid myself of this fear based pain body, I need to accept that it’s there. Marinate in it. Let it slowly move through me. This isn’t a rushed process. After all, it takes many years to create this scary baby; I’m not losing that weight overnight. A crash diet in emotional expulsion won’t last. What counteracts feeling afraid is feeling safe. And I know I’m safe within myself. I require no other person for this.

Turning inward feels so good because we really are all we need. Mooji instructs is to not follow our thoughts, as temptations to do so flare (and always will). Let them go. Let the feelings go. What remains is the pure, conscious Self. Unbury that. Fight to keep it unblemished. It is a constant practice. I love when Mooji writes how in order to become everything we must first become nothing. We must empty out all we’ve been storing and collecting. Stop collecting and stop doing. It’s unloading baggage before continuing to travel. Getting rid of dead weight. My sunrise yoga teacher recently taught us something that changed my practice the instant I heard it. It was about jumping from down dog to a forward fold. I struggled with this for a long time, and now I know why. I was holding onto what kept me heavy. She said to fully empty out our lungs before jumping up; the lighter we are the easier we will sail forward. It was so brilliant I wanted to cry. An astounding adjustment in every area of life. Mind blown. Betsy is right; this totally works. As soon as I fully and truly exhaled, I flew forward and landed lightly and gracefully. Quietly and naturally. No more thumping. There was a new ease and softness to the movement. The key to moving on is releasing that which holds us back. And I’ve gotta tell you, I’m done holding onto these fearful beliefs and neurological reactions. It’s just enough. Since I’m no longer identifying with all that fear, what do I need it for?? It’s time for it to go and be that neutral, connected extension of Source that I was created to be. That is who we are, and so coming home to that is so right. Why would anyone choose an emotionally turbulent life over feeling yummy and secure inside their honeyed Self?

I read something so profound recently, from the yogi Meghan Currie. She herself had heard it somewhere and passed it along to her spiritual community. Think of the inhale as God coming towards you. Pause and savor that. Then think of the exhale as you coming towards God. Pause and savor that too. Then repeat that until you no longer breathe in this body. Seeing myself as a vehicle that literally just pumps divine awareness in and out of it was a knee buckling concept. In times of anxiety I put this teaching into practice and it’s instantly soothing. Yes, we are people. We will react as people do; with fright, rage, depression, erratic behavior, selfishness, etc. But there’s a way out. And that way out is the very way in.  You can never go deep enough into yourself. The more we venture inward, the more we discover the peace and calm that is already waiting for us. Like the mother rabbit in The Runaway  Bunny, my favorite children’s book. She knows, she waits, she welcomes her child with no judgement, she shape shifts with him. She’s eternally there, ever so loving and assuring of safety and security. That’s You. The more I tap into this, the more fear is released from its holding cells in my body. Space is cleared and vibration is raised. So much work is accomplished just by becoming one with our consciousness. It’s truly curing. Let your fear, or whatever else ails you and holds you back, cure you. Honor whatever trauma was the root of your current reactivity. It’s ok. It’s over. It no longer applies. Let it pass through you. Empty out and soar forward. Then  put yourself in neutral and go further then you ever thought possible. I used to be so scared of not knowing where I was going... I’ll get there. The objects in the mirror are closer than they appear.

Keep the Change

I have been thinking a lot lately about the difference between feeling someone changed your life, and knowing that someone caused YOU to change your own life. One sentiment is passive while the other is active. The former denotes we were taking a nap while Prince Charming kissed us awake, thereby resurrecting us while we were unconscious. The latter hints at being receptive to the positive vibrations of those around us, and raising our own to match them. Basically, these peeps inspire us to up our game.

How wonderful to look at someone in your life and know so clearly how you have become better just by having them in your orbit. I have never really subscribed to the “different friends serve different purposes” belief. I’m not interested in pieces of people, certainly not so they can benefit me. That’s not how I see friendship. All of my friends are magnificent, complete human beings. I rely on them not for fragments but for all the good stuff; love, support, humor, sounding boards, company, wing people, advice, etc. However, I do know the ways in which they each make me better. It’s interesting to see with whom I am my wittiest. When I hang with certain people I am on fire in the wit department. I feel the need to start writing my own one woman show immediately, complete with original music and lyrical compositions. Choreography! Costume changes! You get the idea.

I know who influences me to be a better mother, perhaps more patient and less reactive. I know who brings out my best culinary abilities, who encourages my ideas to skyrocket out of my head, who I have the most fun with, with whom I have the deepest, most honest talks. I’m so grateful to the women who have inspired me to be softer and more generous. For my male friends who hang with me like I’m one of the guys, yet will delve with me just as deeply as my closest female friends. The male perspective is often different, so I greatly appreciate their insight. Some of the conversations I routinely have with my guy friends are seriously for the books. From the raucous gut busting laughs to the philosophical and psychological (I’m not friends with idiots). I know which friends, in making music their life’s purpose, have taught me how to make it mine as well. My creative urges are most understood by them. Appreciated by all, but they get it with no explanation. I know exactly who causes me to sharpen my writing. To my friends and mentors in the spiritual community; there are no words. I have one friend who gives me tough love when I need to just hear it hard and straight. She knows who she is. She’s the only person in my life who would/could handle me like that. It takes a village, and I adore my villagers for all they have led me to become. I don’t want anyone to do the work for me. I want to grow and evolve on my own. But when we find those who water our process, we must hold onto them, water them back, and pay that inspiration forward. And always, always tell them how they contribute to your life. Use no restraint when it comes to gratitude. It feels so good for both parties to have that conversation. And to my readers, I may not know all of you personally but you water me too. You give me incentive to grow as a writer, a thinker, and a sharer. So thank you very, very much.

