Thoughtful Thursday

(photo source here)

"All I have to do is be,
and all I have to be is who I am"

I encountered this potent phrase during a yoga retreat this past summer. It had a lot of resonance with me, as every waking moment of my day is usually consumed with attempts at over-achieving.

Please note that I say 'attempts' now, because I'm starting to realize that the intention behind an action is sometimes just as important as the action itself.

So, on the brink of an eve where a lot of people will make lengthy lists that intend to completely revolutionize their lives, I urge them - and you - to take a baby step back. While still remaining optimistic, be realistic.

Be kind to yourself.

Because, with a little self-reflection - the truth of who you are?

Probably pretty amazing already.

Just be.

I'm Ready For My Closeup, Mr. DeMille

Right Front.

Left Front.

To the Side, right.

To the Side, left.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

It's all over for another year. Easy peasy x-ray squeezy.

Another updated set of funbag shots for the Mammography Mugbook.

And, I can assure you - beyond the shadow of a doubt - they cannot look any worse than this:

Those of you readers out there who have yet to schedule your first mammogram, please don't listen to all the jibber jabber out there. About how it's so cold, you should practice sleeping naked on the garage floor mid-winter (it's a little brisk, not so much as your nerples are going to freeze and fall off). Don't believe that you should have someone back a car over your boobage to get used to the squished feeling (yes it's a tad awkward, but it's not impossible).

Truth be told, as tests go, it's neither horrible nor is it excruciatingly painful. Moreover - it's necessary. Get 'er done, ladies!! Make it a New Year's resolution.

Finally, in the "Why Didn't I think of This EARLIER?" department, I should have brought a bottle of maple syrup to give to the technician. If she appeared quizzical, I would clarify: "If you're gonna squish them like pancakes, we may as well have something to go with them...".

Next year...

A Candle in the Window

Order. Unity.

Self-determination.

Cooperative work and responsibility.

Cooperative economics.

Purpose. Creativity.

Faith.

Each one of these values is represented by a candle in the kinara during the 7 days of Kwanzaa, which started December 26th.

Here, December 26th is deemed 'Boxing Day', an archaic holiday, the meaning blurred and now abused as an excuse for post Christmas Day shopping. Commerce never sleeps (and apparently is not above pimping out national holidays...). It is a shame that we rarely see Kwanzaa celebrated - or even mentioned - in my small corner of the earth. Because these qualities are so worthy of recognition and honor.

And in this era of 'the global village', maybe it's time to start learning from the sound values of others, rather than discarding them because they are not of our own devising.

Today, let us all - of our own devise - recognize the third illumination: self-determination.

It just might make the day a little more manageable.

Thoughtful Thursday

"Ya. Meat."

The quote above is one of the most oft-quoted vonB family phrases.

Yet I cannot lay claim to it - it is from a Nepali friend of our friend Brian.

The story goes that. . .

(with a few omissions, inaccuracies and minor embellishments)
(for which I will never be asked to submit work to the Oprah book club)
(and I can live with that)
(Really)

. . .Brian decided, as his 50th birthday present to himself, he would join a group and hike to the base camp of Mount Everest, something he had long wanted to do.

The group was quite a mishmash of characters: leaders, a veritable UN of hikers, and assorted sherpas. As is Brian's way, he quickly befriended the sherpas - these were the guys doing the lion's share of the duties, and Brian seems to be drawn towards the honest, humble and hardworking.

There was once particular fellow that Brian seemed to spend a lot of time with, and between them, they developed a method of broken-English/pantomime/point-and-make-faces communication that served both of them quite well.

Without fail, every meal everyone ate was rice and some sort of vegetable.

Rice for breakfast.

Rice for lunch.

Rice for dinner.

On about the 5th day, though, there was an added bonus at dinnertime. Something vaguely protein-ish in nature was perched atop their rice.

Brian went over to his sherpa buddy, pointed at the food in the bowl, and said "Dude, what's up with this?" Questioning look on face, shoulders shrugged.

Sherpa smiled beatifically and kept on keeping on.

Brian continued, "So is it goat?"

No response.

"Is is some sort of field animal you found while we were hiking?"

Nothing.

"What kind of meat is this?"

Finally, the sherpa's eyes lit up; acknowledgment.

The magic word had been articulated.

Sherpa looked at Brian, pointed to the bowl and said, "Ya."

"Meat."

'Nuff said.

Maybe sometimes it's better not to know the specifics.

