Jedi Yoga

I get through yoga class by pretending it's Jedi training.

I do this because I think it may actually be Jedi training. Why else would people do it? It's the only way some of the stuff they make us do makes sense. It's also the only way some of this could possibly be possible. You have to use the force rather than just plain forcing it, or you fall over.

You know you're in Jedi training when you hear something like "float your left leg up toward the ceiling." I don't know about you, but my legs do not float anywhere. How does this phrase make any sense at all unless it's about Jedi mind tricks? Like when you can't get the waiter to bring you a clean fork so you float one across the restaurant from the wait station yourself.

Speaking of forks, I sometimes combine my Jedi training with being The One. You know: There is no spoon. I figure the only way my teacher gets into that twist where she looks like a pretzel and I look like a squashed bug is by knowing there is no spoon/body. There is no yoga teacher and she's not actually doing the pose, she's just visualizing her body all twisted up. Et voila. When I do this I picture my actual, physical body curled up in bed while my Matrix body mirrors my teacher.

When I do Ashtanga (or, more accurately, when I do whatever it is I do when in an Ashtanga class) I sometimes imagine I'm sparring with Laurence Fishburne. At the very least it entertains me to the point of not wishing for instant death.

I've experienced varying degrees of success in my training. I have yet to float anything anywhere and Morpheus is still laying me flat. But there are moments of Jedi glory. Just this morning, in fact, I walked into class and noticed another woman heading toward my favorite spot. I said "that is not the place in class you seek." She looked at me briefly and headed off to the far corner.

It's totally working.

the perils of legible handwriting

Sugarplum's homework last night was to neatly copy her New Year's resolution onto a piece of colored paper and hang it in the hall at school. Her resolution is to clean up the house "because it's really messy."

You got the part about hanging it up in the hall at school, right?

On the bright side, Chris will be teaching a course in building robots at her school soon, so as the teachers and visiting parents discover we are slovenly heaps of humanity, the kids' coolness ratings will soar. Maybe the combination will earn us a reputation among the elementary academic community for being geniuses. Geniuses are often messy.

For the record, my resolution is not to clean up the house. My resolution is to make sure Sugarplum sticks to her resolution.

For the last several years I've replaced resolutions with watch words. I've also replaced cleaning with living, but that's another story for another day. I can't tell you what my watch words are this year because that will jinx it and all hope will be lost. I can't tell you what they were last year, either, because I've usually forgotten what they are by April.

In my defense, I forget what they are by April because I've more or less incorporated whatever it is by then and/or gotten annoyed at my own henpecking. I do wish I could remember what they were because they were really good. Things like "courage" or "listening," for example.

I cheat and pick ideas that are already in the works. My biological New Year* starts sometime in September, so I get a sneak peek at what the theme of the year is going to be.

I think I can safely tell you, without jinxing anything, that this is the year in which I do things that scare me. I noticed this a few months ago.  I said yes to projects that usually would have made me hide under my bed. I made scary decisions based on nothing more than the knowledge that something had to be done. I asked for and received things I hadn't asked for before because I was afraid I'd get them.

It seems to be a trend, this doing-scary-things, thing. I expect to spend the next several months weaving in and out of abject terror. Hopefully by April it will be old hat. I'll be so brave, nothing will phase me.

Which will come in handy if the world does in fact end in December.

I think that's why we make resolutions. Not because the world will end in December, but because we do things in cycles. New Years is when we give a nod to things that come and go. We put on extra layers in the winter, we shed them in the spring. We learn and then we practice. We fear and then we embrace. We are messy and then we clean up.

We teach our children the value of order and then we take a nap while they tidy up the place.

*I have no idea what a biological New Year is. I made that up.
** The end of the world throws resolutions into a whole different tail spin. Without giving too much away, I can tell you that I did not resolve to learn how to make my own clothes from milkweed pods.

walking meditation

When we got married we got the usual boatload of gifts, which was awesome because although we had both lived on our own for several years and had our own stuff, all that stuff was worn out and gross. Now that I think of it, maybe that's why people get married every few years.

From our friends who had recently moved to Maine, we received a big basket of Maineness. It was full of things they had discovered and loved at their farmer's market - blueberry jam, hand-dipped candles, scone mix - all kinds of things. We loved it.

A few days later when I was putting things away, I realized that the brochure for Ivy Manor Inn, included in the Basket of Maineness, had a gift certificate tucked inside - good for two nights. We couldn't pack fast enough.

