Month: August 2014

Witches Brew

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Daily Prompt: Captain Picard was into Earl Grey tea; mention the Dude and we think: White Russians. What’s your signature beverage – and how did it achieve that status?

I wish I could tell you I’m never seen without my trusty water bottle or a bucket of green juice, but I can’t in good conscience.

Instead I can be caught with any number of liquids.

In the morning, it’s my own personal brew. A blend of dark and  lighter roast coffees from exotic origins.  The hot magma sends tendrils of steam upward, tickling my olfactory senses  and I begin to swoon. A dash of cinnamon, a teaspoon “or so” of organic raw sugar and a plop of organic half and half complete the alchemy.

I breathe deeply once  with the cup cradled in both hands, its precious contents at the ready. On that first intake I can feel the blood in my veins beginning to warm, animating the cells in my body, sparking the flint in my brain, cranking the gears to life. It’s necessary, medicine really. And there might be more than one cup.

Around lunch time I usually reach for that quintessential southern delicacy known as ‘Sweetea.’ On occasion water. On rare occasions. Not really very often at all.

In the evening, f I am going to imbibe, and often I am, it’s going to be a Pinot Noir. Deciding to have a glass of wine sends a message to the brain creating an internal environment to relax. A Mona Lisa smile begins to tug at the corners of my mouth as I twist the cork out of the bottle. That ‘pop’ signals my salivary glands to prepare for that first hint of bitterness. Yet I wait, I give the bottle a few minutes to acclimate, then I pour. This too requires a few moments.

It’s foreplay.

At that first sip my taste buds spring to life. I can feel the dark liquid slide down my throat and spread like warm fingers throughout my torso, hugging me. I sigh, lean back, take another sip then set the glass down as the day’s edges begin to soften.

When I’m in India I can’t get enough Chai. Jamaica, Sorrell tea and ok, Red Stripe. Whole Foods, Green Dream. Hindu temple, mango lassi. I don’t drink soda or nearly enough water. I get far too many calories from my liquids and entirely too much pleasure.

If I had to let go of any of these, for just a little while I hope, I could. Everything but the coffee, just one cup. Like I said, it’s medicine.

Just Do You. That is the Work.

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17 Camel IMG_4050Daily Prompt: If money were out of the equation, would you still work? If yes, why, and how much? If not, why would you do with your free time?

I was asked this question a million years ago. And I have since turned this question on others. It’s a good one.

About 8 years ago I decided to put it to the test. I quit my job – one in a succession of failed career starts – and decided to become a holistic health coach. That lasted just a few years. But what it did for me was show me that I could do what I wanted and the money would come in. Or as Joseph Campbell said, “Do what you love and the money will follow.” Sounds magical and all together impractical.

At the risk of sounding woo-woo, I now allow myself to be guided by – dare I say it? – the Universe. I have come to see all situations as teachable moments and guidance in one direction or another. I have never lacked food, housing, or transportation. In fact, I own my home, shop at Whole Foods (not every time, let’s be realistic) and drive a nice little Honda.

When I was younger I wanted certain things, specific markers of success: To live in New York City. Or maybe California. To travel the world, especially Paris. And have several homes. One definitely on the beach. All these things required a healthy salary, a particular status. I had to WORK for them, EARN them.

Then 8 years ago I decided to take my passion for natural health to the next level. I attended the Institute for Integrative Nutrition (IIN) in New York. I went just for me, but came away with an optional new career and possibly a whole new life.

I became a holistic health coach. As a health coach many of my clients inquired if I taught yoga when I suggested they try it. I did not. But that changed. I now saw the next step on my path.

When I began to study yoga, the philosophy in particular, I felt I had finally found the belief system that contained within it all that I had cobbled together for myself from various religions and philosophies. Now it had a name. And I was home.

In its teachings I learned to  lean back. I have learned to trust the process of life. I have cultivated compassion and I am free to look at the world through the lens of enchantment and wonder.

Now, when I reframe all those markers of success, I see that I have achieved them all.

– While attending IIN in New York City I had to be there 12 weekends over 16 months. I rented an apartment with a friend for just those weekends. We shopped for food, ate in the apartment, went out to dinner, wandered the streets. I lived in New York City.