You’re Hitting Yourself

Recently it was Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement. The crux of the prayer service is when we list our sins in great detail, literally hitting our heart each time a new sin is uttered. I realized for the first time that this might just be considered insane behavior. As I watched hundreds of congregants strike the upper left sides of their chests in unison, I felt like I was watching a movie. A satire of The Crucible. This custom, in which I had taken part for 33 years or so, suddenly looked unbelievably aggressive and harsh. Why is self inflicted violence, even if it’s just symbolic, necessary to communicate with God? It’s so punishing and cruel. We would never teach the community to hit others; Judaism is a non violent religion. So why get nasty on our own bodies? It’s such an expression of misguided piety, and I’m not doing it again.

I wasn’t thrilled with listing all the ways in which I’m a terrible person, but it’s no real sweat off my back to mindlessly read those words. I communicate with God every single day, throughout the day, so I didn’t feel that dialogue would be affected, though I inherently disagree with the content. I picked my battles. Does no one else question the lunacy of this?? At one point I did punch myself out of habit. When I realized, I gently rubbed my heart to atone for hurting it. I love my heart. I want to treat it with care. It gives me my superpower to love. I work every day to keep it open, which is a practice that is medicinal. Our hearts hurt, they break, they close, and yet still they keep us alive. They beat in service of us at all times. I want to treat it like glass, with compassion. I know it’s supposed to be symbolic, and that’s what disturbed me even more. I don’t want to punish myself like that. It’s mean and cold. I don’t ever want to send the message to any part of myself that I am deserving of lashings of any kind. No one in that synagogue deserves to be whipped (well, a few might). We make mistakes because we are human, but that doesn’t warrant corporal punishment. It’s such a fear based practice; we are scared NOT to do, it lest it appear as if we aren’t sorry. And if we aren’t sorry then we might instantly get struck by lightening when the ark is open. The whole idea of being inscribed in the Book of Life or the Book of Death is terrifyingly manipulative. The concept incites such fear. We clean up our act, starve ourselves, and suddenly attend services to save ourselves and our loved ones. This paints such a scary picture, of God weighing each person’s fate. I’ve said this before; this feels to me like we are really underestimated God. He loves us. He forgives us constantly, not just on one fateful day. We can better ourselves at any moment, and He designed us that way. He doesn’t want to kill off half the community with one swoop. Unless bad breath is that bad of an offense...

Look, I’m not trying to change the service. Not only is it not possible, but I don’t let it affect me. I opine on it, but I still go pretty often and pray how I like. To each their own.  I just kinda wish these sacred practices originated from a place of love and safety, not fire and brimstone. I can tell you with certainty that a true closeness to God and spiritual (not observant) devotion is so much fuller when it’s born of warmth, and practiced without fear of getting whipped somehow. That’s when it becomes conditional, “I’m doing this or that on the condition that I won’t get hit by a bus when I exit this building”. No relationship is pure when it is built on conditions. If we strive for unconditional human love, then how beautiful would it be to feel secure in that with your Maker?

The whole hitting thing is filed away as something I do not want my children to learn. It’s the opposite of self love. I don’t like the message. My challenge as a mother will be to teach them to contemplate this stuff on their own, despite being taught it in school. Don’t smack yourself out of habit. Don’t assume you are always deserving of punishment. Assume you are to be treated lovingly, and let kindness guide you️

Human Math

I have always been terrible at math. My brain definitely wraps it’s head around literature, history, psychology, and philosophy way better than anything based on numbers. On the SAT’s I got a 710 on verbal, a fact I’m still so proud of, and a 500 on math. That was after two years of math tutoring prep. I’m fascinated when people use numerals as a language, but I can’t relate; I stick to communicating with words, which is really so much harder than one would think...

I actually asked the Universe the other day, during one of our many daily conversations, how it knows to speak English. It replied, "I speak to you in the language that you need.”  That made me smile, how all these unseen forces can hold each of us up in our own way in which we understand. It’s a tailored language. But I’ve been thinking lately about Human Math, as in evaluating who adds to and subtracts from my life. Who multiplies my joy and who divides my heart into fractions. Which people are parts to my whole, and what percent of people I know enhance my human experience. I’ve also been conversely aware of whose life I’m certain I add to. This awareness is slightly uncomfortable since it involves some ego, but then again it’s nice to know that we are a source of comfort, safety, and guidance for others. It’s why we are here, right? It’s been a true exercise in self study; the adding and taking away of characters in “The Life and Times of Jess”.

It’s not possible that we don’t outgrow certain people. After all, we are meant to constantly shed skin. This will include subtracting humans who hinder our progress. This is not selfish, it’s flowing towards the answer to your personal equation. How wonderful and beautiful that we can constantly be adding more special souls into our lives? Even on the last day of someone’s life, they can make a new connection before leaving their body. The world is a huge place full of goodness. We can add as many quality folks as we like. Our hearts are never 100% full in this way; it expands to accommodate whoever we want to take in.

So I have this new friend. Since he’s new, the friendship isn’t big in the number of months or years we’ve known each other. He’s said to me a few times that I don’t really know him well since I haven’t known him for long. This is, and has always been irrelevant in my life; when I connect I feel instantly close. It can be a connection based on three minutes of direct energy sharing. Longevity can be cool if the person you’ve known for 30 years has added to your happiness, but it’s a detriment if they’ve been an asshole for such a long time, thereby taking away peace of mind. I don’t understand the notion that someone remains in your life as a result of longevity. Um, who cares?? Time isn’t as important as the summation of good feelings someone can give you. I know so many people  who take shit from others, simply because they’ve “known them forever”. Whether it’s a parent, sibling, spouse, or so called friend, no one should ever use time against you. There is only strength in numbers if the equation yields the correct outcome. When things don’t add up with those we’ve chosen, we will get the wrong answer every time. It’s a great practice exercise to think about the people in your life, do they add to or subtract from your well-being? Most people won’t be neutral. Almost everyone contributes something, whether it’s a plus or minus. Who you add to your own life is entirely your choice. Take away what doesn’t serve you, before you’re the factor that gets taken away. Numbers people find comfort in how concrete and final math is. There’s a rigidity to arithmetic. It’s not up for discussion or debate. The roles others play in your life can also be that clear. The sum of your joy is determined by those you assign the parts to. Our potential for love is infinite. I’ll never be able to figure out what an 18% tip is. I can’t help my third grader with his math homework. Human math I’ve become quite skilled at, and am reveling in a stage of life where those I have chosen do indeed complete me. Holes becoming whole is homework I’ve embraced. I’m still learning, and the lessons are not without pain. I might never Ace this, but I’m studying my ass off and making constant progress. And I’m 100% proud of myself.