After hearing this anecdote, the vonB's began to incorporate it into any meal where we sat around the table, silent; totally focussed on the food we were digging into like cavemen around the fire. (or hyenas on the velt.)

Amid the smicking and gnawing and smacking, one of us will look up and at each other, and grunt out, "Ya. Meat."

It truly is a phrase of perfection; succinct yet speaking volumes.

So, as you dear readers tuck into your holiday feast either tonight or tomorrow, surrounded by the warmth of family drawn near and the bounty that you are fortunate enough to have placed before you, may you all have your own "Ya. Meat." moment: A time of gratitude for whatever we may be given, with our best interests the only intention.

Halls, Decked.

Because I'm lazy. And because 7-11 doesn't deliver. And because it's 11:30 pm on December 24th.

Behold, my holiday wish to you all.

And I have a No Return policy. Too bad for you.

Deck the Halls
(from the poem by John Cieriog Hughes)

Deck the halls with boughs of holly

(photo credit here)
Fa la la la la,
la la
lah lah

'Tis the season to be jolly

(photo credit here)

Fa la la la la,
la la,
lah lah

Don we now our gay apparel

(photo credit here)
Fa la la
la la la,
lah lah lah

Troll the ancient Yuletide carol

(photo credit here)
Fa la la la la,
la la
lah lah.

See the blazing Yule before us

(photo credit here)
Fa la la la la,
la la
lah lah.

Strike the harp and join the chorus

(photo credit here)
Fa la la la la la,
la la,
lah lah

Follow me in merry measure

(photo credit here)
Fa la la
la la la,
lah lah lah.

While I tell of Yuletide treasure

(I have no idea whatsoever why Duke #2 needs therapy...)

Fa la la la la,

la la

Lah

Lah

Thoughtful Thursday

"She [Nell] was surprised to find that, despite her outward appearance - briskness, tidiness, smiling capability - Oona's mind was like a sock drawer into which a number of disparate things had been shoved. There was a lot of jumble." Monopoly, by Margaret Atwood

My sock drawer? Filled to the brim with disparate things.

Things shoved.

Things jumbled.

I am seeking medical attention.

Fleet Farm! Friday

One may think that I just wander hither and yon, travelling and gadding about without any agenda or premise.

The truth of the matter is, people, that I am constantly gathering information. Constantly.

Gathering.

Hunting and Gathering, you could even say.

Just for you. Because I derive no personal pleasure in this at all.

It is all business, all the time.

You can just say 'Thank You' right now and be done with it.

Why?

Because I am about to let you in on a HUGE secret, the likes of which would make Tim Gunn's nerples rock-hard with excitement and compel him to declare, 'Holla at cha Baroness! I am practically swooning with anticipation. Please proceed - mindfully.'

I am going to do you all a monumental solid, and let you in on what you can buy NOW in order to be a SFT.

(That's Spring Fashion Trendsetter, for those of you who don't get the memos.)

Take notes. Here are the tips, courtesy of moi and the fine folks at Fleet Farm.

(Never in a million years did I ever anticipate writing that sentence. Hunh.)

Tip 1. Jumpsuits.

Gives you a long, lean look. The admiring eye will effortlessly glide from shoulder to toe. Courtesy of this fashionista optical illusion, your legs will look positively endless and Barbie-esque; they'll start wa-a-a-a-y up at your belly button and go all-ll-ll-ll the way down to your perfectly pedicured pointy toes.

Tip 2. Orange.

And not any subtle mandarin or pasty pastel here. I am talking NEON.

For when you are feeling your sassy best, and you are not ashamed to say "Look at me, dammit.
I'm a SFT!!"

(Like I do.)

(Every.)

(Damn.)

(Day.)

Regardez, mes amies. And drool, if you must:

Not too sure about this hat, but LOVE the matching turtleneck!
Darling!

Tip 3. THE hat.

One must never be understated when one has the opportunity to be bold.

This is Tao of the SFT.

A plume here, a teal feather there.

Ack - Amateur hour.

Bold. I said BOLD.

This is the time to make a statement. To preen. To parade your crowning glory.

To wear the whole damn bird . . .

Why, even Daffy on the shelf on the left is admiring my elan.
Proof positive - I am a fashion genius.

. . . okay, maybe not the bottom half of the bird. Because those webbed feet are kind of dangly and awkward and there is a poopshoot somewhere in the hind vicinity. Ewww.

But definitely the top half.