– My brother has lived in southern California for over 10 years. I visit him a few times each year. I drive his car. I pick up groceries. I take my niece to the park. We go to the beach. I have made friends there. I have lived in California.

– During all this yoga stuff, the guru I was studying with (and still am) was taking a group of people to India. It was never on my list of places to go, but suddenly I had to go. He was 80 and I didn’t know if I’d have another chance. I went for 3 weeks. Then I went back the year after with a different swami, and on the way played in London for three days. Then this past July a friend flew me on a private jet to the Bahamas where we played on the beach. I have begun to travel the world.

– I have several friends with houses on the beach and I am free to stay in them whenever they’re not occupied. I have a friend with a cabin in the mountains, same thing. I have several homes.

When I let go of the need to work for these things and just leaned back, everything that was to be materialized. Everything I had asked for showed up. Just not as I expected it. I could have missed it completely.

Today I own a yoga studio – another gift – and I write and I take pictures and when I have free time, you know, between 3:15 – 4:45 AM, I make some jewelry. My life is truly enchanted.

I haven’t worked a day in the past 8 years. I do what I love – all of it – and I am taken care of.

 

A Different Kind of Light

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Daily Prompt: You’ve been given the ability to build a magical tunnel that will quickly and secretly connect your home with the location of your choice — anywhere on Earth. Where’s the other end of your tunnel?

Less than two years ago I found my soul’s home. It may not be its only home, I am a Gemini after all. But when I stepped out of the bus onto the streets of Udaipur, India, something in me shifted. I was at once grounded and lighter.

The town itself is built around a huge man-made lake. There are whole buildings; hotels, restaurants and palatial estates rising up from its center. The narrow streets can barely accommodate a car, causing pedestrians to press themselves against a building or duck into a store. A foot bridge crosses the lake at  a narrow point, a welcoming café at either end.

There is Indian life here, dogs roaming the streets, temples full of devotees to various deities, open air markets and street food. But there is something else at work. There is a presence, a light.

I suppose my tunnel would place me at the bottom of an uneven staircase leading to a rooftop café, four or so stories up. Here I spent several days both at dusk and at dawn, sipping chai, deep in rich and sometimes frivolous conversation. The whole city was within my 360 view, the white buildings shimmering as the sun began its decent, the warm glow of interior lights taking its place.

During sunrises those same buildings turned light pink and purple until the sun made its way high into the sky. Its whole purpose to dance on the water below.

Even writing this I am transported back to that rooftop. I can see the foot bridge, I remember the chai wallah who took order then sat down with friends, seeming to forget about us. I recall the walk there, the people we’d ask for advice or direction, the easy smiles and gentle ways.

Yes, this is the other side of my tunnel. It’s where I would go every morning for tea and as the sun rose over the lake I would close my eyes absorbing the Muslim prayers broadcast throughout the city.

Well Placed Sausage

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Daily Prompt: A misused word, a misremembered song lyric, a cream pie that just happened to be there: tell us about a time you (or someone else) said or did something unintentionally funny.

My mother-in-law is 100% Italian, born in Queens, New York to parents that emigrated here in the 1930’s. She is an amazing cook, it’s genetically required. Her pasta is divine and she makes a mean braciole, which is basically meat wrapped in meat, cooked in meat juice. But perhaps her best dish is a big old steaming pot of drama.

She cultivates tension like a fine wine and deflects blame like Teflon.

On occasion we would go for Sunday dinner. The house would be pretty full, the volume and tension intensifying as meal time  approached. While there was only one cook, somehow others would get blamed for setting the oven too high or forgetting to turn a burner off. Thereby ruining dinner and lowering our expectations.

She’d sigh heavily and dramatically, laying the food out on the table with defeat. It was ruined. After everything was in place she’d sit across the long dining table from her husband, with at least six of us in audience, and place her head in her hands.

“Just eat. It’s ruined. Your father set the oven too high. I’m sure it’s dry. I can’t eat. I’m too upset.”

This statement was an invitation to dig in and then comment, “No ma, it’s delicious.” Which it always was.

After dinner, the games came out. They loved cards, but tonight we decided on a board game. I think it was Taboo.

We set ourselves up in teams for the game. We all played, although every rule was questioned and most weren’t followed making scoring dicey.