Dr. Melfi

Even Dr. Melfi, Tony’s psychiatrist on The Sopranos, has a shrink. Experts on human behavior are still humans themselves. No one goes through this human experience unscathed. We all need help, support, advice, and guidance. We are born with many skills of subconscious resiliency, but with a surprising lack of coping skills. Navigating emotional waters is a tough gig that will violently toss us ashore; leaving us gasping, breathless, and drained. A fellow person throwing us a life preserver truly does help us literally preserve our lives.

So first off, thank you to the quality, concerned doctors, analysts, social workers, therapists, gurus, and spiritual teachers who help keep us afloat. Secondly, and this is not a secret, I’m fairly adept at human psychology. It’s why I can write these posts. I have heard my whole life that I should be a therapist. I take this as a compliment. Complete strangers or brief acquaintances will tell me random, secret stuff. It’s nice to know people feel safe trusting me with their heavy loads; they must sense I can carry them. Often I can. Whether or not I want to is a very new question I’m asking myself. It’s an important question at this particular juncture.

While talking to a dear friend today, I had a revelation that may be a game changer for me. I realized that perhaps I naturally absorb other people’s drama as a direct result of my incredibly dramatic childhood. I come from a large family that can be best described as crazy. They did not put the “fun” in “dysfunction”. Growing up in this environment was emotional guerrilla warfare (if I’ve written that before it’s because I love this description for its accuracy). There was always a scapegoat, a fight that often turned physical, emotional and verbal lashings, fear, control, threats, secrets, and crime. That’s just scratching the surface. Despite this, I truly consider myself to be incredibly and surprisingly normal in all ways.

As a divorced woman, I don’t consider myself as having typical divorced baggage. I don’t let certain things I may be dealing with bleed into other areas of my life. I go to therapy. I go to yoga. I meditate. I have healthy channels to clear me when my emotional system gets clogged. I am overall positive and emotionally healthy. I can reroute myself at this point. Looking back, I really can’t say that I have allowed dramatic circumstances to overtake my life. They may have always been orbiting, insane factors but I've always just kinda did my thing regardless. I’m not a drama queen and never have been. I have never sought out unhappiness or problems. I have perspective and gratitude. However, I realized literally today that intense, crazy drama has always been woven into the fabric of my existence. Hence, I am so understanding of other people’s drama because I LITERALLY UNDERSTAND IT.  I learned this language very early on. Drama became a norm and due to it sheer familiarity, I never noticed. This was a loaded revelation, that was followed by a few minutes of self pity and feeling like a shmuck. Is this why people feel safe with me???? Not because I’m zen, open-minded, and empathetic, but because they can smell decades of drama on me???

There has to be something to this, if as a human I’ve always historically absorbed the complications of others. In learning to undo certain patterns, this is a big deal. Because honestly, I don’t want other people’s baggage anymore. As my friend said, “Jessie, life is hard enough. You don’t need to take on someone else’s difficulties”. Yes, I’m proudly an empathetic person. I love being sensitive and compassionate; these are important qualities, and they do indeed come easily to me. I’m not the chick who pretends to care. I truly do care, and I know you know that. But I can’t let this past language dictate my future. It’s enough. I don’t want to speak it anymore. I’m over it. There is such a thing as being understanding to a fault. Without judgement, I am indeed entitled to evaluate just exactly what it is that I allow into my life. Just because I’ve always opened myself up completely and welcomed external baggage from others, does not mean I should continue along that course. How many times have I written that different patterns invite different choices into our lives? And how completely in control of these choices we are? I think that since I was always normal while growing up in Crazy Town, I felt I had to temper the boiling emotional cauldrons that surrounded me. I’ve always been the ear, the sustainer, the cheerleader, and the comedic foil. This cannot be coincidental. Again, all good things. But they stem from somewhere.

While it’s my natural inclination to help, this can lead me to feel used sometimes. I have an overly analytical mind that starts working off energy perceptions immediately. Figuring people shit out is a puzzle. It’s like cracking a case. And I like helping others solve things. But I also like to be analyzed, seen, and understood. And if I’m doing all the seeing and understanding, then there’s no room left for me to receive. I accept responsibility for all of this. I cannot blame anyone for accepting services I give away for free, like Lucy from Peanuts behind a roadside stand. But let someone take care of me for a change. I can’t say I want that out of life when I perpetuate the same repeating habits of me doing all the heavy lifting. We weigh, we weed, and then we water ourselves. I don’t ever want to be the Pomeranian on some guy’s lap, who gets treated like the adored pet.  When I see couples like this I want to vomit (yes that was judgmental. I’m not perfect). Trust me, I could have had that already if I wanted. What I want is balance, reciprocity, and a constant give and take of both parties being supported, seen, and lifted up. I also have cracks that need to be filled, I also have crap I need to vent. I also need therapy and guidance, not just from a professional. I get it, it’s not so easy and obvious to hold up a very strong person. We seem like we don’t need it. But don’t hold our strength and functionality against us. Hey, I’m honored to advise you. I just might have to start charging...

Sometimes

Sometimes he will let look at me and think, “Of course. There she is.” Other times my existence will shock him. Sometimes I’ll drive him crazy in a good way, sometimes in a not so good way. But always driving him somewhere. Some days he will tell me what he’d like to eat, sometimes he will want to be surprised and trust me to fill him up. But always hungry for my offering. Sometimes he will crave my voice, while other times my silence will be golden. But always speaking each other’s language. Sometimes we will be on the same page, but not necessarily, as we write our story. This story won’t have an ending; it will only have beginnings. 

