Last Day of July Musings

Ah, this month is finally over. July always seems so much longer than any other month due to the heat. August can be hot but it is more bearable knowing that October is that much closer.

I rode 37 miles on my bicycle this weekend – divided into 12 miles yesterday with Jenny D. and 25 miles today with Elizabeth, Eric, and Karen. I think I over did it, but then it gave me a great excuse to spend the afternoon on the bed with my fluffy cat, Boo, reading Elizabeth Berg’s The Pull of the Moon. Elizabeth Berg is my new favorite author and I think I have read at least eight of her books in the past month. Most of her books are about women in their fifties and the joys of friendship and the losses that occur with age. I feel like I could be friends with a lot of the women in her books. There are some others, though, that I would probably want to thump on the head and say “get over it!” That is the thing, Elizabeth writes about women you can imagine as living in your neighborhood and you are not going to like every single one. And, the best part, her endings are not predictable nor do I feel that she is trying to make the reader happy. The endings are realistic. None of her plots are wrapped up with pretty pink bows. They are real.

The only word I can use to describe the luxury of spending the afternoon reading is delicious. It is something I often find myself wishing I could do and today I just did it.

This is totally off track, but I keep having this memory. I live down the road from a milk processing plant and every time I see the truck I think about the milk we used to drink when I was in first and second grade at St. Agnes Elementary School. We would walk down to the basement of the school to have our milk break in the same place we would need to go if someone found out the Russians had launched a bomb in our direction. I remember the “fallout shelter” sign next to the large stainless steel milk machine with the little levers on the side that dispensed milk into our paper cups. The milk was so cold that occasionally I would see little ice crystals on the top, but the best part was the foam. I don’t think milk tastes this way anymore. I think we have homogenized, processed, and fortified milk to the point that it no longer has that fresh cold taste that it had during those milk breaks in second grade. It is sad to think that my grandchildren have never tasted milk that good.

Another musing of late is wondering how many of us are actually doing what we wanted to be when we grew up. How many of us are doing something that wasn’t even a job back in the 50s and 60s? I know I wanted to be a teacher and, at times I am, but when I was growing up no one talked about domestic violence, sexual assault, and child abuse, so I didn’t know I could be what I am now. And would it have been something I would have wanted to do back then? Or did I have to grow into it, have my own experiences, meet the women I have known, and then be drawn to it?

I think about my granddaughters and their dreams for the future. Katie is sixteen and has wanted to be a veterinarian since before she could pronounce the word (she used to say “pet-inarian). She has spent part of her summer job shadowing at an animal hospital. Molly is fifteen and wants to be a teacher. She has spent her summer as a counselor in training at a day camp. I am so proud of them. Caleb, at nine, has not declared what he wants to be yet as being nine is enough for him right now. He is taking full advantage of his boyhood. Lizzie is five. I am pretty sure she will be something that no one has thought of yet. There will be a choice for her that doesn’t exist right now in the same way that personal computers and the internet did not exist when I was five. That is exciting and frightening at the same time. It would really be nice if there was no need for my job when she is grown. Some days I hope and other days I am not so optimistic.

P.S. to Finding a Place to Put It All

This photo showed up in my streaming pictures on my desktop this evening. I don't remember where it came from but it seems to have shown up at a good time. I spent the day putting things in their places and now I can let go and just be.

Finding a Place to Put It All

It is a beautiful day here in New England and after going to the doctor to get my ankle checked (my diagnosis is arthritis) and taking advantage of Borders “going out of business sale”, I am home for the rest of the day in order to try and straighten out my brain and my house. The mess in the house is usually a reflection of what is going on in my head so I am going to try and find places to put things, both literally and figuratively.

I am dealing with stories. Other people’s stories. Years ago, when I decided to become a counselor I consciously made the decision to dedicate myself to work with women who had experienced great difficulties in their lives and were working to try and mend. This has meant that, at times, I become the receptacle in which other people put some of their pain by telling their stories. This is my choice. I can’t take away the pain, but I can help ease the effect on them by hearing their tales and helping them find the strength they have inside to be able to move on.

If I don’t take care of myself, though, these stories tend to accumulate in my brain and I need to find my own place to put them. This week I have heard some horrendous stories; stories of childhood abuse that were unconscionable and graphic. I looked into the eyes of these women and saw pain and heartache along with tremendous spirit and strength. I was glad to hear their stories because I knew they needed to be heard.

