As Long as it's Talking with You, Talk of the Weather Will Do

Spring only means one thing to me. Via SlashFood

Happy First Day of Spring! (Although this particular tail-end of winter has felt more like June!) This freakish weather, albeit energizing and completely glorious, has me a little concerned. But first let me luxuriate is its awesomeness:

It’s lovely to see the crowds of commuters shrugging off their winter layers to expose bare arms and necks again. I’ve broken out the wedges and the sundresses the past couple days, and waking up to sweet-smelling summer air filling my bedroom is one of my favorite things in the world. There’s something about sitting in a patch of sunny grass or a bar patio with a sweaty can of beer and my favorite people that is spectacularly nurturing to the soul.

Now onto examining the weirdness: according to Tom Skilling, March hasn’t had a warm spell like this in 141 years of weather reporting, essentially when meteorology started. AKA in ever. His recent blogs over at ...are pretty much just waxing poetic over how many records this weather is breaking. Like I said, I’m loving every second--it makes me want SnoCones and lemonade (+gin), but then a looming, global warming-related fog seeps into my brain and makes me worry about our Earth and the environment, Catholic guilt-style.

 Unusual weather has such an impact on flora and fauna; just like late frosts can totally knock produce harvests out of whack, I’m left wondering what the effect of early-blooming plants and trees will be. And then the honeybees! What’ll be their deal in all of this? I’ve been scouring the internet trying to find some speculations from farmers, apiculturists or even other meteorologists on what gives with these warm temps, but my searches have come up tragically short. Maybe in the weeks ahead will reveal more as to what this weather is doing to plants and harvest. In the meantime, you can find me at the beach with a margarita.

So spring is supposed to signify this big cycle of rebirth, where we examine the patterns we’ve been stuck in, and unthaw our minds and bodies from the habits that no longer serve us. But with such a mild winter, have we experienced that seasonal “death” that allows for starting anew? Each passing year, I’m becoming more sensitive to the weather--Chicago winters are becoming harder and harder on my psyche--so this past winter was a welcome break from dismal, biting city-cold.

We are cyclical beings, with moods and hormones and biorhythms, and supremely sensitive to disturbances in the balance. So this spring, bringing things into balance will be a big theme of mine, just in case we've missed out on any digestion of the previous cycle's experiences. I'm already busy making lists, organizing my thoughts and decluttering my mind and environment while invigorating my current healthy habits and setting into motion the things I want to do. I feel a renewed creative energy the past couple weeks, and so many positive things have been manifested during that time simultaneously.

Anyway, this Spring/Summer will bring:

- More frequent blogging (yay!)
- Travels, even small ones
- Bees - Pottery class!
- Teaching yoga and other explosive creative collaborations
- New ink

Speaking of yoga and creativity, I have an amazing workshop in the works for my teacher training thesis. Details to come!

 Anyway, I'll leave you with a side-obsession most likely stemming from my fascination with fairy tales: hindu mythology for children. Pixar animator Sanjay Patel created The Little Book of Hindu Deities, along with The Big Poster Book of Hindu Deities, both of which I want so hard.

Wow. I was without a computer there for a hot minute. But I traded in my Acer for a Macbook Air and we're back in business.

This post will be short, since I have Theraputics homework to get done (a future post about that is brewing, promise). In the meantime, the Reader had a call for submissions regarding bad dates in under 500 words. Uh, if I had a drink for every one of those I've had, I'd be toe UP. Possibly dead.

Naturally, I submitted and got creative with some non-fiction. Literary liberties were taken, you can decide where. With that, I humbly present a bad date:

I was 19. My boyfriend had just cheated on me and the guy at the gas station on the corner had been asking me out for months. He was Middle Eastern and very good-looking, if a little Euro-trashy. He had developed a friendliness with my dad, who stopped in every morning to buy two Mountain Dews and a pack of Salem Lights. When I’d fill up my Ford Focus, the guy--Sean--would ask why I wouldn’t talk to him, and I’d laugh and he’d ask me out, and I’d laugh again. But he was tall, dark and handsome, and my boyfriend had just banged some other chick. This time, when Sean asked, I agreed, already knowing I’d put out.

Sean picked me up in a black Cadillac with a leather interior that smelled like grandpas and freshly-smoked weed. The backseat was cavernous and as he drove, a smattering of CD cases slid back and forth. The smalltalk was strained; he was 22 and had been working on his associate’s degree since graduating high school. We got to the movie and he ushered me though an Exit door as people were leaving. I guess I wouldn’t have wanted to pay for the holiday slasher Black Christmas, either.