Sometimes he will prefer me without makeup, and sometimes he will be so proud to be with the glammed up prom queen. Always will he feel like the luckiest guy in the room. Always he will be right. Sometimes I will laugh with him. Other times at him. But always laughter, belly aching, pee leaking, snort inducing laughter. Sometimes we will fall asleep together exhausted from the very nature of the day. Sometimes we will crash, breathless and intertwined, from the very nature of what it means to be two people insanely attracted to each other. But always in joined restfulness. Never will we need Ambien; the peace of being together will sing us to sleep.

Sometimes I’ll be completely still. Sometimes I’ll dance like a maniac. Always will my different rhythms delight him. Sometimes I might be a bit of a snarky bitch. Other times I will be a gooey pile of mush. He will want to taste both flavors, knowing the snark is temporary while the goo is really my center. Sometimes he will go out with his friends, and sometimes I’ll go out with mine. Always will we wait for each other to close out the night so as to begin the next day as a pair. 

Sometimes we will be the sun, and sometimes the moon. Both are necessary to illuminate. Sometimes we might require personal space. Always will we understand that need. Never will we take it personally. Never will we be attached; always will we be connected. Sometimes one or both of us will feel sad, lost, and adrift. Always will we be each other’s anchor, even if we aren’t our strongest. Sometimes that means saying, “my life raft has a large hole, but hop on and I’ll carry you to safety anyway”. Sometimes life will make sense, usually it won’t. But never will that really matter, since we will just be happy to be experiencing whatever this is together. Sometimes I panic I’ll be alone forever. Most of the time I have trust in what I do not know and cannot see. Always is the uncertainty of this human deeply exciting. Often I feel I’m in control, but always am I really not.

Always does the Universe have my back. Sometimes I freak the F out, and always do I have the love and support of the most loving group of people. Always do they lift me up while sometimes I am the camp counselor, leading the pack and organizing the troops. Never will he be possessive. Always will he love my capacity to give and receive love, like a leaky faucet no plumber would dare want to fix. Sometimes we will jump off a cliff into the unknown. Always will we land hand in hand. Sometimes we will be awash with grief over the usual stuff humans grieve over. Always we will want to comfort the other unconditionally. Always will we be invaluable to the other, never will we make the other pay for kindness and affection. Never will we take each other for granted. Always will we appreciate that every step led us down this path towards each other. Never will we regret or question choosing each other. Always will we know all the reasons why we did.

Always will we want to see the world and learn. Never will we get bored of the lessons. Always will we aim to discover new ways to make the other smile. There is no such thing as too many smiles from the one you love. Sometimes will we take each other’s breath away, while always helping the other to breathe easier. Always will we stretch and grow, never will we clench and shrink. Sometimes I manifest, while other times I try to rid myself of any preconceived notions and just wait like a good girl. Always do I know this will be epic. Never will I settle.  Sometimes I wonder if this person has the very same thoughts and questions about me, while never having met me yet... Sometimes will eventually become Always.

New York Fashion Geek

As I’m simmering, chopping, sautéing, roasting, and baking for the too fast approaching Jewish holidays, the New York fashionistas are busy doing the opposite. They’re dieting, cleansing, modeling, posting, waiting in line, starving, and glamming. I’m in my stained Minnie Mouse apron; no glam squad for me this year. While I do love and appreciate being a part of the glitz and glam that is New York Fashion Week, the scheduling of it this year simply made it impossible for me to attend. This month of September 2018 is the perfect storm of Jewish holidays, back to school for my four kids, and NYFW. Something had to give.

I’m bummed I couldn’t attend; it’s a beautiful, fun, creative, and bold atmosphere. I love selecting outfits that represent my various tastes, combining class and attention grabbing shtick. It’s fun to put stuff on my head that might ordinarily brand me a kook (not that I care, it’s just that during NYFW I’m amongst my peeps). I love networking with others in the industry, kibbutzing with the hardworking street photographers, and feeling the love on the catwalk after a designer has poured their soul into their newest collection. But I’m an actual mother, and an observant Jewish one at that. I wear many hats, not just ones with kitty cat ears (shout out to last year’s most popular NYFW look). Sometimes we must prioritize. There was simply no way, due to religious observance of the High Holidays, I could attend, even had I managed to help my children acclimate to the first week of school. I am not an overbearing helicopter mom by any means. It’s not my parenting philosophy, and I believe it does a massive disservice to the kids. However before all else in my life, I am a mother first, and this is just not the week to leave them to pose for photos at a fashion show. Life is choices, and that’s fine. But the planning of this year’s NYFW events sucks and feels unfair. Many Jewish mothers in the industry, as well as Judes (Jewish dudes) who observe the holidays, are very frustrated. I am not, because though I’m loathe to use this stupid phrase,”it is what it is”. There’s just no reason to make myself crazy over something I can’t control. It is indeed a shame though.

Aside from the fun and fabulousness, I look forward to growing my brand. This is an ideal time to spread the Lady Blaga love in my favorite city. I’m so proud of this brand being immersed in so many different avenues. Though a couple of people advised me to pick one lane at the start of this blogging adventure, my instinct was nah, Dawg. This is my time to share all that I must, and that includes my love of fashion. It’s also important for me to pay homage to all the talented, gracious, inspirational designers with whom I have a relationship with. I’d never want to appear as if I’m blowing off a show I was invited to. Here at Lady B we work very hard to show appreciation and respect to all the brands we work with. I have a strict reverence for deadlines, accepting invitations, and attending as much as I humanly can. Occasionally this causes me to prioritize blogging obligations at the expense of my family. And it’s hard. I’m one woman, and there’s one of me to go around.  At this point in time I’m trying to be so many things right now. It’s not going to always work. I wish I could be in two places at once, like we all do sometimes. But, alas...