At one point my father-in-law was holding the card with the forbidden words. As various family members shouted answers he’d buzz them or say no. And then there was a gap. For a brief second all was quiet. Suddenly he looked up, and in all earnestness said, “Did someone say sausage?”

The entire table cracked up with laughter. Where did that come from? As I looked around the table everyone had the same light in their eyes. Joy. There was no tension, no drama, just joy. It’s not that funny from the outside but just those four words obliterated the tension, creating breathing space, allowing us all to be in the same moment together.

“Who wants dessert? I bought a pie at the grocery store, and I’ve got that ice cream your father loves. Or there’s fruit.”

The Tao of the Magpie

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Daily Prompt: Take a look at your bookcase. If you had enough free time, which book would be the first one you’d like to reread? Why?

It’s very rare I reread a book. Or re-watch a movie. When I was a kid summer was rerun time for favorite TV shows. I hated it. I played outside instead.

I have learned about myself in the past few years some very key things, and one is that I like new. Not new in the sense that I have to buy everything new, on the contrary, my home if full of found objects rich with some else’s personal history. New as in fresh, new to me. New as in ideas. It’s the spark I’m addicted to, not the finished product. It’s the first page and all the possibilities. The blank canvas. The blinking cursor.

As a creative person I am struck with the desire, or maybe even need, to make new stuff up. I used to think it was shiny thing syndrome – in the middle of one project and, but oh, what if we did this? About something completely unrelated. ADD? Perhaps. Gifted? Let’s go with that.

This was a real problem for me. I would sit at my desk and start stories, or put together a piece of jewelry or begin painting some mixed media thing. Once it was clear in my head? Once I could ‘see’ it all the way to the end? I abandoned it. In my mind I had finished it and now I could move onto the next creation.

I would write the most amazing self-help books, my insight fresh and aha inducing. The cover of the book was beautiful, you could tell right away it was something that could, no, would change your life. Every page had something so rich it begged to be highlighted. Oprah couldn’t pull little stickee notes off her fancy highlighter fast enough to mark the wisdom in those pages. She would have to have me on her show.

The interview went swimmingly, she shook her head in amazement and just couldn’t stop saying “Wow, you’re so right, I hadn’t ever looked at it that way. This is truly a game changer.” Then we’d go out to lunch and she’d fund my next big idea.

Then I’d look down at my notebook or journal or computer screen and there’d be one sentence. All it takes is one, it’s the tinder to my overactive imagination.

Sticktoitiveness. I lack that gene.

But then I would meet people who had worked the same job for 30 years and thought my life was magical. I would talk to people struggling to figure out what they wanted to do and they would look to me for advice. I am on the other side of 40, pretty far on the other side, and I still wonder what I want to be when I grow up.

I have learned to embrace my quirks, my magpie-ness. I have had many job titles and worked in many fields. I have read copious books from self-help to historical fiction to, well everything, making me a great conversationalist at parties.

So rereading a book, even if I had the time, seems almost wasteful. There’s so much NEW out there. But if I am being honest, I might pick up Sarah Addison Allen’s, Garden Spells again. And Eckhart Tolle always seems fresh to me.

But I don’t want to even entertain having extra time, because I would surely fill it with something new.

Saturday Morning Spells

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There is something so enchanting about the first morning light. As darkness relents to the rising sun the whole world is aglow for just a few moments. Light filters through trees, like a mystical omen of the magic to come. The world seems to warm. It’s only meant for a few. It’s too easy to miss, to sleep through.

During this time, in the summer months anyway – of which there are at least six here in middle Florida – the ground begins to make noise. Fallen leaves rustle, rocks are pushed out of the way by tiny reptilian feet. Most birds are still rubbing the sleep from their eyes, but a few start to chirp a little lazily.

There is one that seems to sit just outside my bedroom window whose sole purpose is to let me know the sun is about to come up. In an hour. He panics, I think.

Once the day begins to brighten and the sun makes its way to a visible point, the rest of the avian world begins to come alive. Two mourning doves coo sweet nothings on my fence. At times they roam around the floor of my tiny backyard looking for morsels. So at home, they wait until the very last minute to fly off in a huff when the hounds are released for their morning routines.