We adored Bar Harbor. We explored Acadia National Park and watched the sunrise from the top of Cadillac Mountain (where we also checked for phone messages, since it was the only place we could get a signal). We hiked the Jordan Pond trail and mourned that we were too late for popovers (which are legendary). We had breakfast twice each morning because we couldn't choose between restaurants.

We liked it so much, we gently toyed with the idea of moving there. If we lived there, we thought, we could explore all the things we were just catching glimpses of.

And then we came home and realized there was much to explore here. We have a state park near us that we knew nothing about. We have a wildlife sanctuary we had never explored.

I was in that sanctuary this morning, taking a walk and thinking about how it took a trip up Cadillac Mountain to get me off the couch and into my own backyard. It's not huge, but if I ever get tired of it, there are National and State Parks to explore nearby (although getting tired of it doesn't seem likely.) Going there never fails to clear my head. I think my Mass Audubon membership should be covered by health insurance. It's ... fabulous.

And it was right here, all along.

So, the moral of the story is: Don't open your presents so fast you miss the gift.

12 explanations of how we ended up on the Nice List

One

We found the missing library book and returned it. Bonus points: It's been gone so long it increased significantly in value and now can go in the Rare Book collection

Two

We relocated several field mice from our house to the church down the street instead of smashing them to smithereens (the mice, not the parishioners).

Three

We did not release “Holiday Favorites on Solo Cello,” by me. You're welcome.

Four

We taught our children to say please and thank you and to not kick the seats in front of them at symphony. (If you need any tips for your own children, we used bribery, threats and an electric collar.)

Five

I did not change my mom's cell phone to Smells Like Teen Spirit, despite many opportunities.

Six

We support the arts, the plumber, and the auto body shop. Some more generously than others.

Seven

Chris didn't get any tickets for speeding or reckless endangerment this year.

Eight

We cleaned our house for company that one time.

Nine

Coming up with 12 things is harder than I thought

Eleven

We have nice friends and are banking on guilt by association.

Twelve

I've noticed that Santa has taken to cloud sourcing. It seems everyone has turned into Santa Claus. There's the fake ones, of course, who are just in it for the (cookie) dough, but I've noticed a growing number of real ones mingling in polite society. As the Bible says, “Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained elves unawares.” (Hebrews 13:2, New Trout Translation)

I think this means you must have made the Nice list, too.

In which the universe conspires to make me less grinchy

During pretty much every holiday, I am in splendid spirits until right at the end when I hit the wall. I look up and realize that I am doing everything and without me there would be nothing done that is done. And I get really grumpy about it. And yelly. Because what says "Happy Thanksgiving/Christmas/Ground Hog's Day/Friends Coming Over" better than a self-righteous outburst?

I hit that wall at 12:22 today.

Right in the middle of making chestnut bisque for lunch (fa! la! la!), I realized I had probably missed the post office, where the package from my sister and my ornament* were waiting for me. The package from my sister had a pile of gifts for the kids in it. The ornament was sure to be awesome and I wanted it on my tree. Pronto.

And then I got all shades of grumpy because honestly, why is all this up to me? Does no one else know where the post office is? Does no one else know how to make lunch?

Fa. La. La.

I skidded into the post office parking lot, ran inside and was astonished to find the package pick-up window open. When I thanked her for staying open, she said "we usually close at 12, but I figured people need all the help they can get."

Amen, sister.

And then I came home and ripped into my ornament, finding not only a handmade, drunk, wry snowman (which is completely our holiday decorating theme) but an ornament made especially for me.

The wall of holiday bitterness and taken-for-grantedness crumbled.

And the chestnut bisque was not ruined despite being abandoned - with the immersion blender standing up in the pot - when I ran out the door.

Chestnut Bisque
10-12 ounces chestnuts (peeled - I buy them in bags at the grocery store, all ready to go)
olive oil
1 small onion
1 leek
2 cups vegetable broth
2 cups almond milk
pinch cardamom
pinch nutmeg
palmful dried thyme
salt to taste

Saute the onion and leek in olive oil in a saucepan. Add the broth and chestnuts and simmer for 30 minutes. Add the almond milk, cardamom, nutmeg and thyme and blend thoroughly (as mentioned, I use an immersion blender because I'm lazy and it's my favorite thing ever.) Salt to taste. Sing about chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Eat.

*I am part of the most Superior Ornament Exchange Ever, hosted by Jett Superior. As luck would have it, Jett herself drew my name. I win at Christmas.

Of mice and more mice

If at some point in the future you are listening to NPR and hear a story about how the Cape Cod fishing industry was destroyed by mice, please deny having read this post.