What stinks about this is that I had no choice here, for the aforementioned reasons. The decision was unknowingly made for all the mothers and members of the J Tribe in our business. I know it was totally unintentional and not designed to be exclusionary. Of course I know that, but if the premise of this blog is to be a space for openness and honesty, well...

So To Whom It May Concern in the industry, I love you. I appreciate you. I’m inspired by you. But please be more sensitive and considerate next time this shebang is scheduled. I hate to let down my followers by not being able to report to them about the awesomeness that is NYFW. There are a few of us observant Jewish bloggers with largely observant audiences. This is how they connect to you, via our representation. So please afford us the chance to include them in your rad ness. We just want to love you, that’s all. I say this with the utmost in good intention.     

And to my readers, I promise next time your girl goes out there, I’ll deliver double time, lunacy on my head and bod promised. I wish everyone a happy and healthy New Year, whether you’re rolling stuffed cabbage or rolling joints. Stuffing your face, or pissing out all your water with that crazy lemon juice cayenne pepper concoction. Cooking in nasty ass boxer shorts under a Disney apron or wearing your Gucci. It’s all good in the hood. Models, come say hi if you want leftovers.

All the love in the world, The Honey B

18 and Life

Don’t go. Don’t not live here anymore. Don’t not need me to make you a grilled cheese. Don’t not walk into the kitchen every afternoon, holding too many books. Don’t not be up late, watching scary movies that make you crawl into bed with me. Don’t not eat guacamole and chips all Saturday afternoon with your friends. Don’t not lie with me on the gray couch, feet to feet, reading and talking. Don’t not take naps in the screened in porch, that is both of our favorite room in the house. Don’t remind me that all those years of babyhood that you yourself cannot recall, are over. Don’t force me into a new chapter, where you really aren’t my baby. Don’t not be sitting in the basement the night before a younger sibling’s birthday, making elaborate and funny posters. Don’t not get chocolate on your face when you eat. Don’t not be here and call out that you’re going for a late night Chickie’s run with your friends. Don’t not order a million little funny things from amazon, often gifts for the rest of us. Don’t not be here to play with the dogs you love so much. Don’t forget all the ballet lessons we went to when we lived in the City. Certain things you were too young to remember, so that is my job; remembering. For example, how I used to park your stroller in the bathroom while I took a shower, so I could sing to you and watch you. The park on 84th we went to every day to watch the boats in the Hudson River. The funny voices I used to read to you in (I began reading Eloise to you when you were six weeks old). All the museum trips to the Museum of “Natural Mystery”. The middle of the night nursing during your infancy, while “we” watched the Wonder Years on mute. Don’t not leave your room a complete mess, and don’t not need me to tell you it must be cleaned up pronto. Don’t not sleep in your bed until 2:30 pm, exactly like I did at your age. Don’t not be there when I go check on you. Who will I kiss in your room? Don’t go, at least not yet. Don’t not miss me. Don’t not want to come home and be back here.

Go. Go enjoy this most exciting new phase in your young adult life. Go travel. Go make new friends who are worthy of getting to know you. Go hear different points of view that will expand your mind. Go dance. Go see how people live in other countries. Go try new foods (more vegetables please). Go feel independent, yet use common sense and caution. Go make mistakes. Go forgive yourself for said mistakes, just commit to learning from them. Go find what moves you in life. Go find people who will bring out the best in you, and keep them. Go explore and wander. Go search. Go question. Go continue making your family so proud of the human you have always been, and who you keep growing into. Go forth with gratitude and mindfulness, pay attention to everything. Go keep what serves you, go release what won’t. Go read. Go be happy but miss us. Go far away so it will remind you of what coming home feels like. Go with excitement in your eyes and curiosity in your spirit, and a sense of safety in your heart. Go smile at people for no reason. Go be a source of good and comfort in the world. Go put into practice what I have taught you, even if you don’t want to admit it:). Go be a kid before college. Go be a young adult post high school. Go use all five senses in all you experience. Go be yourself. Go slowly, there’s no rush. Figuring yourself out takes a lot of time. Go, knowing your family and home await you.

Local Listing

We all have our lists, whether or not they’re written down. I find that women who make lists vs those who don’t, are comparable to those locked in the age old “employment mommy war”.  Meaning, list makers are often hyped up Type A’s who look down on less seemingly organized types of homemakers. Just as women who work vs women who don’t are usually justifying why they fall into one particular category.

I was raised amongst a large, female herd of notorious list makers. The kind who are psychotically organized to the point where they might whisper to each other how Julia Robert’s husband in “Sleeping With the Enemy” was a disgusting slob. List making is an interesting domestic ruse of creating some semblance of control. I have come to observe that most people I know who live by their lists, are actually some of the most out of control people I’ve ever encountered. It’s such a mind trick, and part of the stories we tell ourselves. Mundane errands are often clung to like life rafts in order to give, well, order. I had many years that were eaten up by bullshit errands. I liked them at first; they made me feel productive. Then I grew to hate them because I knew I was fooling myself, and I resented the emptiness of checking off a to do list. I usually didn’t write down these tasks. I have a really good memory and frankly, had not much else to remember. But when I did compose an actual to do list it did indeed feel good to literally check stuff off. It is the easiest way a housewife can feign accomplishment. On another note, working moms who wield their pen and paper like weapons can instantly feel more domestic. Lists are actually inherently good things. They are indeed a useful tool in helping us manage our practical human lives. Simply put, we need to get shit done. Tasks are part of this people gig. Listing, sorting, and organizing become problematic when they breed an air of superiority.