Let us summarize:

Overalls. Orange.

Ducks on the half shell as hats.

Heed my sage advise, and you are among the courant, my darlings. The only thing separating you from the catwalks of Paris is the Atlantic Ocean and some wicked magazine connections.

Before I change my mind and decide to keep all of these tips to myself, I will now hit the ORANGE Publish Post button (kudos to you, you blogger.com SFT, you) and be done with it.

Fleet Farm!

Thoughtful Thursday

As I was poking around one of my favorite bookstores recently, I wandered into an little recess that I hadn't ever been to before.

The archway through to this nook was quite different from the others, and I immediately knew that this space was somehow sacred.

Sure enough, on one of the walls was a small plaque dedicated to one of the founders of the book store and, to quote the writer, his "co-heart".

Don't you just love that phrase? It speaks so much more than the mere "spouse" or "partner"; it truly gets to the core of things.

Sadly, it would appear that dedication was in fact a monument; the honoree passed on in 2001.

Below the plaque with the story of the bookstore and of Jane Hooper was an offering; a take-away version of a poem that she had written.

While it exudes a beautiful timeless quality, it also seems to resonate with the upcoming holiday season and that anxious, anticipated, cherished, sometimes tenous reuniting of souls where intention doesn't always mesh with execution.

So, on this cold Thursday, when we wish for warmth and love and companionship - and all that is 'home' - enjoy this piece. It's as much a benediction as it is poetry.

PLEASE COME HOME by Jane Hooper

Please come home. Please come home.
Find the place where your feet know where to walk
And follow your own trail home.

Please come home. Please come home into your own body,
Your own vessel, your own earth.
Please come home into each and every cell,
And fully into the space that surrounds you.

Please come home. Please come home to trusting yourself,
and your instincts and your ways and your knowings,
and even the particular quirks of your personality.

Please come home. Please come home and once you are firmly there,
please stay home awhile and come to a deep rest within.
Please treasure your home. Please love and embrace your home.
Please get a deep, deep sense of what it's like to be truly home.

Please come home. Please come home, and when you're really, really ready,
and there's a detectable urge on the outbreath, then please come out.
Please come home and please come forward.
Please express who you are to us, and please trust us
to see you and hear you and touch you
and recognize you as best we can.

Please come home. Please come home and let us know
all the nooks and crannies that are calling to be seen.
Please come home, and let us know the More
that is there that wants to come out.

Please come home, Please come home,
for you belong here now. You belong among us.
Please inhabit your place fully so we can learn from you,
from your voice and your ways and your presence.

Please come home, Please come home,
and when you feel yourself home, please welcome us too,
for we too forget that we belong and are welcome,
and that we are called to express and fully be who we are.

Please come home, Please come home,
you and you and you and me.

Thank you Earth for welcoming us,
and thank you touch of eyes and ears and skin,
touch of love for welcoming us.

May we wake up and remember who we truly are.

Please come home. Please come home. Please come home. Ho.

Be Careful What You Wish For

Not too long ago, as I was doing my weekly quick stop at Costco, I was reminded of a story the Baron told me about one of his friends, Igor.

At the time of their meeting, both Igor and the Baron worked night shifts, so would often run into each other at the gym during the day. They struck up a fast friendship, and would spend many an afternoon swapping funny stories.

The one that made the most impact on me was the one where Igor and his brother, both recent Russian immigrants, took their first shopping trip to Safeway. Armed with a camera, they were going to document their first trip to a North American grocery store.

What they didn't expect, upon entering, was the size of the store and its sheer volume of product. Igor told my husband that when he and his brother stood in the Produce Department, they were at first confused. They asked one of the stock clerks, "Who is all of this for?"

"I don't understand your question - what do you mean, who is it for?"

"Is it for some visiting dignitary?" "Is it for special people? Government officials?"

Shrugged the clerk, "No, man. It's for anyone."

"Like us?", said Igor's brother, hesitantly.

"Yeah, anybody."

And it was here, in the middle of a suburban Safeway, that two huge bodybuilders stood, taking photos and weeping.

Overcome with joy, at the abundance for them - for anybody - laid out in row upon row upon row of perfect little pyramids.

And it is this feeling of being overwhelmed that hits me amongst the aisles of Costco.

There is so much stuff.

Anywhere I go lately, I am both amazed and appalled at all the stuff. Stuff stacked, floor to ceiling. Clothes that show up for 3 weeks, and then are completed replaced with new stuff. Produce, beginning to go bad because there's too much of it. Warehouses full. Of stuff. Do we really need all of this stuff? Is there truly, actually a need for all of this stuff?