We stopped for milkshakes, then parked down a quiet side street. As we made out, my hands wandered under his t-shirt and I came across the sharpest stubble I would ever encounter in my life. Doing my best to ignore it, I unbuckled his pants.

He was large and well-formed--pretty, even--in the orangy glow of the street light. By the time he pulled me into the backseat, his shirt was gone and mine was undone, and the CD cases slid to the floor. He was on top of me, his razor-stubble torso grating my chest. Our pants came off, a condom came on and the magic began to happen. Except delicate flesh and dry latex don’t make magic.

“Stop,” I finally said, my hands pressed against his prickly chest. “This just hurts. A lot.”

“What? What’s wrong?”
Then he prodded me the way a hungry schoolboy would poke a Pop Tart in the toaster oven. His face fell. Not ready yet.

“I have some lube,” he said, reaching into the glove compartment. Of course he did. He slathered some on himself and then me. It was better, until a fiery burning began to emanate from my most tender bits. I pushed him off.

“What the hell was that?” I said, panicking.

“It’s warming.” Warming lube on my raw, hurty cupcake. His eyes were huge. He had no idea what he had done. I sighed, my head falling into my hands. “

Can you take me home?”

As I tenderly undressed to shower, I saw an angry red stubble-burn had spread across my chest and belly. With both hands, I gingerly cupped my poor ka-choo. “I’m sorry,” I whispered to her. “I’m so sorry.” The worst part was knowing he would see my dad in the morning. 

In other news, doesn't Ladytron kinda sound like Dolores O'Riordan?

Totally.

Caution: Dreamboat Crossing

What's Mr. Bates up to? Just sweeping you off your feet is all.

Figuratively, of course. Watch out, Baby Goose, you've got some competition for this girl's heart.

I Work Out.

Four weeks ago I started running.

I'll say it again: Four weeks ago I started running. Me. And no taco trucks have been involved. Yet.

Today marks the halfway point of 5k 101, a little running app I downloaded to get my ass to run (jog?) three point whatever miles without stopping, and I gotta tell ya, I'm. Fucking. Loving it.

It all started when K from the chocolate shop started talking about a beginning jogging program. She started doing intervals of walking and running, and then would lenghten the jogging times while shortening the walking times as the weeks progressed.

Now I'd been thinking about running for a while. That's what I do with things that take my interest: I think about it a whole lot, read about it, information-gather. Then I start preparing the accouterments, cause I gotta do it right. Then, finally, I might give it a go. This process ensued with running; figuring out which program I wanted to follow, downloading the app, acquiring some sweet kicks, a little moisture-wicking running shirt, some good earbuds. Only then did I take my first tentative steps.

The human body endlessly fascinates me. How magnificent, how adaptive and plastic. And soft and hard and scruffy and smooth. And the bones! The sweet, protruding hip and wrist and shoulder bones. (I mean, ASIS, ulnar styloid process and acromion.) Daren says that bones love to be touched--they're remarkable sensitive and don't get touched often (Really, how often do we touch our bones? Stifled laughter here.)--but he never mentions how lovely it is to touch bones.

I've seen yoga change bodies, and I've seen my own body transform through yoga; the whittling of my thighs and tummy, the development of my arms to allow me to hold a killer chaturanga, the muscles in my back form lovely, toned curves and valleys to make it my now-favorite part of my physical self.

Running has created similar changes, though not so visible. It came easier to me than it ever has before; I've rarely been out of breath--breathing hard, yes, but never panting or gasping for air. Around Week 2 I began running through the walk/rest intervals. Then in Week 3 I ran 20 minutes and it felt amazing!  I felt alive and empowered and indestructible, until my knees began to ache something craycray the next morning. I read that one of the mistakes beginning runners make is training too hard, too quickly. The respiratory adapts faster than the musculature of the body, so it's easy to push yourself too hard when you're gauging how you feel by how heavy you're breathing. As a yogi whose exercise was done barefoot on a mat for the past 3 years, my joints were not having the impact. So I took a week off, visited Fleet Feet to get some shoes that fit my stride (My name is Raquel, and I'm a moderate over-pronator.) and hit the pavement once more, stronger than ever.