Listing can turn on the list maker when what’s being written down doesn’t belong trapped between two college ruled lines. Many things in life cannot be contained within the simple act of making a list. How strange that a list for one person can be grocery items needed to bake a cake, while for another person it’s materials required to build a bomb or plan a suicide. Even for someone so out of control that they have no recourse but to end their own life, making that final list gives them the illusion that they’ve got this down. As I said before, I know a large number of the cattiest, most controlling women out there, who have used their maniacal housekeeping methodology to feel like they have it all together.  I know a woman who takes such false comfort in alphabetizing her medicine drawer, separating the waterproof bandaids from the antibacterial bandaids, and color coding the kids’s LEGO pieces. I say “false” comfort because she’s one of the unhappiest girls I know. She’s mean and intensely controlling. She incites fear in all around her. She is cold and shows zero emotion. And we all know that textbook dime-store psychology would dictate that the more out of control we feel on the inside, the more we crave control externally. I don’t know anyone with true inner peace who gives a damn about which type of bandaid goes where. This post isn’t based just on her; in fact it’s not based on her at all. I know tons like this who wouldn’t blink at believing they are more on top of their game than me because I double booked my kid on two play dates, and my towel closet could use a makeover.

I was once in the throes of crisis years ago. It was a very serious medical situation that required an immediate trip to the ER. I called a list maker I knew and literally begged for help. My daughter needed to be picked up from kindergarten, and I hadn’t yet gone grocery shopping that week. This was the response I received: “you should have known this was going to happen and gotten your life in order by going to the supermarket yesterday”. I recall being stupefied, and that my ex husband grabbed the phone out of my hand and slammed it down. I was in a state of shock that someone could be so cold and use my lack of organizational skills (btw I’m objectively quite organized. My home is always in order because I’m naturally neat. I’m just not a psychopath about it) against me at the scariest time in my life. I never see shit like this coming because it never occurs to me that acting so cruelly is an option. This person’s life was really in the shitter for different reasons. She knew it and so did everyone around her. Once I composed myself I did say "you’re right, maybe if I was more organized my life would be as perfect as yours”. Like all bullies who are stood up to, she shut up and retreated.

I know another chick who looooooves lists. She also looooooves to take jabs at my parenting. Hmmmm... in control people usually don’t have an incessant need to look to criticize others. Just sayin... I know why she needed to use me as the occasional dartboard. I won’t get into it, but let’s just say this has been a layered awareness of mine for years. The need to list, and to see those check marks, can be akin to the proven scientific dopamine hits of seeing likes on Instagram. It feels good to see what we have accomplished. You know what feels even better? Actual accomplishment. Not needing to fool ourselves into a sense of satisfaction by way of Target and Costco. Listing doesn’t make one a good wife or mother. It means you know how to write. However, if we are human beings so used to doing, can we at least make lists of things that will indeed fill our cup? Lists of how we will hit the pillow smiling and wake up joyous and ready? We may as well, since we are doing it anyway. The things we list without even realizing it can become replaced with lists we DO realize. These kinds of lists erase the need to feel better than anyone else. They are there to help us serve ourselves, not to tear others down. No more itemizing your life like it’s a business. That never works. All that usually leads to is the feeling of “now what?”; I checked everything off but I still feel like crap. It’s confusing. We are supposed to feel like we achieved something. My lists have grown in some ways. I have soooo much to do on this planet. As time goes on, my heart is expanding and so there’s more room to fill it with so many wonderful things I can barely keep track of. Target can wait, and my towel closet is fine. Those aren’t eulogy worthy endeavors. No one will care if your bandaids are organized according to size and purpose. If they do, then your friends suck. List away, Loves. Just make sure that what is going on the list is worthy of being put down. It’s the content of the list that matters, not how many checks you have.

Slam

I have been getting a lot of questions lately about courage, primarily from women. I understand why my trajectory is of interest, and I’m grateful for the admiration and curiosity. Keep your feedback and inquiries coming; the circuitous interaction here is a win win for us all. It’s really heartwarming when I feel how genuine your questions are, and I strive to answer them all as honestly as you ask them. I’ve concluded that we are all born with courage, then it gets chipped away at by numerous infiltrators (the narratives we acquire as early as toddlerhood), but we can claw our way back to it with awareness and determination. It’s not a “thing”, like a one of a kind car or watch, so it’s universally available. A tangible item can’t be in two places at once, but a feeling or conviction can simultaneously exist in all of us at the same moment. I’ve always found comfort in that after someone I love passes; now they are everywhere, whereas when they were alive we only had them if they were next to us in the same room. What’s intriguing to me is that my life seems to be courageous both to those who know me personally and those who don’t. To those who know I’m divorced from reading the blog, and to those who don’t because they just follow the IG. That I come off courageously from different angles often takes me by surprise, despite the fact that I do get it.

Years ago I was entrenched in a really hard medical situation with one of my children. It lasted a long time and was a terribly sad, hard period. It baffled me when I got the “you’re so strong” line (which most people hate btw), because I simply saw it as having not had any choice. How nice would it have been had I actually been able to choose strength, instead of getting pushed off a cliff and having to teach myself to fly midair. What was strong about just going through the motions of what needed to be done? It’s not like I had options. There were no map contemplations; I just walked without knowing where the hell I was going. Which I guess really is brave.

Truthfully, that’s how I wound up here. I just went, with no clear destination in mind. Daily decisions slowly started to change based on need and instinct, and those molded themselves into a path. The path didn’t determine the changes; rather the changes determined the path. I came to identify myself as an emotionally brave person several years ago max. Prior to that I always felt riddled with all sorts of fears. I was obsessed with my own mortality and health, which is ironically “Lack of Health 101”.

Physically I can be a huge scaredy cat. I have no need for adrenaline in the form of height and speed. Velocity does not interest me, though it’s a cool word. Let someone else hurl themselves off a cliff; I think laser hair removal is a sufficient feat of bravery. I have written about this before, but I have a new point, I promise.