I understand at times why survivors of childhood abuse are not believed. I think it has to do with our desire to believe more of humanity, that it is not possible for people to do the things that they do. Some people want to hold onto the hope that these stories cannot possibly be true, because if it were true, then they would have to admit that it could happen to them, their children or grandchildren, to the child next door, the sweet baby boy in the shopping cart next to you in the grocery store. We don’t want this to be in our world. It is, though, and it is so important to believe someone when they need to tell their story. People perpetuate the abuse through unbelief.

I have people tell me that they can’t understand how I do the work I do. The thing is that I don’t understand not doing the work I do. If I think of becoming a florist or a truck driver or any other of the myriad career paths I have considered on my bad days, I realize that I would not be true to who I am by doing something else. I can’t not do it. So, when it starts to get a little tough I have to take a break and find someplace to put it all and get my psychic and physical house in order so that I can be ready for the next story. I do a little retail therapy, get a massage, play my cello, sit on the side of a mountain, or take my bike out for a nice long ride along the river. In order to do what I do I have to take care of myself, because the thought of not being able to do what I do scares me more than doing it.

Borscht!!! or how I made a hot day tolerable.

The temperature rose to the mid 90s today and is going to be within a drop of sweat of 100 degrees tomorrow. I hate it. It is nasty. However, I did find a way to make it enjoyable.

On Monday evening I went to the Penacook Farmers’ Market and picked up two pints of blueberries and a nice bunch of beets. I bought the beets on a whim. They were beautiful but I had no clue what I was going to do with them. I just liked the way they looked. They would have looked good in a still life; they were that pretty.

Anyway, I got it in my head that I needed to make cold borscht. I have never made borscht before but figured it had to be easy. Being too lazy to get go through all the cookbooks, I Googled recipes. Low and behold there as many borscht recipes out there as there are little old ladies with blue hair. The recipes ran the gamut from Lithuanian to Polish to just plain borscht. It was confusing. Some had hardboiled eggs in them. I moved on from those quickly. Others used carrots. Yuck! A few had cabbage in them. I like cabbage but I didn’t have any and I wanted to make the soup for tonight’s dinner. Some used vinegar, some used lemon juice, one even used lemonade! I decided to take what I needed from the recipes and come up with my own. Here is what I ended up doing.

I cut the greens off the beets leaving about an inch of stalk, washed them and put them in a pot. I covered them with water. Once the water was boiling I turned it down to a simmer and emptied the dishwasher. I let them simmer until I could stick a fork in them without them breaking apart. I put the beets in a wire strainer and ran cold water on them while I cut up a large red onion and took out my frustrations with my Pampered Chef chopper. Bam! Bam! Bam! Boo ran and hid; which was good because she was convinced I was going to open a can of tuna at any minute and was getting underfoot.

I cooked the onions in a saucepan in a couple of tablespoons of olive oil. Don’t ask me for specific measurements because I don’t cook that way. I just throw in what is handy. When the onions were translucent, I poured the remains of an open carton of veggie broth I had in the fridge and about two-thirds of another carton. I added one large potato, cubed. I brought it to a slight boil and then let it simmer while I putzed around the apartment and took a shower. I turned the heat off when the potatoes were cooked but still very firm. I added some freshly ground pepper and about a tablespoon of herbs de provence (only because it had dill in it and it sounded like a good idea at the time).

After all that, the beets were cool enough to peel and that was very easy. I just cut off the little stalks and rubbed them under cold water and the skins just slid off.

Since I work in the field of domestic violence and needed to get some more frustrations out I used the chopper again to chop up those beets. Bam! Bam!! Bam!!! It didn’t work very well. I probably could have done a better job with a cleaver or a butcher knife. Jab!!! Jab!! I added them to the soup and they turned the soup into a beautiful beet red (What? It was! It did! I wasn’t going to say maroon!)

The beets went into the pot with the onions and potatoes and I let those cool while I talked to my friend, Barbara, on the phone. At bedtime it was all cool enough to pour into a big stainless steel bowl. I covered it tightly and let it chill in the fridge overnight.

This morning before I left for work I added a peeled and cubed burpless cucumber and the juice of one lemon. The fact that I actually did that first thing this morning was momentous. I have a hard time getting out the door as it is without adding a new task to the routine. AND – Boo was still waiting for that can of tuna. She doesn’t give up!