Now for what it does for my mind: Running clears my head like yoga, and gives me that juicy, hard workout that my body craves. Now yoga can deliver a hard workout, no doubt. Gimmie five sun salutes and tell me otherwise, I dare you. But the simplicity--one foot in front of the other--the rhythm of my steps, my heartbeat, the music, it all creates something glorious and conducive to the moving meditation that I love so much about vinyasa flow. When you simultaniously lose yourself and connect with clarity. Ahhh, beautiful.

So that's how running is going: meow, unstoppable.

In other beautiful news, I just received a message containing these words:
"You seem like a supernova, so gorgeous and strong and amazing."
Sometimes we forget who we are until someone reminds us. I will remind someone of their true nature today.

Pumpkin in Effing Everything

Like pretty much everyone, I love fall. Mostly for the food and booze. Of the pumpkin persuasion, primarily. I've been putting pureeed pumpkin in everything I eat. EVERYTHING. It's such an easy add to sauces and as a spread and smoothies and--God, there's a lot of alliteration going on right now. 

Anyway, I've been enjoying this breakfast for the past couple weeks:

(This is where I'd insert a gorgeous, artful picture of this taty recipe that would make you want to lick your screen, if I were that sort of person. I'm not. Maybe someday.)

Spiced Pumpkin Apple Oatmeal Extravaganza
1/2 cup old-fashioned oats
1/4 cup pumpkin puree
1/2 honeycrisp apple, cubed
1 banana, sliced
cinnamon, nutmeg, vanilla extract to taste

Cook the oatmeal, stir in pumpkin puree and spices, top with sliced banana and cubed apples. That's it. And all for 375 calories--hurrah!

It makes for a filling, completely delicious autumn breakfast. The recipe actually makes a pretty hearty breakfast--the pumpkin and apple add lots of fiber, so maybe cook up less oatmeal or add less pumpkin if you like your breakfast light. I like starting my day with a big breakfast, though, and this keeps me full for hours. I add a tablespoon of ground psyllium husk also, 'cause fiber is super.

Now, I'm usually ot a big baker; it takes precision and patience, two things that don't come naturally to me. However, one of my favorite recipes comes from Shutterbean, who comes up with amazing delicacies with food pictures I'm consistantly amazed at.




See what I'm saying? Courtesy of Shutterbean

  I tweaked her Baked Caramel Apple Donut recipe to make it "healthier." I also turned them into mini muffins instead of donuts, because I don't have a donut pan. Or a regular-sized muffin pan for that matter. Here's what I came up with:

Baked Apple Pumpkin Mini Muffins

• 1 1/4 cup whole wheat flour
• 2 teaspoons baking powder
• 1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 2 eggs, at room temperature
• 2/3 cup agave nectar
• 1/2 cup pumpkin puree
• 2 teaspoons vanilla extract
• 3 medium apples, peeled & shredded
• 1 1/2 cup chewy caramel candies
• 1 tablespoon vanilla almond milk

Directions
Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Grease up the muffin pan with coconut oil. Mix up dry ingredients in a bowl.

In another bowl, whisk together the eggs and agave nectar until smooth, then stir in vanilla and pumpkin puree.  Combine dry ingredients, then fold in the shredded apples. Spoon the batter into the muffin pans until about half full. Bake for 15-20 minutes until golden and a tooth pick inserted in the center comes out dry.

In a small, microwaveable bowl, combine the caramel and milk. Microwave for 1 minute at medium power. Stir, then repeat in 30 second intervals until melted and smooth. Without supervision, I will eat this entire caramel batch with a spoon.

Drizzle the remaining mixture over the muffins once they've cooled, or while they're still warm--whatever. Then enjoooy!

For a slightly healthier version, I've skipped the caramel completely and they're still delicious for a little snack or dessert.

My sister is coming in from school this weekend, and we're totally making these, sitting on the couch and watching terrible scary movies on Netflix. Yeah!

Yoga Hurts

My boyeee Ganesh is the remover of obstacles. I need him big time these days.

Reason One
My first yoga injury has been going on for months now: a bum right hammy. That is, I overstretched my hamstring right where it attaches to my ischial tuberosity (thanks, anatomy class!). Initially, I ignored it--I was going to get my ass into the deepest uttanasana possible, the ache deep in my upper thigh be damned. It only hurt when I did super intense forwards folds, so I considered the pain something to be worked through, pushed through. Of course, this led to even more ache and yuckiness, to the point where I not only felt it throughout class, but outside of class, too. 