It’s true I have done things lately that have required courage. Getting divorced, learning how to better manage my finances, overcoming the impossibility of the DJ thing as a result of societal/religious restrictions, traveling alone, exposing myself on this platform, just to name a few. Shifting an entire life to explore unfamiliar territory, not knowing how it’ll pan out is indeed worthy of curiosity. Everyone wants the abridged manual. It does not exist though. This is one of the reasons I love daily meditation ; I wake up every day and remind myself of my immediate intentions for the day. I end every session with my hands over my third eye, clearly stating what I’ll promise myself that day. Whatever revealed itself to me during the meditation is what I formulate into that certain vow. I know it’s right for that moment because it just came to me. There are times nothing clearly comes, so I’ll try to force it by pulling out my roster of things I need to cultivate, but it never feels right that way. What feels right Tuesday night not click Wednesday. What clicks Wednesday at 11 might not click that same day at 3. Our needs are always changing, and that’s where trusting the inner voice is indeed brave. To ignore all sense of presumption and control, and listen to a voice we can’t prove even exists. It’s being brave internally little by little is why I appear brave to you externally on a grand scale. No one can possibly know what hoops of fear and fire I jump through every single day. I have had to fight very, very hard for my suit of armor. If I stop fighting it will fall. Which happens, in which case I pick it back up. This is why the Warrior series in yoga is so powerful. We change shape but remain strong and focused throughout. The arms, gaze, and positions change, but the foundation of the legs stands firm and sure. Sometimes we look behind, sometimes we stare directly ahead. But the gaze never drops.

My favorite name out of those poses is “humble warrior”. I have finally entered a space where I am aware of my own strength (instead of negating and apologize for it), but I do know I have such increased humility. Awareness of humility is not contradictory. Being unsure and arrogant is the opposite of that. The more we doubt ourselves, the louder we yell that we claim to know what we are doing. Therefore, as my courage built itself up and I grew into myself, bit by bit, I became increasingly comfortable with not knowing where I’m going. Bravery happens very slowly. It’s not a several month prefab house. Most things that are long lasting take a long time to construct. It’s not built overnight, and there’s no magic word or elixir. It’s just that it’s literally the only antidote to fear, and something inside me just wanted the rest of me to no longer be scared of everything anymore.

However, there is something I’d like to build up the courage to do; read poetry aloud in a serious environment. There are a couple of regular poetry slams in New York. How wonderful that this still exists; good, old fashioned poetry readings. Last year, after a really sad evening event dedicated to pediatric cancer, I needed depth and truth. Going home to watch Bravo seemed way too empty and stupid (I mean...). So I went in my black tie outfit downtown to the regular Monday night slam at the Bowery Poetry Club. I had never been but had wanted to go for quite some time. I felt like a beatnik in the 60’s; it was excellent. There were clearly regulars who assembled weekly to speak their truth, in hyper intelligent rhyme. The room was dark, there was a stage, and they waved the ten dollar entrance fee since I was new. That alone was heartwarming. It was just about the art, not a money making event. This was a pure, creative space and I loved just sitting and absorbing. It was life affirming to know there are still people like this, who write just to kick some verbal ass. People who weigh every word and syllable so that it fits the rhyme scheme. I have been rhyming almost exclusively for 30 years. Everything I’ve ever written until I began the blog is in rhyme form. It is an exercise that has always delighted and challenged me. Blogging has been a wonderful new muscle that I’ve developed, but aside from essays on tests, I never wrote in sentences like this. I don’t like stages or spotlights. I didn’t like that the poems were judged and lower scoring poets were eliminated from the next round. I’m not competitive, and I think it’s kind of terrible to have someone spill their guts and get rated and kicked off the stage. Some guy recited a long rhyme about his chronic battle with Crohn’s disease, and the judge was like “4!”. That felt so mean. What scared me most was that the poems all had to be totally recited by heart. I’d shit my pants without my paper. I’m a raconteur and comedian by nature because I can free flow and be silly, but what if I’d mess up a word or line from something I worked so hard on?

DJ performances have helped me with getting over stuff like this, but I love my words and I wouldn’t want to fail them by stumbling. The idea of making mistakes is still one I’m learning to embrace. No one dies on a surgical table if I flub a line. Forgiving ourselves for human error is a necessary skill that must be honed. I’m slowly getting better with that, but the perfectionist in me hasn’t been quieted enough. The first step to all this would be to write something I’d be proud enough to share. Then I could take it from there. In the shower last week I realized it’s been too long since I wrote poetry; all my writing goes to all these posts and captions. The blog fills that need to write, but rhyming is a joyful mental workout that I have missed. There is no such thing as being too courageous, and there are always dark spaces in our minds that need to be brought out of the shadows. If I could do this though, Man, would I go to sleep happy that night. It would sure be nice to slam this window of fear shut, and let myself fly while my feet touch the ground.

Her and I

A few weeks ago marked the yarzeit of my dearly departed mother in law. A yarzeit is the date on the Jewish lunar calendar on which someone died. American culture, and most others, uses the solar calendar. Since the Jewish calendar system follows the cycles of the moon, the Hebrew date remains the same but will have a different coordinating English date each year. I have always found it interesting when we will use terminology to turn “die” into more of a gentle euphemism, for example saying “pass away” or “leave us”. Everything we say and do somehow serves our survival, so we will instinctively change our wording to soften the blow of someone dying, which is obviously the single most unavoidable worst truth out there. News of someone dying is the swift, unforgiving release of the guillotine. We can’t stop it or plead with it to slow down, regardless of which words we use. “Pass away” always felt a bit like a form of denial to me. It’s admitting it but it feels softer,  sounds less crude. Death is indeed crude though. It’s the most difficult fact of our human lives, and we rail against it though it’s the most expected part of nature.  Everything dies, from flowers to people.

I once heard a Lubavitcher rabbi say that originally we were never supposed to die, which is why we have such a hard time with the concept of death today. This always made sense to me, given how we humans will do literally anything to stave off death. Very few of us accept it, and the ones that do are always more at peace. True yogis have an easier time with the idea of death, since the notion of the body is so temporary. The peace and calm that the practice of yoga brings in general, is a practice of eliminating fear based on connection and trust, so the trust that God has chosen to put your spirit elsewhere into the world is less scary. It’s just time to become something else.

