Recipe for Life club shares moments, anecdotes, details of life, and
memories. It celebrates those people who for me, are unforgettable for
one reason or another, or wisdoms I’ve heard or discovered along the
way. I’m a bit of a collector it seems. A searcher. A writer. A woman.
A wife. A mother. These pieces collaborate to create my resume of
life.
My first novel, Conversations for Two will be published on October,
22, 2015.
I was in my early twenties and drowning in the boredom of a degree in sociology. I signed up for a 6-week dance program for credit in the summer after my second year. I had never danced before. That summer I studied jazz, contemporary and Spanish. I fell in love with modern dance, more specifically, with Graham technique. There was something about it that intuitively made sense for me. When I was immersed in the classes my mind and body were truly functioning as one. I had never experienced anything like it.
There is something tremendously empowering about the idea that movement begins at our core and translates, explodes and releases out of our extremities. What I didn’t realize until now was how much Martha Graham’s life philosophy resonated in my mind as well as my muscles and bones. I recently watched a Tribute to Martha Graham narrated by Gregory Peck on youtube. She says that her vocabulary of movement is a “how to of how to move through life”. It studies the relationship of the body to the mind and the body to the spirit. Her technique focuses on the breath, “to breathe life in or expel it, it is intrinsic to the body and to movement.”
This is what the body remembers. My body remembers the language of the movement, and it has absorbed the underlying philosophy. And now it makes complete sense to me, our wisdoms are housed in our muscles and bones, in our blood. “How many drops of blood have gone in to the making of you – how much memory is in the blood.” She translated her life into a series of movement; I have translated mine in to words.
“I do believe in the sanctity of life and of energy. Life isn’t giving up, it’s moving on.”
I went to The Toronto Dance Theatre to take a class. I inhale my youth as I enter. My body doesn’t realize it has aged, and my inner dancer takes over. Perseverance. Commitment. Determination. Lots of deep breathing. I find a piece of dance floor real estate far enough away from the mirror that my reflection is respectable.
Five, six, seven, eight, the piano accompanist find the melody on the keys and my body miraculously finds the rhythm and astonishes me with it’s memory of the moves. My inner core is at one, and I close my eyes, which proves to throw me off balance, but I quickly re-group. And then, the across the floor routines, this is where you line up, individually or in small groups and leap, jump, chasse, triplet, scurry or glide across the floor. I was floating, prancing, breasts flopping up and down, three four, across the floor, sucking in my stomach, five, six, remember to breath, seven, eight, how ridiculous do I look, and again…
The truth is I enjoyed it. My knees not so much. It felt good to dance again. And, sometimes when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I could actually see the dancer in me, a little fuller and my lines not as elongated, but still co-existing. And, I realized that dance is just as much about my head as my body.
Dance is a metaphor for our lives. Thanks Martha. It’s about being in alignment, and it starts at our core, one, two, and reaches up one vertebrae at a time, three, four, and lengthens to root us at the ground, five, six, inspire, inhale, and release the energy as it emanates from us, seven, eight.
I have this thing that I do. Well, let me just add an addendum. When I do this, it is wonderful. It makes a difference in my life. And I am going to re-commit myself to this process and hope that you will join me.
It’s how I start my day when I am at my most productive, creative and focused self. It’s a technique that I call triplets. It is equal time of meditation, stretching and writing.
It doesn’t matter if it’s a minute each or twenty minutes each. What matters is the discipline of the doing of all three components. Daily is best. But, if not daily then designate specific days and stick to it.
Meditation: Easy meditation. Sit cross-legged on the floor or pillow. Or, sit on a chair with both feet on the ground and your legs not crossed. Straight back. Open heart. Hand placed gently on thighs. Eyes are softly open or gently closed. You are not trying to tune out the world; you are practicing tuning in to yourself. All you do is focus on the breath. Notice your inhale and your exhale. That’s it. If a thought trails across your mind, watch it go by and don’t give it attention. Listen to the rhythm of your body in the breath. It’s not big deep cleansing breaths; you haven’t had time to be stressed yet! It’s simply breathing in and breathing out.
Stretching: Create a series of movements that feel good for you. I like to do a few sequences of salutation to the sun. But honestly, it’s the idea of moving your body in ways that give you a sense of release and centering. Stretch your arms above your head, up to your tip toes and take a deep breath, and then release the breath and fold your body reaching your hands to the floor, let your head hang gently and feel the stretch and release along your spine and the backs of your legs. Gently come up one vertebra at a time. Repeat. It’s that simple.
Writing: Take out your journal. Write by hand. No computer. Open to a page. Date it. Write about anything you want. How you felt about your breath. What you are worried about. Good things in your life. Gratitude. Fear. Anxiety. People. A poem. What you see out the window. What you dreamed about last night. What are your dreams? You get the idea. The only rule is that it has to be hand written and it has to be timed. You are not writing a novel. You are just writing for it’s own sake. And whatever comes out is good.