It is an embarrassment of riches, and one that most of us take for granted each and every day.

I'm quite sure that I will not be asking the most popular question of the season, given it is the season of stuff, but here goes - is there something out there, intangible, unstackable, unchanging - valuable - that could be given instead of stuff? Instead of the obligatory oh-my-god-they-got-something-for-us-now-we-have-to-get-something-for-them stuff?

A kind word? A hug? A meaningful, thought-out gesture? Something to actually benefit someone's life?

I know, I know - revolutionary stuff, and not the sort of thing a child wants to find under the tree.

It is all of this stuff we somehow feel entitled to (yet also feel the need to complain about concurrently) that has finally begun to really stick in my craw.

It's also the gist behind the brilliant new ad campaign for one of our local not-for-profit organizations, the Union Gospel Mission. In the campaign are single portraits of regular people - no glitz, no glam - just them against a white backdrop. They could be a neighbor, a work colleague, a bus mate. They could be Igor or his brother.

Above each photo is their "wish" for the holidays:

"I wish I got more junk mail" Toni M.*

"I wish I got a parking ticket" Kevin K*

"I wish my latte was lukewarm" Prem P.*

"I wish I spent all day at the mall" Jemal D.*

"I wish my in-laws were coming over for Christmas" John R.*

"I wish my yoga class was overcrowded" Jolene D.*

"I wish I was stuck in traffic" Les H.*

Be careful what you complain about - it could very well be what someone else wished they had to complain about.

And at this time of giving, try to give a thought to giving a real gift.

Because stuff is just stuff.

* Les', Jolene's, John's, Jemal's, Prem's, Kevin's and Toni's 'I wish' stories can be found here; they have each triumphed over struggles with their personal adversities.

They are living, breathing testimonies - to their strength of spirit and to the opportunities that can arise when kindness meets despair.

Thanks to Kevan of UGM for kindly sending the link along.

Fleet Farm! Friday

Failure.

Not a word that exists in the lexicon of Fleet Farm.

This mission statement of this mecca of awesomeness involves ensuring that any possible outdoorsy endeavor anyone ever chooses to pursue will be as successful as that time when Arnold Ziffel left Green Acres to go to Hollywood.

Yeah, that successful.

Say, for example, you want to grow tomatoes.

Fleet Farm's got your seeds. Probably 2 or 3 aisles of seeds, as a matter of fact. Brown Derbys, Jaune Flammes, Green Zebras, Blood Gulches - they've got 'em all. They've got your rabbit manure fertilizer and iron shavings soil supplements. They've got your DIY greenhouse (and the tools to build it) to lovingly nurture those beautiful little seedlings from frail babies into strapping juicy Kentucky Beefsteaks. From the hot house to your table, all courtesy of the fine products of Fleet Farm.

Say you want grow little hunters.

You start early, dressing them in t-shirts like this:

Ad-or-a-ble!!
I don't what I love more - the antlers he's clutching,
or Bambi's mom giving him the stinkeye in the background.

and making sure Santa brings them one of these for Christmas:

(each purchase comes with a free Ted Nugent CD anthology!)
(while supplies last!)

(forget the damned puppy. Fleet Farm don't sell no stinkin' puppies....)

I have to say, during my recent FF visit, every aisle I turned down was an education.

For instance, even though I have been known to dabble a little bit in gardening , I was not aware that in order to grow these:

All you need is a bag of this:

Looks like I'm going into the cattle ranching business.

Fleet Farm!!

Thoughtful Thursday

One of my favorite yoga poses is Warrior II. It looks like this:

When you've really sunk down into it, and are feeling grounded in your feet, and your thighs are strong yet quiet, and your arms are in perfect alignment so they really feel floaty yet powerful, and you are surveying all you can see beyond your front middle finger, well. There is no greater feeling.

At that moment in time, you are the most kick-assing-est person on the planet.

In yoga pants.

Yeah, well - it's all about putting things in perspective.

Kind of like when the Baron gifted me a month-long membership to a hot new yoga studio for my birthday. Now this is one of those 'now', 'happening' places, where the age demographic is wa-a-ay below mine. But, I think they must have some kind of Affirmative Action plan in place in the event that old farts like me somehow stumble upon their doorway during our usual daily aluminum-fuelled random wanderings.