It is Saturday. The usual humming of car motors, the rise and fall of garage doors and the air brakes of the school bus are all absent. In their place is silence; the background on which all other sounds can be heard more clearly. A wind chime from two doors down announces a gentle breeze, a dog barks in the distance and beside me a cat works a catnip filled toy, causing the tiny bell on her collar to sing with excitement.

It’s too early and not enough hot yet for the summer bugs to begin singing. I don’t know what they are, some sort of cicada maybe, but I love their song. Or more probably, what it represents, and the fond memories of fleeting summers where there were three other seasons.

In an hour or so, the light will be different, more common. The sweet sounds against the quiet background will be lost to activity. The morning will be just a memory soon forgotten as the day picks up speed.

But later, much later – although it will be here before we know it – will be dusk. That golden hour when the sun, knowing it’s time is short, will flame out spectacularly providing the perfect light for a few fleeting moments before bidding adieu.

Yet there is still light, even after the sun slips below the horizon. As the creatures of the earth honor the rising sun each morning, it is the sun itself that celebrates the end of its workday with an explosion of colors that dance within the clouds.

I wonder what colors the sky will celebrate this evening.

[Photo: Allison L. Andersen. Taken at the Amrit Yoga Institute, Salt Springs, Florida.]

Wrong Address

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Daily Prompt: Secret Admirers. You return home to discover a huge flower bouquet waiting for you, no card attached. Who is it from — and why did they send it to you?

They’ve been delivered to the wrong home. Sadly, that is my first thought. As I search in vain to find the card or some shred of evidence by which to begin solving the mystery I allow my mind to wander. Maybe they are from him. But he never sends flowers. Aside from the freshly cut wild flowers he keeps stocked on the kitchen counter, I can count on one hand how many times he has purchased flowers. And never has he had them sent.

Nothing significant has happened. I’ve won no awards, received no promotions, survived nothing insurmountable. Life has been blissfully average.

I decide to let go of the need to know and just enjoy them. They’re beautiful and happy. Crisp white roses with sprigs of lavender and baby’s breath.

As I pick them up off my front doormat, I notice a torn piece of paper taped to the bottom of the vase. “..07 Sea Breeze Circle.”

I was right. They’re not meant for me, they belong to my neighbor. I don’t know her. I have only seen her a handful of times through the windshield of her car as she backs out of her driveway. I’m not even sure of her hair color. Is it her birthday? Did she get a promotion? Is there a new paramour? Was there an old one?

I stand before her door with the offering of these beautiful flowers. Hoping the occasion is pleasant and maybe we can at least learn each other’s names and have a chuckle over the misplaced vase. There is no answer.

I could keep them. No one would know.

Instead I remove the torn address from the bottom and place them gingerly on her front doormat. I try the doorbell one last time, wait an appropriate amount of time, then leave.

Maybe she’ll know who they are from. Or maybe they will be a mystery for her, as they were for me. A mystery in which I now play a part.

 

Snowy Knows All My Secrets

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Daily prompt: Have you ever named an inanimate object? (Your car? Your laptop? The volleyball that kept you company while you were stranded in the ocean?) Share the story of at least one object with which you’re on a first-name basis.

I have struggled with determining the personality of my car so as to properly name it. Her. Him. Three years in its still just a vehicle. I love it, I take care of it, but it remains an it.

I like to name things. Or rather, I like to create stories around things, applying personality traits to everything from critters to the weather; having full conversations with woodland creatures that sit still long enough for me to take their photos. But as I think of it, I have never actually named them, instead referring to them in the familiar as ‘friend.’ I have a particular penchant for turning verbs into nouns by ascribing qualities to places like Distraction and Procrastination. And I am inclined to make up biographies about people I pass on the street; giving them full back stories based solely on how they walk or the expressions on their faces.

Yet naming things that do not move of their own volition eludes me.

Snowy. I have a white teddy bear from my early childhood that has had the fur loved off of him. His name is Snowy. I can’t be certain, though, that I named him.

A previous purple car acquired the name Barney. But it wasn’t I that named it.

Dogs? Yes. Cats? Yes. Children? Of course. Iguanas? Once.

Perhaps, sadly somehow, the answer is no. No, I have not named an inanimate object. But I’ll be okay. I feel no less complete as a result of this shortcoming.