Clearly, this was not something I could push through.


I've been taking it easy with my right side, but MAN, IT'S HARD. It's hard not being able to go into my deep forward folds without pain. It's hard not being able to put the crown of my head on the ground in prasarita padottanasana. It's hard getting frustrated in the middle of class because I can't do something I could a few painless months ago. My ego wants it so bad!

All that yoga talk about how destructive ego is really does have basis. It was ego that reasoned pushing through pain was better than listening to my body, and now it's ego that gets upset with me every time I recognize it's time to back off or not go to my edge. So I'm using this frustrating recovery period as practice being patient and compassionate to myself and my bum hammy, two things I've never been good at. Gotta start somewhere, though.


In other Yoga Hurts news, I have not had these many bruises since my roller derby days! They're all over my legs, arms and shoulders, and I think it has something to do with this:

B.K. in parsva bakasana (side crow)

That's what I've been trying to accomplish. Though I sometimes get some airtime, I usually end up like this face-planting kitten.

Still cute.

Reason Two:
I have so many plans, so many ideas, so much I want to get done that my skin itches with anticipation! Aadil Palkhivala was at Moksha a few weeks ago and I was lucky enough to attend a talk on dharma he was giving. First of all, his energy is effing enchanting. He's calm, steady and powerful--a total embodiment of stira and sukha, stability and ease. He challenged us to write down ten things we're grateful for in the morning, and ten things we're grateful for at night for a month, promising our lives would be transformed.

Now, I only did it for 20, but I get it: by transforming yourself into someone who recognizes the gifts that surround you and how blessed you are, you make space for more gifts and blessings--they're attracted to you! Now that sounds ridiculous and self-helpy...but totally true.



Another cool gal who gets it, man:

"You can’t make magic unless your heart is full of love. Similarly, when you make space for beauty, your brain works better. Ideas flow thick & fast; genius, eureka moments become a regular occurrence; & that smile on your face makes you look ever so gorgeous!" Gala Darling

I feel like this is Ganesha's jam, you know? Like he's all about this mindset, because this is what will remove your obstacles.

Now for something completely different:

The Death's Head Hawkmoth is at the top. He is no friend to Miss A. Mellifera; he sneaks into hives and sips honey through his stout proboscis, the asshole.


Sometimes I feel like this paper girl:

 

Borgesian, no?

Here we go again.

David Cappaert, Michigan State University, Bugwood.org

Look at this little apis mellifera. She looks like she's up to trouble. Honey-making trouble.


True to form, something shiny has caught my eye and now I'm completely obsessed. This time, it's honeybees, and they are friggin' delightful. I can't seem to get my greedy little paws on enough reading material, pictures and recipes. Must. Live on. Bee farm.


Along with my fascination with bees has come an intense desire to acquire all different kinds of honey. It certainly doesn't help that I'm in the middle of The Honey Trail: In Pursuit of Liquid Gold and Vanishing Bees by Grace Pundyk, who travels to the world's honey-producing hubs and describes in luscious detail the rare honeys she comes across. She writes that Yemeni sidr honey is a mouthgasm. But this super rare, God-sent (according to the beekeepers) is an astounding $300 USD for one pound. Three hundo for a mouthgasm would make me feel like a trick that just got turned.


So begins my Google search for rare honeys using Pundyk's book as a guide. She explicitly states that there really is no regulation on honey when it comes to country of origin. What's being sold can be anything from mega-produced Chinese honey (the largest honey producer in the world) to crap imitation honey-derived sweetner. Obviously I'm a little wary of buying the exotic stuff online from could-be honey conmen. But man oh man, to get wildly different honeys next to each other and taste them side-by-side...dream come true.

Tasmanian Leatherwood Honey via Taylor's Market

Even the packaging is magnificent. I'd fork over the cash just for the can alone.


Eventually, my bee obsession is leading me toward the UK, just outside Cambridge, to be specific. A commercial beekeeper I found via HelpX will need someone to help out come Spring, and hopefully I can stay, learn and beekeep for a few months. I've been needing to get out of the city for a while, so I think this is just what I would need. There are also some beekeepers in New Zealand that need help starting November for the winter (lucky them and their opposite seasons!), but I need to finish my yoga certification before I go anywhere. Six more months!