That’s triplets. Practice this. Start with 2 minute of each as soon as you get out of bed. Set the timer on your phone so that you know your beginning and your end of each section. Work up to ten minutes each. Then treat yourself to a lovely glass of water, some tea or a coffee. It is an amazing beginning to your day. Let me know how it’s going.
Are we living the lives we were meant to lead, are we happy, are our lives within our control, or is it written in the stars?
I have written a book. It has taken me years, and years….and years. It is not published. I have received seven really flattering rejections. “Exceptional writing” “A beautiful, touching story, I’m sure you will find a publisher.” “Your use of language is exquisite.” But they are not taking on my book. A girl could get depressed. But, there is always the dream, and the belief that someday IT will happen. My book will get published, my articles will appear in The New York Times, and I will be one of those first time authors whose book becomes a movie. Am I delusional, have my eyes been covered with rose coloured glasses for too long, or does perseverance gallantly mount the white horse at some point?
My hope is that along the road of perseverance the white horse will gallop beside me and a very handsome publisher will swoop me up, and drop me off at Harper Collins.
There are parts of my fifties that I love, parts of myself that I have figured out. I only wear pale pink lipstick. Even though people always suggest a brighter shade. It’s not who I am. I like pale lips, and I’m good with it. I’m not stuck. I thought I would never get my ears pierced. I did. I still prefer a white t-shirt, faded jeans, flip-flops. Although these days I can’t get my jeans done up and the white t-shirts need to be flowy. Diamonds and opals are the perfect accessory. I live in Toronto, but Laguna Beach is the home of my imagination. Born on the upside of ’56, Woodstock remains a destination of my idealistic heart.
As the last trimester of my fifties broke through the hot sweats, so did a resurgence of ‘me’, an inner emphasis on discovering myself in different terms.
I am accommodating within an inch of my life, because that is who I am. I am a solver. Where my daughters are concerned, I will go ‘over the top’ as my husband cynically remarks, to create, and nurture their dreams, some of which they didn’t know they had. And now, perhaps a little late, I am asking, “Where do I fit in to all this?” I don’t think this is a post mid-life crisis, I’m pretty sure it’s sheer panic, a bit of a twist on the biological clock theory. The clock is ticking at a dizzying pace. I have a lot to accomplish.
It is, so to speak, the time of our season. Our lives are constantly in flux, we are ‘go with the flow’ kind of girls, we think on the run, and make decisions in the moment. Then, we change, re-group, and go at it again. We are immersed in the lives of our families, and good for us, we have raised fabulous children, despite ourselves. And now, faced with what we want for our own lives, we are out of sorts, somewhat uncomfortable, traversing uncharted territory. A piece of our life is complete in a way that we never expected. And it happened in a heartbeat. And, in many ways, it is just like being eighteen again. What are we going to do? Who do we want to be with? I’m not sure in this case that our life experience gives us the edge.
Once again I look to Joni for answers, “We can’t return we can only look behind from where we came and go round and round and round in the circle game…”
A pair of shoes can simply change your day. Really. Look what happened to Marie Antoinette. Those exquisitely lined shoeboxes with sumptuous brocade, jewel-encrusted slippers in marvelous colours, were indeed the icing on the cake. Cinderella, in a charming deceit, leaves a glass slipper behind, taking our prince on a romping road trip around the countryside. The Wicked Witch of the East, dies in a tragic house falling, which bequeaths the dazzling ruby slippers to Dorothy, sending her on an inspired journey down the yellow brick road. Shoes are deep. Were the Manolo’s the accidental aphrodisiac that finally led Big to tie the knot?
Shoes have a certain way about them; the intrinsic pedestal on which a woman is propped, the true tell-tale of our inspiration. A pair of jeans partnered with flats, stilettos, or boots insinuate very different ideas about the woman who wears them. But, we, and I do mean it as the conspiring ‘we’, know this. That playful little arch in our back from a pair of high heels, the strategic power of hose and pump, that rock star sensibility of great boots.
Some people seem to have all the ingredients of their lives set out on the counter, measured, tossed into the pan or bowl at various times, baked, brewed or grilled, somehow always to perfection. Their soufflés never fall. At least that is how it appears.
It’s a mirage. Everybody has stuff. That’s just the way life is. Yes, some people have more stuff than others, but nobody goes through this life without something. Our lives are complicated, and the ones we think have it all together, the ones whose lives we envy, those are often the most messed up. The intricacies of relationships, family, love, business, desire, well….those are the details that rarely follow the course of least resistance.
Most people who are really, really good cooks will not be able to direct you specifically to a carved in stone recipe, it’s more like the recipe is their guide and they deviate off the path as it comes to them. Life is a lot like that. There is only so much you can plan. And, there is certainly a whole bunch of tossing the ingredients in to the pot and seeing if it works out along the way.
My friend Ellie attended my first recipe for life club party. I asked everyone to bring a story and a recipe. She brought the ingredients for a chocolate turtle martini, a martini glass that reads, “I love nights that I can’t remember”, and an apron that says, “keep calm, carry on”.