We have a seasonal mouse problem here at the Towers. We've closed down most of the mouse super highway, but old habits die hard and some (mice, not habits) are still finding their way in. Generational memory. We are pacifists (read: squeamish), so the trap we use catches mice live instead of smashing their brains out their ears.

It has occurred to me that smashing their brains out their ears may be the more humane route, but I'll get to that.

I asked google how far you have to take a mouse so it doesn't find its way home, and the general consensus is pretty far. A couple miles far. In my favorite comment stream (which is completely worth reading), one person noted: "They will find their way back unless you sing "Born Free" while releasing them."

I was doing that already. They also say to paint their nails so you can see if the mice you're catching are repeat clients. But we live in a pretty tony neighborhood (look at us), so chances are the mice in the other houses also have had pedicures.

From the sound of things, I should be taking them about 2 miles. The harbor is about a mile, but the route involves mouse obstacles (ponds, etc) so we're hoping it does the trick. It also seems like a nice place for mice to live. For bonus points, there's a church at the harbor so I think the mice are a tax deduction.

I've been getting some strange looks in the parking lot when I arrive with a mouse to release, so I've taken to driving down the other side - the untouristy side. It's a little scrappier over there. When I go at night, I can't help but think of On the Waterfront.

They are reluctant to get out of the trap, but once they do, they all go running off in the same direction - which makes me worry that I've created a non-indigenous mouse colony where the fishing boats will be. I imagine all the buoys sinking because they've been hollowed out by mice and filled with... whatever it is that mice like that doesn't float. I haven't completely thought this through. When you hear about it on NPR, let me know what it is they put in there.

It has also occurred to me that the distance you need to drive the mouse is less about how far away it needs to go before it decides to relocate, and more about increasing the odds of getting eaten. Now that I think of it, if a mouse shows up with our particular shade of nail polish, we should throw it a party.

Furthermore, I fear that one day we will find ourselves tied up, Gulliver-style, and relocated to the harbor by an angry horde of mice. They were here first and have indigenous rights.

I hope they at least paint our nails.

flocks of doom

So there I was, minding my own business at the dining room table, when I noticed about eight different kinds of birds in what would be the garden if all the plants weren't dead. There were two kinds of woodpeckers, some cardinals, chickadees, a tufty-headed thing, a bunch of bluebirds and some other things I couldn't identify. Honestly, you're lucky you got that much information. Is there a phone app that has facial recognition for birds? I used to have a book, but looking up birds in the bird book is like looking up a word in the dictionary to find out how to spell it. Yes, it must be done - but where do you start?

It was the bluebirds that really got me. I never see bluebirds. Don't they know it's December? Don't the other birds know? This wasn't the usual assortment of ornithological drabbery we generally get at this time of year. This was a veritable Hallmark card of songbirds.*

I sat there wondering what cataclysmic meteorological event had driven them into my yard. That's the only possible explanation - like when all the woodland creatures take flight in Bambi. They weren't bluebirds of happiness in my yard. They were bluebirds of imminent doom.

This new outlook is either a sign that a) the End of Times is truly near or b) I have lived in New England too long.

I grew up in Colorado, where people are less cynical.

Colorado: "Look! Really, really fuzzy caterpillars! It's going to be a great ski season!"

New England: "We'll probably lose power for six weeks, maybe more. If not in this storm, surely the next."

Things were generally more upbeat and optimistic in Colorado. I blame the altitude and resulting lack of oxygen to the brain. I don't know what to blame the pessimism of the northeast on. I'm going with either the Puritans or higher education.

When I came here, people knew I was from Somewhere Else. I have lived here long enough so now instead of auspicious signs, I see omens. I fit in better now.

But it's hard not to find the birds weirdly reassuring. Four of them piled into our birdbath and splashed around - two bluebirds and two something-elses. They didn't seem panicked or rushed. There was nothing about their frolicking that signaled an approaching tsunami. They were... pretty.

In the early fall we had a... swarm? herd? flurry? ...of dragonflies in the garden. There were probably a hundred of them. I think it's technically impossible to signal global tragedy with dragonflies. Ditto ladybugs. We get a lot of those, too.

Maybe the take-away is that beautiful things show up at unexpected times. Maybe it's that we'll all find a place to land when we need it.

Maybe it's that I don't know a thing about birds. Maybe this is the normal time to migrate and all the different kinds were just carpooling.

Maybe I just don't look up often enough.

*It's okay, I don't know what a Hallmark card of songbirds looks like, either.