When I came home tonight, dinner was all ready to be ladled into a bowl and I just added a little salt. Some people may want to add a little sour cream or plain yogurt as a garnish. To each her own. It was very tasty and I am looking forward to having more. Next – Gazpacho!!

Let’s Scratch One Off the Bucket List!

During the winter months, many New Englanders dream of July. They love the hot sunny days and may even enjoy the humidity. I, however, really dislike July. In fact, “dislike” minimizes my feelings. Today the humidity hung over the mountains like smoke in a biker bar. I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to come home and turn the air conditioning on to 60 degrees, crawl under the covers and pretend it was snowing.

You don’t hear me complain much in January. I usually only complain about July and the brown seasons – March and November. Other than that, I can live with what the weather has to offer. My favorite month, though, is October. Every part of it from the pumpkins to the leaves to the crisp clean air and the vivid blue skies speaks to my soul.

So today, while people were dealing with the heat and the humidity, I put in my vacation request for the first two weeks of October and started to think about what would be fun to do. I thought for a bit and asked myself what challenge is there on my bucket list that I can work on scratching off? Then I smiled. Yes, it is time. I can do this.

I am going to sign up to take a two day basic motorcycle riding course, get my license, and then rent a Can-Am Spyder for a day and drive around the White Mountains. Oh, yes, I am. I could use the money to go to a B&B in Quebec City or a weekend yoga retreat at Kripalu. But no. I don’t think so. It’s time. I have waited too long for this. It’s time for this girl to make that dream come true! Yeah, baby!! Just watch this video and try not to want to join me.

http://en-us.spyder.brp.com/home.aspx?utm_source=google&utm_medium=paidsearch&utm_content=Can-Am%20Spyder%20Roadster&utm_term=can%20am%20spyder&utm_campaign=SpyderRoadster2011

Linda and Her Feet

This weekend was the fifth weekend of yoga teacher training. Four more weekends to go. I am amazed at all I have accomplished thus far.

Today I spent a lot of quality time with my toes. I wrapped my fingers around my big toes to pull myself deeper into a forward bend and later on I actually balanced for a few minutes on my lower back/upper buttocks while my legs were spread, knees bent, and holding onto my big toes again. I am so glad no one got that on video because I am afraid that the sight of my ass on YouTube would be horrific. Some poor guy would probably go into shock and start yelling, “What is the meaning of this? Why is this happening to me?” I may be exaggerating but it would still be enough to at least cause someone to lose their teeth. I say that only because my father used to laugh so hard that his dentures would fall out and once bounced off a woman’s head. So it is not out of the question that it could happen again to some other poor guy. Just saying.

After five months of regular yoga practice and learning more each time we get together I am now much stronger. I feel like I am moving into postures with more ease and managing to get deeper into some poses. I have made friends with my feet by actually being able to reach them in forward bends. I can massage them and talk to them. I will never be able to put them behind my head and I don’t even plan on being able to bring them up to my face. There is no need for that. Who does that? Those positions are on a list that I have made of things I will never do. The list was started years ago when I made up my mind not to ever go on a roller coaster that did loops. The list also includes taking a cruise (that would take another blog post to explain), going to a Celine Dion concert, dating a Republican, wearing high heels, and doing any yoga pose that requires that I balance on my hands or stand on my head or shoulders.

There may be others. Oh, yes. I will not be doing this thing that requires a person to lie on the floor, put their feet over their head, and then roll up into a downward dog. Nope. Not going to happen. Watch this guy. The narrator calls it a simple way to get into downward dog. I call it a simple way to get a headache, hurt my neck, and get dizzy. I used to be able to do that with a 12 pack of Michelob. I don't want to feel that way again!

I have also learned that there are things that I can do that other more fit people can’t do. I am pretty flexible and the only thing that keeps me from doing some things is fat. On the other hand, there are people who are much stronger and able to do more because of their strength. That is okay. I am fine with that. It is the same thing as knowing that I will never be on the cover of Sports Illustrated’s Swimsuit issue or be a brain surgeon. I don’t have what it takes and, when it comes right down to it, I am fine with it.

I am just proud that I am hanging in there even when my body is screaming at me. I think the meditation and breathing techniques, mantras, and guided relaxations help to quiet down the rebellion that is occurring in my muscles.

That is another part of yoga. Accepting and being fine with what is. I can do that. I have had years of practice. I can breathe, I can move, I can close my eyes and focus on being still. If I can still all the busyness in my mind and calm down the committee within for just a few seconds, then it is all worth it. And I like being able to play with my toes.