Both Judaism and yoga have always instilled in me a strong belief in the afterlife. I have never doubted this idea, and I do believe it makes life much easier to think this way. I once said to a friend who had trouble believing after her father died, “Of course there’s no direct proof. But for the same price we might as well believe”. She liked this and found it helpful. Finding comfort in a blue jay that lands in front of you unexpectedly, or a star that you think is shining as a message just for you, can be a real source of soothing. It’s just kinder to ourselves to lean in to that, to allow for the comforting. Being so tapped into nature, and absolutely believing in reincarnation and the transformation of the spirit, I love feeling these genuine bursts of connection to my mother in law. It’s how I know she’s with me. How I know that the incredibly strong and unwavering channel of love she provided for me and my children hasn’t disappeared. Aside from me and their father, she was it as far as the deepest well of love for our kids. Not to detract from anyone else who lost her, but our six person family unit was unique in that sense. She was the only other relative we were that intensely close to.

Now you know I’m divorced, so to some, the fact that I still refer to her as “my mother in law” might seem odd. That’s silly, though. I never defined family in the traditional, four walled sense. My connection to her was always about Her and I, and that shouldn’t have to change because her son and I are no longer married. Divorce shifts the family dynamic, but it doesn’t have to eradicate it. That’s one of the best parts about divorce; choice. You can choose who you want to remain in your life and release those who you don’t. It’s really that simple. Anyone still in my life is entirely according to my design. Those who I always enjoyed and who enhanced my life, are still very much a part of my heart. The fact that my ex and I choose to sit down to Shabbat dinner and take the kids to synagogue together feels good, because it’s a conscious choice to maintain unity. There’s no resentment or hostility in having to do things together because it isn’t forced. I am confused how most don’t seem to understand this, but that’s not my problem if they don’t get it.  I still refer to certain family members by their former titles ( as in father in law or sister in law or cousin) , and some I don’t. There are no rules here, that’s silly and limiting (as rules often are). Which is why my closeness to my mother in law remains very much a huge piece to the puzzle of my heart. She’s always on my mind, and when someone is on our minds to that extent, we want them in all areas of our life. It’s too painful to have love for another exist only in our heads; we want them every and any which way. So yes, I infuse her into me via the sun, the trees, a butterfly, or a blind sensation. Thank you, Nature, for giving her to me in other ways.

I actually met my mother in law without my ex. He and I were dating seriously, and it just so happened that my in laws had taken my sister in law for a college interview. I attended this college, so I met them by the main office and we went to lunch at a nearby deli (Mendy’s, anyone??). I was sooooo nervous to meet them; I really wanted them to like me and approve. The first time I saw her, she wore a light blue suit, very blonde hair, and a huge smile. I don’t remember many details after that, and I’m a huge detail person. I remember everything (thank you, God, for this memory and ability to absorb). But I think a lot of the specific details about that meeting didn’t stick because they weren’t important. Feeling and energy had taken over the instinct to cling to remembering everyone’s lunch order (though I imagine thick soup was involved). What I remember was immediately feeling a closeness and acceptance from this woman. We were clearly very similar in certain ways; bubbly, friendly, talkative, affectionate. Both she and I could/can talk to a wall. We both felt a social responsibility to fill silence with warm chatter, and we were/are great at it. It’s a nice quality to put a room at ease with genuine conversation. She was particularly skilled at this, and was known for it. She liked being liked, and it came naturally to her to provide that for herself. I also remember feeling a sense of recognition upon meeting her. As in, “oh, there you are”. We just clicked and I’d be an idiot to not hold onto that for myself to this day. And since I’m not an idiot, especially in the emotional sense, I went alone to visit her on her yarzeit. I needed to see her on my own terms, and not get lost in a ceremony that holds no meaning for me. I wanted to communicate freely to her in a way I know how, with raw openness. At this point in my life, I have no idea how not to do that.

I have always wondered if she’s angry with me for all of this. I don’t think she would have understood this divorce, from either my perspective or her son’s. She was from a different generation and mindset, one I completely understand and am familiar with. Those of us who believe that the spirits are watching us, well, what are they seeing and not? Does she see me in situations I wouldn’t want her to see me in? Does she know my thoughts? Does she see me pee in the shower? Does she see me at my worst? They can’t be selectively watching us, and I have no answer to this. But I have always wondered if she’s upset with me. I have asked her this when I light a candle for her on Friday night, which I do weekly. The concept of a shifted, newly defined family unit was too modern for her. This would have hurt her. While talking this out with a friend (thanks for listening, D), I realized that she’s not angry with me. Anger is a human emotion and she’s no longer human. She is greater than that. Nature has no ego, no preconceived notions of how things must be, and she has become dispersed into nature. Mother Nature indeed. Spirits aren’t limited in any way, having been freed from all the heavy, messy shackles that weigh us down. Death is a liberator. It frees the soul from a diseased body that can no longer perform, and from the dark, shapeless, mental and emotional ink blots that stain our state of being. Our minds bring us down, Man. All the time. So without a mind we are expansive, uncontrolled love in its most perfect state. We are just Beings. We just Are. She just Is.

I carried this concern around for years, and it just evaporated with this one conversation I had. It was clearly time to let that worry go. I was ready without knowing it. Once I realized this, my fears sailed away, like a balloon floating up to the sky. A balloon a parent would give a child to send up to a dead grandparent on their birthday. What I said to her that day in the cemetery was a meditation I often use to calm myself down and reinstate my greater trust in the Universe. “You are the earth that supports me. You are the sky that watches over me. You are the air that surrounds me. You are the water that heals me. You are the air that surrounds me. You are the light that fills me.”

I need the elements, I need her, and now they are one in the same. I have them both. The human version of her would have thought this was crazy:). After repeating this a number of times, I told her that our connection was always about just us, and how that won’t change. Connection and love don’t expire. They are dateless, and can’t be contained in a box on a calendar. Life shouldn’t be defined by dates, and neither should death...               

You and Me, Mom. You always taught me so much about love.