She is my fun friend. She keeps me balanced. I can be overly introspective and she knows how to listen and support me, and she is the person I can laugh with as well. She lives life fully. She travels, goes to concerts, (she just saw the Rolling Stone concert 4 times…) opened a fashion boutique called Shenkin West, she loves colour. She is the fuchsia and chartreuse, to my white and beige. And when things work out she says, “the ingredients were right”. So here’s to mixing and concocting and creating our lives. Cheers!
Rob’s Chocolate Turtle Martini
Recipe courtesy Rob Harpest
1 drink
Ingredients
Cocoa Powder
Powdered sugar
Caramel sauce, in a squeeze bottle with a very small tip
Chocolate Sauce
2 ounces vanilla vodka (recommended: Stoli Vanilla)
2 ounces white creme de cacao
2 ounces Praline New Orleans Style Pecan Liqueur
Crushed ice
Roasted pecan halves, for garnish
Roughly chopped chocolate squares, for garnish
Directions
First, sweeten the cocoa powder to your liking by mixing the cocoa and powdered sugar. Take a large martini glass and very carefully coat the rim in caramel sauce from the squeeze bottle, being careful not to let it drip too far down the sides.
Then, dip the entire rim of the glass into the sweetened cocoa powder, being sure to coat all of the caramel. The desired effect is a chocolate dusted caramel rim. If available, I also like to put just a drop of chocolate syrup at the bottom of the glass for color.
For the drink, shake the vodka, Creme de Cacao and praline liqueur in a martini shaker with ice to chill. Fill the martini glass nearly full with crushed or shaved ice, being careful not to touch the rim. Strain the drink into the martini glass.
Garnish atop the floating ice with a roasted pecan half and a small piece of chopped chocolate. Alternately, I have garnished it with a half of a Turtle candy by making an incision and hanging it on the rim of the glass. Whichever you prefer.
I’m fundamentally a good girl. Up the up staircase, in through the revolving door. I have enthusiastic sense of responsibility and commitment, and will drop anything I am doing to help the people I love…. You get the picture. I feel like I am always the last to know, open mouthed, wide-eyed, in shock at the details about the lives some women lead. I’m far from sanctimonious, but honestly I think I’m missing a gene. I really don’t get it! Other people have affairs. Apparently they are more common than I could imagine. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.
Not that I necessarily want to have one. Even if I did, I have way too much of a conscience, I would analyze the decision to death, chart the pros and cons, and inevitably revert to feeling too guilty. In any case, I’m too fat to have an affair. But, I must say, the inner version of me; that beach body me, whose footprints in the sand lead elsewhere, well, that ‘me’ might be intrigued. I still wouldn’t have a clue how to go about it. And, what about my husband, you might ask? Well, I’m not sure he would notice, and if he did he would probably be thrilled. It would let him off the proverbial hook!
You see though, having an affair is cheating. And I’m not sure I could reconcile this. I would be always putting the shoe on the other foot. But, Samantha (Sex in the City) contends, “The act of cheating is defined by the act of getting caught.” Am I hitting the bottom of the barrel by trying to actually rationalize having an affair in terms of Carrie and Samantha? Is there something deliciously contraband about a covert affair? Have I watched too many romantic films, or is my heart yearning for one last dance with love?
Indeed, there are different kinds of love, and ebbs and flows of love and desire and ups and down in marriages. So why am I even writing about this! Is it some kind of menopausal crisis? It’s more of a realization that this is a time in my life where it’s okay to think about me. To consider what it is that I want to experience. To discover what I am about as the kids move out and my husband has retired. It’s most definitely time for me.
The other night I had dinner with a friend. She told me that I needed to have an affair. That I was too vibrant to be sitting at home all the time, and l deserve a big love story. That would be nice. She also told me that if I insisted on wearing pale lipstick instead of coral that I have to have smoky eyes. Hmmmm. I think I will explore the smoky eye idea. The affair? Well…
I can see my mother standing at the kitchen sink, and the lovely window edged with white curtains that gazed in to the garden. The ribbed glass cabinet doors, the right edge chipped, but worn smooth. Plates stacked in sequence of size, teacups dangled from the hooks above the juice glasses. Her black hair, short and tucked behind her perfect ears. The curve of her back under the pink sweater set and her apron tied with a bow at the back. I imagine her hands as she washed them under the tap and wiped them on her apron. The same hands that held mine.
Her recipes are within me, like pieces of her. A weathered yellow bowl that somehow made the trip across the ocean from England stands on her counter and his filled with red cabbage soaking in vinegar. The way she patted the ‘canaidella’ into balls for the chicken soup. Fish patties….and when she was too old to stand and cook, she made them with me and my girls in my kitchen. She sat on a stool holding the tin bowl and wooden spoon. Yorkshire puddings, apple cake, the apples sliced by hand and smothered in brown sugar.
I have learned many things from my mother. If I’m a good mother, it is because of her. So if my daughters turn out okay, it is because she is watching over them. I f my mother had a ‘recipe for life’ it would be her inner strength and courage, her ability to put one foot in front of the other and find what is good about each day. And to find joy…. She was around my age when she lost her breast, her son, her husband. And yet, she filled my life with joy, she was gracious and good.