I will chose instead to continue my tete a tete with the rather loquacious Mr. C, our resident cardinal, in my bay tree out back. I will visit Distraction. Again and again, maybe taking a side trip to Productivity once in a while. And I will continue to love my car, whatever its name may be.

Turn Off to Tune In

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Daily Prompt: When was the last time a movie, a book, or a television show left you cold despite all your friends (and/or all the critics) raving about it? What was it that made you go against the critical consensus?

About 10 years ago I began to shift away from mindless television and fictionalized or glamorized violence of any kind. I stopped watching the ‘news’ first. It makes me sound prudish and elitist, I know, but I’m okay with that.

You’re probably expecting me to tell you now that I’m one of those people who doesn’t own a TV. I still do. And I still watch it, but not often.

At some point I woke up. At some point I realized that everything I was allowing in through my senses affected not only my attitude but my physical being. Maybe it was an amazing book I read, a seminar, a comment overheard. I can’t say when it happened or even why, except that I woke up. And once I knew what I was doing to myself, I made different choices.

When I let go of the need for water cooler banter and chose to turn my attention to talking about expansive ideas and working on how I could become a better person in this world, a better steward of the earth and at the very least do no harm, everything shifted.

I went outside.

I looked up.

I found enchantment in the clouds – we have great clouds in Florida. The praying mantis eating a dragonfly or a spider catching a fly provided drama and a little violence. Birds are actually quite comical. And strangers are always in the midst of some love story. Overhearing snippets of conversation became  fodder for my imagination; creating lives and turmoil and surprises for these characters I was free to develop.

As I wandered with my camera, magic appeared in front of me. Every time. Hawks would pose patiently on low branches so I could snap their portrait before they flew off to capture their morning meal. Butterflies and bees slowed down as they worked flowers, it seemed just for me. Deer made sustained eye contact before returning to their foraging or bounding into the forest.

I’m sure this was always the case. The only thing that has changed is the observer. Me.

While I appreciate the opinions of others and on occasion I will take the advice of a friend and watch a show, read a book or go to the movies, I am more likely found squatting next to a tree to get a closer look at a baby frog.

This is the direction in which my preferences run. That’s just me. But then, it’s all a matter of taste.

[Photo: Taken at the Merrit Island Refuge in Merrit Island, Florida. He’s about the size of my thumb nail. Maybe. Photo credit: Me, Allison L Andersen]

Magic Wand Optional

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The Daily Prompt: A literary-minded witch gives you a choice: with a flick of the wand, you can become either an obscure novelist whose work will be admired and studied by a select few for decades, or a popular paperback author whose books give pleasure to millions. Which do you choose?

Does anyone write to become obscure? Certainly not in the I-want-to-be-published kind of way. Obscurity is earned by spending tormented hours hunched over journals made of parchment, struggling to get the thoughts to coalesce on paper. Obscurity is found work, not intentional.

Yet secretly all who journal or write for themselves, have the fantasy of their heart’s pourings being found and made into an art film, I suspect. Or maybe that’s my notion alone.

My mission with my writing and photography is to ‘Share the Magic.’ It’s not that my point of view is so fresh or that my word combinations are unique. It’s not that my photos are technically brilliant. It’s just that I write and that I take pictures and then I share.

At present two books are hovering in fieri; one on finding the magic in the every day and the other my quirky recounting of two trips to India. I am so enjoying the process that it becomes unthinkable at times to finish either one.

I am inspired to drop everything and go look for dragonflies or how the ripples on the lake catch the sun as I tweak and retweak the magic book. Diving back into India is like crawling into crisp cool sheets and leaning back onto a nest of comfy pillows; I am immediately transported to the dreamlike existence of the mother land.

These distractions do not necessarily speak to the eloquence with which I write, but more to the ideas I am choosing to foster and bring forth. I am in love with these projects.

It seems that neither category offered by our literary witch would suit my endeavors. Although paperback does not automatically denote fiction. Perhaps a popular paperback author could fit. After all it’s my intention to share the magic and why not to millions? If millions of people could stop for a moment and consider the beauty and enchantment that surrounds them every day, might they make different choices? I hope one day soon I’ll find out.

Read other’s responses to the prompt here.