I must admit that I was a little perturbed by being led by a young lady not much older than my son.

Here's where the perspective thing comes into play, though. I embraced the Namaste and just let it go. And I'm so glad I did, because this lovely woman is a whoosh of fresh air in the staleness of life.

One evening, during our final relaxation pose, she read us a musing from Paolo Coelho's "Warrior of the Light"; my further investigation into this wonderful gem brings us todays TT:

"The Warrior of the Light sometimes behaves like water, flowing around the obstacles he encounters.

Occasionally, resistance might mean destruction, and so he adapts to the circumstances. He accepts, without complaint, that the stones in his path hinder his way through the mountains.

Therein lies the strength of water: It cannot be touched by a hammer or ripped to shreds by a knife. The strongest sword in the world cannot scar its surface.

The river adapts itself to whatever route proves possible, but the river never forgets its one objective: the sea. So fragile at its source, it gradually gathers the strength of the other rivers it encounters.

And, after a certain point, its power is absolute."

So, as I sit waiting, impatiently, for an appointment with the guy at the place about the thing, I will embrace my inner Warrior of the Light.

And just flow.

Flow.

Something Borrowed...

Even in the skewed world defined by Baroness logic, it would seem only logical that when one has a love of sole like I do, one must hoof themselves over, posthaste, to the local shoe display building.

Which is what I did at the Bata Shoe Museum in Toronto:

I am so proud of this picture-takin': such perfect composition - me, 'Canada' shaped like a shoeprint, a lingering police car in case things get out of hand...

Here are some of things that I learned while strolling the leather-scented exhibits:

1. When one suffers for foot beauty like this:

These make my silver snakeskin stilettos look like broken-in Uggs

one would be better off just going commando:

Thought Bubble:
"Sure, I may have some facial hair issues and a muffin top, but by god, are my feet comfortable."

2. Although quilled and beaded mocassins like this:

are exquisite, according to a fascinating video I watched, the bead:saliva ratio is about 50/50. Ewww.

3. Historically, group shopping for shoes may have once been a man's domain:

Buyer: "What about a 9 and 1/2? Does it come in half sizes? What about more of an ox-blood color? You got that in stock?"

Vendor (to self): "If he asks for the "Puss In Boots" special one more time, I swear I will gut him with a shoehorn..."

4. Elvis' blue suede shoes are not completely blue nor suede:

and appear to maybe have been stepped on a time or two.

5. The Bata Shoe Museum may have been duped by a flim flam flip flop peddlar. The museum alleges that these:
...are Rudolf Nuryev's ballet slippers. I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to call bullsh*t. Because I saw a full frontal photo of Nuryev (or shall I say, "Neigggggggh-urrrr-ee-vv") at the Avedon Photo Exhibit in San Diego this past summer, and there is no way that these teeny tiny Capezios could be his.

Now, this cowboy boot might be more like it:

Note that the boots to the left are probably about a standard Men's Size 10

And the final thing I learned is this:

6. There is hope for my dog yet.

Dogs in shoes.
Funny.

Oh, Babe

In today's 'Torn from the Headlines Tuesday':

"SYDNEY - A flatulent pig sparked [editor's note: oh, ho, ho] a gas emergency in southern Australia on Thursday when a farmer mistook its odours for a leaking pipe, officials said.

Fifteen firefighters and two trucks were called to a property at Axedale in central Victoria state after reports of a gas leak, the Country Fire Service said.

'When we got there, as we drove up the driveway, there was this huge sow, about 120-odd kilo sow [ed. note: approx 265 pounds], and it was very obvious where the gas was coming from,' said fire Captain Peter Harkins, adding they could also hear it." [ed. note: that last part was just kinda unnecessary to add. We all make sounds now and then. OK, well you do.]

In related news, an undisclosed farm in rural central Victoria area was the location of an impromptu charity barbeque, "The 1st Annual Ziffel Open" on Thursday evening, with proceeds going to the local Axedale chapter of the County Fire Service's Emergency Condiment Contingency Fund.

While initially neighbors had reported an odd, methane-like odor coming from a local farm, the smell soon gave way to the succulent aroma of pork ribs and bacon-wrapped tenderloin roasting on the coals. Grill master Peter Harkins, in a brilliant eco-political move, made the event a green one, by tapping into some gas source he just found 'lying around'.

He further declared the evening to be a wild success and not the 'boar' that some porcine farmers and their 120 kg wives had claimed it to be.